‘Goodbye, Mike.’
Swann was drawing designs on the varnish of my desk with a straightened-out paper-clip.
‘That wasn’t your wife,’ he said.
‘Wife? Far from it.’
‘You haven’t married or anything?’
‘No.’
‘Good. I’ve got a couple in a hostelry. They tell me they know you.’ We sauntered out into the September sun to meet them.
I have always wanted to invent pert shorthand typists with good figures and pretty lips whose heads may easily be turned by the crisp jingle of money, jolly girls who have done the stint at Pitman’s and do not believe in anticipating marriage. It might quite easily have been such companions with whom we found ourselves wasting away that afternoon. As it happened, it was Margo and Jo, a smart pair who drew pictures for the glossy magazines.
‘When I was eleven,’ Jo told me, ‘I wrote this children’s book and drew all the pictures. Somebody published it, and that of course made me unpopular with everyone.’
‘You must have been hugely clever.’
‘No, honestly. It was terribly bad, as you can imagine. Just chance that it got published.’
‘Words,’ said Margo, ‘mean a lot to Jo. She has a real sense.’
‘She’s bonkers,’ said Swann.
‘For God’s sake, Swann,’ said Margo.
Jo and Swann moved together. Swann was bored and he began to tell Jo a joke. Margo said, specifically to me: ‘Jo is the most talented person I’ve ever met.’ I nodded, not caring one way or the other. The bar was full of uniformed men: dark grey suits, waistcoats, white shirts, striped ties of some club or school.
‘Have a drink, Margo?’
Margo said that was a good idea and I squeezed through to the wet counter and floated a ten-shilling note on a pool of beer. When I returned to her Margo said:
‘Tell me straight, what do you think of Nigel?’
Nigel? Playing for time I sipped my beer, wondering why I drank the stuff since I disliked it so much. I said:
‘Oh, I like Nigel.’
‘Do you
‘Well, he’s all right. I mean –’
‘Sometimes, Mike, I think Nigel is the most awful bore.’
I remembered. Nigel was plump and talkative. Nigel would tell you anything you might ever wish to know. When Nigel got going there was, in truth, no stopping Nigel. Nigel was Margo’s husband.
I drank some more beer. It was cold and tasteless. I said nothing.
‘Nigel and I had a barney last night.’
‘Oh God!’
Margo told me about the barney. I listened dejectedly. Then I bought some more drink, and this time I changed mine to whisky. Someone had once told me that Jo had a husband too. Both marriages were considered to be heading for the rocks.
Suddenly Margo stopped about Nigel. She leered at me and said something I didn’t catch. From the next few sentences, I realized she was telling me I’d make a good husband.
‘I suppose I would,’ I said.
‘I’m not in love with you or anything,’ Margo said, swaying.
‘Of course not.’
After the pub we went off to have some lunch. All the way in the taxi I thought about Lucy.
We went to an Italian place in Soho that was too expensive and not particularly good. Swann told us the history of his life and ate only series of cassatas. I found a telephone on the stairs and rang up Lucy.
‘Hullo, Lucy. What are you doing?’
‘What d’you mean, what am I doing? I’m standing here talking to you on the telephone.’
‘I’m getting drunk with people in Soho.’
‘Well, that’s nice for you.’
‘Is it? Wish you were here.’
Lucy would be bored by this. ‘I’ve been reading
‘A good story.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you had lunch?’
