‘Still. In the nature of things Phoebe will end. So then who?’
‘Remember Miri, Miriam Gould? I find myself mooning a lot about Miri. Our little thing should’ve been a big thing – that’s another form of the missed chance. And I wouldn’t mind settling down for a while with Janet Hobhouse.’
‘Ah. A surprising omission of yours I always thought. Wait.’
He got more drinks and I said,
‘Not a total omission. We’ve had a night or two together. Oh yeah. During the act, Hitch, Janet does something quite rare. Don’t look so intent – it’s nothing dirty. Real feminists aren’t dirty. Logically enough. No. She’s a smiler. She smiles. During.’
‘How incredibly sweet.’
‘Now I come to think of it, just like Germaine…With Miri there was some other fucking bloke in the background. Same with Janet.’
‘You mean her husband. Janet’s great, I agree. But the one you’re really interested in, Mart – and yes I know the complications – is Julia. I can tell.’
‘Mm. I ought to go. Oh, and don’t you be late tonight,’ I said. ‘Dad told me that Larkin’s not bringing his bird, he’s not bringing Monica. So Phoebe’s planning some kind of sex tease on him – and it should be good.’
‘I’ll be there. Janet’s a major chick.’
‘Miri’s a major chick. And as for Julia…I had a drink with her the other night and she made me feel like a teenager. Or a child. She’s so evolved.’
‘It’s death does that.’
∗
And looking back, now, from here, I see how busy death always is, and what great plans it always has.
Julia’s first husband – incandescently vigorous, it seemed, in body and mind – died in August 1980 at the age of thirty-four. Miri, Miriam Gould, killed herself in Barcelona in 1986 at the age of thirty-seven. And Janet, Janet Hobhouse, the novelist (and life-writer), died in 1991 at the age of forty-two.
What lesson, what moral, can be drawn from this?
One had better be quick.
Bobby socks
Phoebe buzzed him in and Martin climbed the stairs. He had his own set of keys, but (as instructed) he still used the intercom to give a polite warning. The bedroom door was open and he went straight through…She was semi-naked in the chair before the dressing table with her legs at a familiar elevation and with her crossed feet reflected in the three mirrors. Her hands held an eyeliner pencil and a slim volume.
She said, ‘That’s what he’ll think the moment we walk in. When I see a couple of kids And guess he’s fucking her and she’s Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm, I know this is paradise // Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives. That’s exactly what he’ll think when he sees us walk in.’
‘Yeah, and he’ll envy me. With good reason. I think he’s a powerful envier anyway.’
Martin went and kissed her and each of them said a few things about their day.
‘I’ll fetch a beer while you get dressed.’
‘No I’m ready.’ She bounced to her feet. ‘Let’s go.’
Phoebe was back in her mansion flat and was once again prosperous and broadhanded. TFS let her do more trading now, and so her need for gaming was confined to the turf (a recreational fiver once or twice a week). And purdah never lasted more than a single night. Their erotic life was emotional, carnal, innovational, and – most signally – habitual. When acknowledging that this was indeed the case, Phoebe always said, You realise it’ll be the end of us. And Martin always thought, Yes, and so do you – and why isn’t it already?…The cause of his disquiet, he would’ve said and would’ve meant, was not to be found in the bedroom. As far as he knew he had never felt more thoroughly slaked. He now said,
‘You’re not going out dressed like that, young lady. You’ve to stop home.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
He looked at her from top to toe and then from toe to top. The feet (as yet unshod), the long coppertone legs, the pink tutu or ra-ra skirt sticking out practically at right angles to the cinched waist, the shortsleeved pale-pink singlet with its bra-less orbs and staring nipples, the pigtails, and the black beret with a sprawling gold crest on it saying, RICHMOND ACADEMY FOR GIRLS.
‘Have a heart, Phoebe. Come on, think. He’s never written a word about schoolgirls. Not in public. Dad’s going to be there too, and he’ll know at once I squealed.’
She said, ‘And did Kingsley swear you to secrecy? Of course he didn’t. So it’s just a bit of insider dealing, and very much to be expected. Stop fussing. Bloody hell.’
‘…Are you going to wear sandals? Or just gyms.’
‘Bobby socks and spike-heeled red booties. No gyms. And no navy-blue knickers either.’ She turned a half circle. ‘Can you just about see the undersides of my arse?’
‘Yeah, just about. And I can just about see the undersides of your pants.’
‘That’s because you’re a shrimp. He’s tall. If it comes to it I may have to…’
He said, ‘Phoebe, you’ve finally put my mind at rest. May have to what?’
The drinks party was being thrown by Robert Conquest, who lived on Prince of Wales Drive, Battersea (an area that estate agents had started calling Lower Chelsea). As they drove over the sunshot, the sheet-metal River Thames, Phoebe, her mouth stiffened to receive lipstick, said in a distorted voice,
‘Do you like schoolgirls at all?’
‘In that sense? No, not a bit. I mean I liked schoolgirls when I was a schoolboy. But even then the girls I really fancied were grownup women. Teachers, movie stars, Aunt Miggy. Mum’s friends. Especially the one called Rhona.’
‘Remember Polanski?’ Phoebe squished her lips together and straightened her mouth. That off-centredness, that loutish asymmetry – it was gone, long gone (together with her aversion to Anglosaxonisms); love, or quasi-love, had wiped it from her face. This gratified his ego and his honour (even though he missed it). ‘According to him,’ she said, ‘all men want to fuck young
