So this was the “reason” she had taken the job at Leafy Way. This was why she had told Bill Brewer it was “something she had to do.” Even then she was already in love with Jeremy in the timeless, unmoral depths of being far below the social self.
She had told herself she would never fall in love, as if it were something she could control. She should have remembered that it is dangerous to insult Aphrodite, who always takes her revenge on those who defy her power, men or women.
Casual kissing had started in the theatre world and spread finally to the respectable suburbs. Nine times out of ten it meant nothing to the man or the woman, but there was always that tenth time when it might mean something to one of them.
Only to one? Could such strong feeling exist without being reciprocated at all?
If only he hadn’t kissed her she might never have known the truth about herself.
She had a liking for Vivian Playfair and, more than liking, compassion, now she knew Vivian was in some kind of trouble. Whatever that trouble was, a divorce, however discreet, would spread it all over the front page of every newspaper in the country and the world.
Even the most carefully managed love affair was hardly an asset in politics. A divorce could be disaster.
She remembered years ago hearing an old man say to a young man: “What should you do if you find yourself falling in love with a married woman? Run like hell!”
Some people pretended that infidelity and divorce did not involve emotions or morals. She knew better. She could remember the unhappiness in her father’s voice when he said to her mother: I didn’t want this to happen. Try to think of me as if I had been driving a rickety car too fast on a rough mountain road. . . .
If you had time to jump out of a car before it crashed, you jumped.
Tomorrow she would hand in her resignation.
10
WHICH IS WORSE, to have nature mock unhappiness with a sunny day, or match it with clouds and rain?
When Tash awoke, rain was whipping the window-panes and the dull sky seemed close enough to touch.
She moved heavily, as if her hands and feet were weighted with lead. She dressed without self-awareness, a computer going through a programmed routine.
It was so early, the mess hall was empty when she got downstairs. She looked at the scrambled eggs in the chafing-dish with distaste and drank a cup of black coffee.
In her own office the daylight was so thin that she had to switch on a lamp beside her typewriter.
She began to type.
Dear Jeremy,
To my deep regret I find that I must offer you my resignation to take effect as soon as possible. The strain of working so late . . .
She exxed out the last sentence. He knew irregular hours meant nothing to a newspaper woman.
She tried again:
I am resigning for purely personal reasons . . .
Such as what?
She could say she had to be with her mother in Boston or her father in Rome. Neither of them would deny it, but what a shabby lie!
She could remember her father quoting Amiel’s Journal: Every lie must be paid for. Truth always takes her revenge. . . .
I’m getting married. To whom?
I don’t like the job. He would know that wasn’t true.
She remembered her mother saying that if you must decline an invitation there are only two excuses that will not hurt people’s feelings: either you have another engagement or you are ill. As everyone knew, this was a convention, not a lie but a formula for saving face.
She could not bring herself to malingering, but couldn’t she suggest she had another engagement? In this context, another job?
It was too early for the editor of a morning newspaper to be at his office, but Bill Brewer’s home number was in the telephone book.
She dialed and listened to the bell drilling the silence with its nagging, repetitive peal. She couldn’t visualize the place where it was ringing, for she had never been to Bill’s house.
A sleepy voice mumbled in her ear. “H’lo?”
“Bill?”
“Why, Tash!” The voice was wide awake.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It would matter if this wasn’t a kind of crisis.”
“What kind of crisis?”
“Let’s say a small crisis. I want to give up this job, but I must have a reasonably plausible excuse for doing so. Would you be willing to say you need me back on the paper again?”
Bill laughed. “Of course. And it’s true. I do need you.”
“Oh, Bill, how can I thank you?”
“Are you going to tell me your real reason for resigning?”
“Some day, perhaps, but not now, and not over the telephone.”
“Tash, are you in trouble of any kind?”
“Only trouble of my own making. Nobody knows about it except me. You know the worst things in life don’t happen out in the world around us. They happen inside our own skulls. If you can keep that in mind, you can keep things in proportion.”
“When are you coming back to work?”
“As soon as I can. I’ll let you know after I’ve talked to Jerry.”
“Jerry?”
“Jeremy, Governor Playfair.”
“Oh, I see. Well, call me as soon as you can. I’ll be in the office by noon.”
“Thank you, Bill. Good-bye.”
Tash went back to her typewriter:
. . . to take effect as soon as possible. William Brewer, the editor of . . .
She sat back looking at her unfinished letter. Then she wrenched it out of the typewriter, crumpled it into a ball, and hurled the ball into her scrapbasket.
She picked up the telephone again and dialed the switchboard.
“Nick, do you know where the Governor is now?”
“In the Octagonal Room.”
“Is he awfully busy?”
“I don’t know. Mr. de Miranda is with him.”
“Will you ring the number for me, please?”
Carlos answered.
“This is Tash. I’d
