Unfortunately I had forgotten my promise and bought some tickets for a play I knew she wanted to see. It was my fault, I was absent-minded, I admitted it all, but she blamed me all the same. Her friends could not be telephoned; we had wasted money on the seats. Whichever way we acted something was wrong.
It was just the start. The impasse led to tension, and this in its turn brought out the deepen differences. I was unloving, took her for granted, the flat was always in a mess, I was moody and withdrawn. She was neurotic and mercurial, slovenly, flirtatious with other men. It all came out, spreading through the room like a damp cloud of recrimination, making us less well defined to each other, colder and further away, more likely to hurt by blundering into places we could only dimly see.
I was holding her hand, but she was unresponsive and cool. She lay with her face turned away from me, staring into the pillows. She was breathing steadily; the tears were past.
I kissed the back of her neck. 'I do love you, Gracia.'
'Don't say that. Not now.'
'Why not? Isn't it the only thing that's still true?'
'You're just trying to intimidate me.'
I grunted with exasperation and moved away from her. Her hand fell limp.
I stood up and went to the window.
'Where are you going?'
'I'm just pulling the curtains.'
'Leave them alone.'
'I don't want people looking in.'
Gracia was careless of curtains. The bedroom was at the front of the house, and although the flat was in the basement the room could be clearly seen from the road. If Gracia went to bed before me she often undressed with the lights on and the curtains open. Once I had walked into the bedroom to find her sitting naked on the bed, drinking coffee and reading a book.
Outside, people leaving the pub were walking down the road.
'You're a prude, Peter.'
'I just don't want people to see us rowing.' I drew the curtains anyway, and returned to the bed. Gracia had sat up, and was lighting a cigarette.
'What are we going to do?'
I said: 'We'll do what I suggested half an hour ago. You drive to Dave and Shirley's, and I'll go on the Underground to try to change the tickets.
I'll meet you later.'
'All right.'
Earlier, the same proposal had been fan from all night; it had reduced her to tears. I was trying to cover up my mistake, trying to get out of seeing Dave and Shirley. Now Gracia's mood had abruptly changed. I was forgiven and soon we would be making love.
I went into the kitchen and ran a glass of water. It was cold and clean but it tasted flat. I had become used to the sweet Welsh water in Henefordshine, the soft Pennine water in Sheffield; in London it was the Thames, chemically neutralized and endlessly recycled, tasting like an imitation of the real thing. I emptied the glass, rinsed it and left it to drain on the side. The dishes from yesterday's evening meal were still stacked there, greasy and odorous.
Gracia's flat was in a street typical of many inner London suburbs. Some of the houses were privately owned, others were council property. The house we lived in was due for modernization, but until then Camden Council was renting out the flats it contained on short leases at subsidized rents. It was sub-standard housing, but no worse than the expensive privately let flat I had lived in before. On the corner of the street was a take-away kebab house run by Cypriots; a number of bus routes went down the main street, from Kentish Town to King's Cross; there were two cinemas in Camden Town, one of which showed minorityinterest films by foreign directors; in Tufnell Park, about a mile away, a Shakespearean theatre company had taken oven and converted an old church. These were the principal amenities of the area, and it was being slowly converted from low-grade workingclass residential to desirable inner-London middle class. The pseudo-Georgian doors, Banham locks, pinewood kitchen tables and Welsh dressers were arriving in many previously neglected houses, and already a number of craft shops and delicatessens were appearing in the main street to serve this discriminating and affluent group.
Gracia had come up behind me. She put her arm around my chest, pulling me against her, and she kissed me behind my car.
'Let's go to bed,' she said. 'We've got time.'
I resisted her because of the inevitability of it. Gracia was able to use sex for healing, and never really understood that rows were anaphrodisiac to me. I wanted to he alone afterwards, to walk the streets or go for a drink.
She knew this because I had explained it, and, by inability to respond, sometimes demonstrated it. She realized now that I was resisting her, and I felt her go taut. Because of that, not wanting to renew the trouble, I turned around and kissed her very quickly, hoping it would be enough.
Soon we were undnessed and in bed, and Gracia, her change of mood now complete, became an expert, sensitive lover. She sucked me until I was ready, then a little longer. We only became explicable to each other in bed. I liked to kiss and caress her breasts: they were small and soft and rolled in my hands. Her nipples were pliant, rarely erecting to my touch. I was loving Gracia, truly, but then I remembered Seri, and suddenly it was wrong.
Seri in bed beside me, her pale hair folded untidily across her brow, her lips parted, her eyes closed and her breath sweet. We always made love on our side, she with one knee raised, the other tucked beneath me. I liked to kiss and caress her breasts: they were small but firm, filling my hands, the little stud nipples stiff against my palms. Gracia, dark hair tousled on the pillow, unwashed in four days, was holding my head against hers; I was on top of her, trying to roll to the side, breathing her scents. It was wrong and I could not think why. Gracia felt me withdraw; her instinct for my loss of desire was unerring.
'Peter, don't stop!'
