‘A real love affair?’ Well, we never exchanged the three words, Elena (he said to himself). As you and I so often have and do. You know the three words: first person singular, verb, second person singular. ‘Not in the strictest sense.’
‘So just a detour.’
‘As you might say. A dalliance, a digression.’
‘Mm. How long did it last?’
‘Five years.’
‘Five years.’ She went still. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Yes you did. I told you at least twice. 1976 to 1980. On and off.’ Almost entirely on. He waited. ‘Now – the matter at hand, if you would, Elena. Here. Read, recite, as Allah instructed the Prophet. Jesus, listen to him.’ He was referring to one of the talking heads on Newsnight. ‘He’s saying it’s all our fault. And serve us fucking well right.’
‘Quite a few of them are saying that. As Hitch said they would.’
‘Mm, that lot think Osama did it for the Palestinians…Now proceed, dread queen.’
She sat back and straightened the stiff sheets out in front of her. ‘Ready? Dear Martin. I’m going to tell you something that…’ Her eyes focused, then dilated. ‘My God, what truly hideous handwriting.’
‘She thought so too. It mortified her.’
‘There’s no consistency to it. It’s like one of those blackmail letters that’s patched together from different strips of print…Something really ghastly must have happened to her when she was very young.’
Indeed, Elena. Starting when she was six, an old priest called Father Gabriel bribed her into bed three times a week for eight years…He, Martin, had never told this story to anyone, ever, not even Hitch. All afternoon he had considered telling Elena – for its explanatory power; but as ever he found its violence unmanageably and unusably exorbitant, like nuclear fission. It was just too big.*5 Elena said,
‘So. Dear Martin, I’m going to tell you something I think you ought to know. Now I’m sure you remember a certain day in 1977 – November 1 – because by the standards of the “literary world” in quotes it had its moments. Let me jog your memory! exclamation mark.’ Elena visibly honed her attention. Just after lunch your old flame Lily rang up in hysterics and you chose to rush off and join her for the night. I prepared dinner for Kingsley…For Kingsley? What’s all this?’
‘See, I was doing a spell of Dadsitting so Jane could have a holiday.*6 Greece. Phoebe consented to come over for the weekend. Lily, Lily was organising a literary festival up north. Some old poet chucked or got sick or actually dropped dead at the last minute, and she had a big gap
in her programme. Saturday night. She was desperate. And I couldn’t say no, could I.’
‘Yes you could. Very rash not to, I’d’ve thought. Very rash indeed. Are you nuts? I prepared dinner for your father, and that was fine, but then he…invaigled me into drinking a glass of Parfait Amour. Can’t spell inveigled. What’s Parfait Amour?’
‘That’s significant. See, alcohol didn’t agree with Phoebe and she very rarely touched it. But she had a weakness for Parfait Amour.’
‘What’s Parfait Amour?’
‘Parfait Amour is a disgustingly sugary liqueur. It’s the same colour as that notepaper and it smells like cheap ponce. Eliza might fancy a dab of it behind her ears. And it’s Mum’s favourite drink too. By far. One glass of that and her whole personality changed. I mean Phoebe’s did.’
‘Her whole personality changed. You mean she became less of a slag.’
He said, ‘Very good, Elena. No. She became more of a slag. She became something of a slag. And she wasn’t a slag.’ He thought for a moment. ‘True, she had a tendency to flirt, but that was later on. Phoebe was in many ways rather proper.’
‘Oh was she. Did your father know that drinking made her more of a slag?’
‘Uh, yeah. But it had to be Parfait Amour. He was always fascinated by people who didn’t drink. He asked, and I told him.’
‘That’s why’, Elena continued, ‘I was so ill when you got back from your mission of mercy. Did you tell him that drinking made her ill?’
‘No.’
‘You just told him that it made her more of a slag.’
‘Jesus. I didn’t put it quite like that. I think I just told him it made her, you know, unusually easygoing. More amenable…Now how did Kingsley get hold of a bottle of Parfait Amour? – that’s what I want to know. I’ve never seen it on sale here. He must’ve called one of his vintner friends. He must’ve gone to a fair bit of trouble.’
‘…New para. So as you can imagine I was feeling pleasantly languid, sitting there in front of the fire.’
‘Romantic, isn’t it. The marmalade light, the Parfait Amour…’
‘Your father then made a verbal pass at me that went on for half an hour.’
On the table in front of them the baby monitor politely cleared its throat; and there came the first notes of protest and distress. These opening cries always seemed to tell them how long the visit would need to last. Ten minutes, he thought.
‘You do the next one,’ said Elena as she rose.
He poured himself more wine and remembered.
It was a recent (and temporary) development in Phoebe’s life – the Parfait Amour. She got her first taste of it the year before, in 1976, sitting opposite Hilly and her third husband at an outside table in a restaurant in Andalusia. Hilly asked for a glass, and drank it with every sign of near-unbearable enjoyment. ‘Go on, dear,’ she said. ‘I hate the taste of drink too. But I love Parfait Amour. Mmm.’
Phoebe acceded. And that night, at the hotel, Martin was suddenly in complete possession of a
