16
An Inopportune Moment
“Is this getting to be a habit?” said Phoebe weakly, opening her front door to an unexpected ring on a Saturday evening and finding Ralph on the doorstep with a large plastic shopping bag in his fist.
“‘Are we alone, and unobserved?’” he replied deeply.
“Yes! What the Hell would you have done if I’d been entertaining a party of respectables from School?” she returned irritably.
“Asked where the Veneerings live, of course, apologized profusely and gone away again.”
“Thus deceiving all those but them what happened to recognize your voice, or the reference,” said Phoebe acidly, standing back. “Come in.”
“I hope you mean that in the clinical sense,” he said, coming into the front hall and going straight into the sitting-room.
Phoebe closed the front door and followed him. “Do you actually like Dickens?” she said weakly.
“Certainly.” Ralph raised his eyebrows. “An observer of the human scene, you know, cannot fail to appeal to a fellow obs— My God, don’t you?”
“No: boring and laboured,” replied Phoebe simply.
Wincing, he murmured: “Can this rank as one of the deepest disappointments of my adult life? –I’d draw those curtains,” he recommended.
“Why? Is your wife over on North Head with a telescope?” she replied drily.
“No: but she is visiting close friends who live in that abortion of a skyscraper on Stanley Point. And before you ask, yes, one of their favourite occupations is standing at their vulgarly huge picture windows with their binoculars. I cannot explain why, unless it be that they are as mindless as Audrey.” He unbuckled his trousers.
“What’s in this?” said Phoebe weakly, looking into the shopping bag.
“Only the usual, I do assure you,” replied Ralph, trying not to laugh. He dropped his trousers.
“Oh, so it is,” recognized Phoebe weakly.
“Have you eaten?”
“No,” she said faintly, staring at the view.
“Then come over here and make a start.”
Gulping a bit, Phoebe replied: “Maybe I had better draw the curtains. –You’ve got me all nervous, now, you bastard!”
“Sorry!” he gasped.
“Was it all one of your usual wordy fantasies?” she asked suspiciously, not moving.
“No! Their name’s Crabtree, they own two Dobermann Pinschers and a ruddy great yacht—the Wendalan, if you’re interested—go riding every other weekend at the Country Club with Aud, and are as fucking boring as she is!”
His voice had got rather loud. Phoebe swallowed. “Wendalan?”
Ralph bit his lip. “I’ll give ya two guesses.”
Phoebe fell all over the sitting-room, laughing like a drain.
“You’re putting me off!” he whinged.
“Ooh, what a lie!” she gasped, wiping her eyes.
“Come on, then,” said Ralph softly. He removed his shirt—rather as an afterthought, Phoebe was compos mentis enough to register. Was that flattering or the opposite? She wasn’t quite compos mentis enough to decide.
“Here and now?” she said.
“Drop the blushing virgin act, it doesn’t go with the tits and the hips. –Or, stay, have I miscalculated and you have the flowers?’
“What? Good Christ, where did you dig that one up from?”
“Not from Dickens, I do assure you. Well, have you?”
“What? Oh—no. Not that it’d matter. Unless you practise the Jewish rites?”
“Don’t be a birk. Might make a mess of your nice Belgian rugs, that’s all.”
“That little one’s a real Persian!” replied Phoebe in offended tones.
Ralph glanced at it. “Bullshit.”
Phoebe was rather red. “You can tell at a glance, can you?”
A slow and distinctly unpleasant smile curved Ralph’s narrow lips. “Youse been done, Phoebe, if you was sold that as a gen-yew-wine Persian.”
“All right, what’s wrong with it?” said Phoebe angrily.
“It’s too regular, my dear girl,” he sighed. “Far, far too regular. Splendidly null, indeed.”
After a moment she said crossly: “You haven’t even looked at the knots!”
“What knots? They have invented a Belgian machine that ties knots?”
“Don’t be so fucking superior!” she shouted.
“The pattern,” he said heavily, “is flawless.”
“God, you’re a pain, Ralph,” said Phoebe bitterly. “Do you have to be such a bloody expert on everything?”
“Oh, not at all,” replied Ralph drily. “But I was paying you the doubtful compliment, my dear Phoebe, of treating you as my intellectual equal. Not my moral equal, of course, I know that in that sphere you are far, far superior—”
Phoebe hurled a cushion at him.
Ralph caught it neatly. “One could put this under one’s friend’s bum, if one wasn’t having a fight,” he noted with interest.
She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. But you really caught me on the raw, I’ve always believed that that bloody rug—” She broke off. “Polly Carrano did have a funny look on her face when I showed it to her, I should have been Warned,” she said gloomily.
“Hers is a very sweet nature,” he admitted. “I told you about that time Jake and his frightful macho pals got locked in the cell—”
“Yes, yes,” sighed Phoebe. “At least three times.”
“I was merely about to illustrate the sweetness of Polly’s nature by a vivid description of the room she put me in, the pyjamas she lent me, and the wonderful breakfast she served next morning. Not to mention the absence of a single word or even glance indicating disapproval of myself, my comatose, snoring spouse, or the heavy and indelicate pass I made when she brought me the pyjamas in question.”
“Yes, yes,” sighed Phoebe. “At least three times.”
Grinning, Ralph said: “I was afraid of that. For God’s sake come over here and put me out of my misery! Preferably disrobed.”
Phoebe removed her cotton blouse and slacks. Grimacing, she began fighting with her bra-hooks. “Sorry. I’ve been trying not to leap on you, if you must have it.”
Ralph’s mouth twitched. “I wish I could say I’d guessed it. Don’t hold back next time, will you?”
Phoebe looked at him dubiously.
“I mean it!” he said, with a little laugh. “I got quite the opposite impression.”
“I thought you might’ve,” she said glumly. She dropped the bra on the floor and removed her pants. “I always get bitchy as Hell when I’m trying not to admit to myself how randy I am.”
“Why try?” said Ralph mildly.
“I wish to God I knew!” returned Phoebe fervently.
“Is this effect unique to—er—the presence of myself, or—”
“No; with everyone,” she said tiredly.
“Thank God for that small mercy!”
“Mm.” Phoebe bit her lip.
“Come here!” he said, laughing a bit but now extremely excited, too.
She came over to him and pressed eagerly against him
“Do it,” he said in her ear.
Phoebe’s face twisted in a rictus. “Yeah. Okay.” She dropped to her knees.
Ralph sighed as she took him in her mouth. He gasped as she began to play with his balls. He moaned a little as she ran her fingernails up the insides of his thighs. In fact before long he was shuddering and gasping: “Oh, God! Yes!” And: “Christ, do that!” And such-like.
Finally he said: “For God’s sake lie down and let me do you.”
Phoebe lay down on the rug. She smiled up at him.
“Yes, like that,” he said hoarsely as she parted her legs. “Jesus, I want to taste you.” He got down there immediately.
“Oh! Christ, I wanted that!” gasped Phoebe. “Do that, Ralph, do that!”
Ralph did it for quite a long time. Phoebe made a terrific lot of noise. She called his name out a lot, too: it was most gratifying. Most gratifying. In fact it was quite a long time since any lady had reacted to his ministrations in just that way. And certainly not on a very fake Persian rug on her own sitting-room floor.
Finally he knelt up, very flushed, and panted: “Good?”
“Yes: wonderful,” said Phoebe thickly.
Ralph pushed the heavy thighs apart. “At moments like this I wonder why I didn’t go in for gyny. Imagine having this view every day of your working life!”
“I don’t know whether that’s flattering or disgusting!” panted Phoebe.
“Ask Westby,” he suggested, smiling a little. He stroked the insides of her thighs very gently. Phoebe shuddered all over and gasped: “Oh, Ralph!”
Ralph smiled into her eyes. “Want cock?”
Phoebe was very flushed already but at this, he observed with gratification, she went a deep maroon and said hoarsely: “Hell, yes, Ralph. I don’t know why yours is always so good, there’s nothing I can put my finger on that you do better, but—”
Ralph lay on top of her and stopped her mouth with his. “Shut up,” he said eventually into her ear.
“I was.”
“No. Talking crap,” he grunted. He kissed her again. “I’m gonna get in there,” he warned.
“Dare I say—don’t you dare come in there?” panted Phoebe.
“Not a bloody adolescent,” he replied. “Put your ruddy legs apart, dammit!”
She replied in a strangled voice: “What if I come and set you off?”
“You won’t. I shall be thinking of England.”
Phoebe gave a startled snort, and Ralph took advantage of the moment.
“Yes! Do it!” she bellowed.
At this very precise moment, the phone rang.
“I’d ignore that,” advised Ralph, panting a little.
“Yes,” muttered Phoebe. “Let it ring.”
The phone went on ringing.
“I dunno who in God’s name it can be,” she muttered.
Ralph kissed her ear; then he tickled her tongue with his. Her body jerked under him and she grasped him strongly, pulling him into her. Ralph began to think firmly of England. It wasn’t all that difficult, the bloody phone was still ringing.
She began to move on him. Ralph thought of England. He also thought, Did Phoebe have any Aged Ps that might have just croaked, and if so was this phone call The One?
“Blast,” she muttered.
“Gone off a bit?” he said. He kissed her ear again.
She opened her eyes. “Just a bit.”
“Answer it,” he said resignedly.
“No—it won’t be important. Probably a wrong number.”
They stared at each other.
The phone stopped ringing.
“Thank Christ!” said Ralph.
“It was probably a wrong number,” she murmured.
“Mm.” He bit her ear. Phoebe didn’t react. He bit it again, harder. She still didn’t react.
Reluctantly Ralph raised himself on an elbow . “You got any Aged Parents?”
“No, they both died years ago.”
“No frail elderly relatives at all?”
“No.”
“Then a young strong relative’s driven himself under a semi-trail—” He stopped. She was rigid beneath him. “What?”
“I’m being stupid,” said Phoebe apologetically.
“True.” Ralph withdrew himself politely. “Get on with it, I suppose I can stand it,” he said sourly.
“I’m Helluva sorry, Ralph.”
“So am I,” he muttered. “Go on, for God’s sake: ring him. Or her, or them. All five hundred of them, if you must!”
“No, I— Well, there’s only my brother and his wife. And Dickon, their son.”
Ralph rolled onto his back, groaning. “Go on.”
Phoebe looked at him apologetically. She got up, and went to the telephone extension.
What felt like several hours later to Ralph, but was probably only about twenty minutes or so, she put the receiver down for the second time and, looking sheepish, reported: “Dickon’s having some sort of party: wine and cheese.”
“Uh-huh. Rough sulphur-laden local red plonk, nasty salty biscuits and appalling sweaty bits of New Zealand so-called cheddar, don’t tell me. I, too, was young once.”
“Hard though it is to imagine. Yes, well, he did say it was some people from varsity, mostly students, unquote.”
“Mostly the Austin twins, I’ll bet,” said Ralph sourly.
“If one of them’s the pretty little red-head he brought over for afternoon tea last Sunday, I’d say definitely,” said Phoebe, staring.
“I know nothing of these Sunday beanfeasts, dear heart,” sighed Ralph, “but it is, alas, all too likely, I fear. All too likely.”
After a minute Phoebe said blankly: “Why ‘alas’, for Heaven’s sake? Isn’t my nephew allowed to have girlfriends like the rest of the male half of humanity?”
“It’s only that this particular girl has not only red hair—red-gold, to be exact—and fabulously juicy tits, you forgot to mention those, or perhaps they didn’t immediately strike you, you being so well-endowed an’ all—”
“Either spit it out or drop it, Ralph!” howled Phoebe.
“She doesn’t appreciate my weak attempts at compliment,” he noted sadly. “Where was I?”
“God knows,” she groaned, sagging against the back of the sofa. “Drooling over this red-headed child’s mammary equipment, apparently.”
“I couldn’t have forgotten that,” objected Ralph. “Uh—no: I was attempting to explain, dear heart, that quite possibly the beauty, and most certainly the brains, of young Ginny Austin are wasted on the ubiquitous Dickon.”
“Ubi— He’s not particularly ubiquitous, is he?” she said weakly, goggling at him.
“I should say entirely so. Though one mustn’t forget that it was apparently not he on the phone just then. I do forgive him for that.”
“You can’t forgive him if— Look, how and when did you meet Ginny, anyway?” said Phoebe crossly. “And what in God’s name do you know about her brains?”
“Ah. A long story. Long, sad and painful. As for the brains—to take your last enquiry first—she and I had a most intellectually stimulating conversation at the Carranos’ luau. Shortly after I had done my knight-errant act and rescued her from the clutches of a wandering drunk—didn’t I mention it?”—“No,” Phoebe said weakly, goggling at him.—“Remiss of me. And for the rest, she and her twin—she is a twin, by the way—were down at Ruapehu when we were. I caught but a passing glimpse, but ah, my life was changed in that instant!” He kissed the tips of his fingers, his eyes shut. “My Beatrice, my Madonna Laura, my—”
“Look, why don’t you push off home, Ralph!” shouted Phoebe.
Ralph opened his eyes. “My Juliet. Not to say Lolita, I think I’m old enough to be her grandfather. Are you pissed off?”
“Thoroughly,” said Phoebe grimly.
“Come to bed and do it proper, then,” he said, lips twitching.
“I—” Phoebe broke off. “Oh, all right,” she said sheepishly. “I don’t know when I was last so bloody frustrated, to tell you the truth.”
Ralph rather thought he knew when he was, to tell her the truth. About round about the time he’d rescued little Ginny from that stupid sod of a Whatsisname, actually. Round about then. He didn’t tell her, however. He just put his arm round her shoulders and propelled her gently towards the bedroom.
Sol hung up slowly. His heart pounded ridiculously and he was ridiculously disappointed. Well, it was Saturday night, their time, wasn’t it? She was probably out with friends, it wasn’t to be expected that she’d be hanging round home, just waiting for his call! Especially since he hadn’t even been in touch, or written, or— Well, he’d sent her a card at Christmas. A robin with holly, and a gold message that said “Christmas Greetings From Fort Lauderdale,” he sure hoped she’d appreciated it, there weren’t that many that would.
After a while of just plain glum setting, he got up and began very carefully to check the time difference again. … No, he hadn’t had it wrong. He should have rung her on a week-day evening, he guessed. Well, he’d wait until—say around half ten, eleven, their time and try again. And if she still wasn’t in—
Manfully repressing the thought that if she still wasn’t in she was more than likely in some guy’s bed and also repressing the other thought that he, Sol, had no right to think such thoughts and sure as Hell no right to object if she was, he decided that if her phone still didn’t answer he’d ring her Sunday morning, their time. He began to work out carefully just when that would be. In order to take his mind off the whole bit, more than anything. He knew it, of course.
“Better?” gasped Ralph, very sweaty.
“Yes!” gasped Phoebe. “Do it!”
Ralph did it. Most energetically. He felt like it, somehow. He’d already got her into a much better mood with a prolonged sixty-nine and now he was in there, pounding away like— Like a gentleman who wasn’t going to come in there when he shouldn’t. He stopped, biting his lips.
“What?” said Phoebe faintly after a certain period of time had elapsed.
“Don’t—move,” said Ralph through his teeth.
Phoebe was obligingly still. After another period of time had elapsed she said: “Don’t you dare.”
“No,” agreed Ralph, withdrawing painfully. “God,” he said, collapsing on top of her, forgetting the gentleman bit for the nonce.
“I told you not to try it without a condom,” said Phoebe mildly after another certain period of time had elapsed and Ralph was still collapsed on top of her, panting.
“True,” he muttered. Then he managed to say: “Am I too heavy?”
“Yes.”
Groaning, he rolled off her. More or less. “Sorry.”
Phoebe replied grimly: “There’d better not be anything to be sorry for, or I’ll ruddy well crown you.”
“What? Oh—no. Couldn’t you tell by the noise level?”
“Mm,” she admitted.
After quite a further period Ralph smiled and said: “You shouldn’t get so bloody wet, Miss Spinster Schoolmarm, ma’am.”
“Did it get all excited, then?” she said solicitously.
Grimacing, Ralph admitted: “I suppose I asked for that.”
Phoebe replied with a smile: “‘I thought at the time, said Rabbit—’”
“Yeah, all right, drop the English nursery quotes. –One wonders, by the way, whether you used that sort of, uh, let us say, tone, or would mode be a better w—”
“No.”
Grinning, Ralph said: “Whether you dropped these commonplaces of English nursery usage into the conversation with Sol Thing. And if so how he coped with them.”
Phoebe took a breath. She let it out again. Then she said mildly: “Perhaps there was no need ever to drop them, with him, Ralph.”
“Thanks, he said humbly,” replied Ralph sourly.
“Any time,” said Phoebe graciously. “Why in God’s name drag him up at this juncture?” she added.
“On a par with thinking of England.”
When she’d finished spluttering Phoebe said: “I haven’t heard a thing from him, if you must know. Apart from a Christmas card which contained the intriguing message: ‘Christmas Greetings from Fort Lauderdale, Sol.’ The ‘Christmas Greetings from Fort Lauderdale’ was printed on it, his contribution was the ‘Sol’. Haven’t you ever a had a holiday fling with a passing American?”
“Mm.”
“Well?” said Phoebe, in some exasperation.
“His brother reckoned, to use the vernacular, that he was a lot more serious this time.”
“Well, I’d stop worrying about it, if I was you,” returned Phoebe in some astonishment. “It was last August, for God’s sake!”
“And here we are in—March?”
“Almost April, by my calendar.”
“Mm,” he said.
There was another pause but in this one Phoebe was definitely thinking. Ralph watched the wrinkling of the wide brow and wished to God he’d forced himself to keep his stupid mouth shut. But all she finally came out with was: “Are you jealous, for God’s sake?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s no need to be,” she said in shaken tones.
“Also of any other passing stranger that may happen to take your passing fancy. And Weintraub.”
Phoebe felt rather annoyed. She was tempted to say: “All right, then, Ralph, what are you going to do about it?” but didn’t. For one thing, that sort of remark never worked with heavily married gents and for another, she wasn’t too bloody sure that, should he perchance go off his rocker and decide to do something about it, she wanted him to. In fact she was pretty sure she didn’t.
“Wholly unjustified, of course,” he murmured. “But us very macho types are like that.”
“Mm. Well, you can forget about Sol Winkelmann. I certainly have. And Nat’s none of your business.”
“As you might have mentioned before. Does he know about me, by the way?”
“Not unless you’ve been boasting at the flaming Golf Club,” said Phoebe drily.
“Ah. Well, in that case— I’m terribly sorry, Phoebe. Pride and excitement overcame me, and I just—” Phoebe bashed him violently in the ribs. “Oof!” he gasped.
“Yeah, well, don’t be so ruddy hilarious.”
“Sorry. Also sorry for the fiasco, back there.”
“Fiasco? That wasn’t a fiasco! Shit, if you wanna know about fiascos—!”
“Go on,” urged Ralph—wheezing slightly and clutching his ribs though he was.
“Of course, a lady never tells.”
“I realize that, Phoebe. Go on, I’m all ears.”
Choking slightly, Phoebe said: “The best that comes to mind was Owen’s. You remember Owen? Old mate, Treasury type? Last seen at Ruapehu? No, you probably wouldn’t have noticed, what with red-headed, well-endowed twins all over the show—Ow!”
“You asked for that.”
Phoebe rubbed her thigh. “Only spiteful little girls pinch, Ralph.”
“O-wen,” said Ralph loudly and clearly.
“Yeah. –No, I can’t, it’s too mean.”
“I could tickle you unmercifully until—”
“Mm. Well, I’ll say this much: he was all dressed up in his best suit, hand-sewn Gucci whatsits and all—”
“Loafers.”
“All right, you tell it.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he whispered.
Smiling, Phoebe said: “Plus the bottle of bubbly, the bunch of flahs and the box of chocolates.”
“Liqueur chocolates,” he murmured.
“Well, he does work for Treasury: you have to think in clichés to get a job with them!” retorted Phoebe with relish. “Um—where was I?”
“The poor sap had got all dressed up and loaded himself with the appropriate humble offerings.”
“Right. Did I mention the scent he was smothered in?”
“Aftershave,” corrected Ralph heavily, sighing.
“If you say so. Anyway, he was all dolled up. And—well, I must admit he’d rung me a couple of weeks earlier to say he might be able to get away, but of course I was in the middle of flaming mid-year exams, not to say a round of interviews with parents that (a), thought their offspring shoulda done better or (b), thought we shoulda taught their offspring better or (c)—”
“The style is nothing if not circumlocutory,” he noted.
“—or (c), both,” finished Phoebe firmly. “And I’d forgotten when exactly his blimmin’ conference was, to tell you the truth. If he’d ever exactly said, which again to tell you the truth I can’t recall to this day.”
“The luckless Owen really matters in your life, doesn’t he?” discovered Ralph, regarding her with a fascinated eye.
“Yeah. Well, anyway, he duly turned up here on the dot of seven-thirty of a very nasty, cold, wet June night.”
“Seven-thirty? The appointed hour?”
“No, it seemed to be the hour at which Treasury bods judge it appropriate to turn up on unattached ladies’ doorsteps with a spot of mild adultery in mind.”
“How did these ladies get into it all of a sudden?” he wondered.
Grinning, Phoebe said: “Do you wanna hear this story, or not?”
“Not, definitely not. No, go on: get to the mean and dirty bits.”
“That’s what he wanted to do, poor sap!” she choked.
“This is beginning to sound horridly familiar. Don’t tell me you greeted him in baggy rude shorts and an old tee-shirt and informed him you were sorting out papers all over your sitting-room?”
“Of course not! It was June, you fool!”
“Ah.”
“Huge baggy jumper, ancient baggy cords and my hair in a plait. Not to say needing a wash. Not to say a pair of frightful Ugg-boots that some misguided relative had given me for Christmas.”
“I thought you only had a brother and his family?”
“Yes, it was probably one of them, now I come to think of it.”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, poor old Owen kind of staggered on the doorstep and gaped at the vision of beauty that was revealed to him.”
“Mea culpa,” replied Ralph drily.
“Don’t fish. Need I say it, he hasn’t got your emotional stamina? Not to say, brass cheek.”
“Flattering,” he sighed.
“You don’t really want to hear about this fiasco, do you?”
“Yes, I do! Next time they announce some particularly fatuous Treasury cutback or impot or sell-off or something I shall rush off to the Club and Tell All.”
“You would, too,” she said faintly.
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” he advised.
Swallowing, Phoebe said: “Well, I think you can guess the rest, Ralph.”
“Aw! I wanna hear the gory details!”
“Yes. Well, that was one of them.”
Ralph was blank for a second, then his eye brightened. “You had the flowers?” he gasped.
“Yes. Owen doesn’t think that’s nayce.”
Rolling his eyes madly, Ralph said: “Of course one always suspected there was something drastically wrong with these Treasury types, but one never dreamed just how radical it was!”
“No. Well, I suppose it didn’t help that I more or less greeted him with—being all disconcerted-like at being caught without the black lace negligée, you know—'Come in, Owen; oh, by the way you’ve picked the wrong day, I’ve got the curse.’”
“What did he say?”
“He gulped a bit. Then he got very brave and said it didn’t matter really. Then he added that we didn’t have to do anything if I didn’t feel like it.”
Naturally Ralph himself would have refrained if the poor cow had had cramps. But what he said was: “That must have made you feel much, much better!”
“Yeah,” acknowledged Phoebe, grinning.
“Continue, continue!”
“We-ell... Let’s see. Poor old Owen came in and sat down, still clutching his floral offering and all. And—um—oh, yes: I said I’d better have a shower, I hadn’t had a wash for a couple of days.”
“What?” said Ralph faintly.
“It was a Sunday. I’d been sort of letting myself go. Well, not expecting company, you see. And I had had a Hell of lot of work to get through.”
“Yes, yes; you can skip that bit,” he sighed.
“Anyway,” said Phoebe on a dry note: “Owen duly blenched. And agreed that I’d better. So I told him to put the electric blanket on, the bed’d be icy, and went through to the shower.”
“And?”
“When I came out of it—you can wipe that expression off your face, I’ve just said, it was mid-June: I had my huge great candlewick dressing-gown on—he was standing in the middle of the bedroom, looking a bit lost.”
“Still fully clad?”
“Of course.”
“Heh, heh!” said Ralph, rubbing his hands.
“So I told him to bring the champagne in, it might warm us up.”
“You actually said that?” said Ralph, very faintly. Phoebe nodded. “How entirely flattering,” he said faintly.
“Well, the room was as cold as be-Jasus, and the silly nong hadn’t even turned the heater on.”
“Mm. Dare one ask, Phoebe, how long it had been since the—er—previous episode with this unfortunate semi-male?”
“Ages. At least a year, anyway. No—more than that, I think.”
Ralph regarded her with a fascinated eye.
“Yeah, all right: poor little male ego,” said Phoebe on a hard note.
“Such straightforward persons as yourself can never conceive of the exquisite subtleties and nuances of feeling, the fluttering uncertainties, the tremulous timidities, that the male experiences under such circumstances.”
“Eh?”
“No, quite,” he agreed, grinning. “So did he fail to perform?”
“Not exactly. We got into bed with the champers—”
“Had he managed to get it up?”
“Yes. Well, more or less. Well, stiffish, if I remember rightly.”
“You were vitally interested!”
“Mm. Well, the champagne was supposed to encourage him. So he drank a good belt of it, and did start to look more cheerful, and we kissed a bit, and then I made the mistake of telling him to put his hand in an interesting place.”
“At which point he remembered,” he concluded deeply.
“Yes: he went a sort of beetroot shade and said shouldn’t we have a towel on the bed? So I said that the sheets were washable”—Ralph bit his lip—”but if he wanted a towel he could go out to the freezing-cold linen cupboard—it’s out in the passage—and get one. So he did. I have to admit I felt a teeny weeny bit pissed off, so I drank another glassful of fizz, rather fast.”
“And?”
“He came back with the towel, and we started to—um—cuddle, I suppose you’d call it.”—Ralph goggled at her.—”Well, most people would. And then he definitely got interested—”
“And put his hand down there?”
“Well, not right down, no. But he said coyly did I really not mind if we did it under these circumstances? Quote, unquote. And I was fool enough to say at least the circumstances meant I couldn’t get preggers. And he thought—well, apart from the fact that he thought it was entirely indelicate—he thought I was getting at him because that’s what happened with Kathleen.”
“Eh?”
“The wife. Got her up the duff and had to get married.”
“Thought Treasury types were too cautious for that?”
“He was very young at the time. Besides, she was entirely suitable in every way: Queen Margaret’s, presented to the Bish, nice clean little job marking time as a part-time receptionist to something ultra-respectable, just bright enough to get herself up the spout so as to make sure of him—and Daddy with a bit of moolah. You know the style.”
“Mm. Sounds like Audrey.”—Phoebe choked slightly.—“Well, go on with this fascinating narrative,” he sighed.
“Uh—where was I?”
“Owen was shocked by your crude language.”
“What? Oh! Yes!” said Phoebe, chuckling. “So he was. In fact he got a bit put off and I had to assure him that I hadn’t meant it personally. So he got very offended and said did I see him as a sex-object, and was that all he meant to me—etcetera.”
“The man’s a tit,” said Ralph faintly.
“Ralph,” replied Phoebe patiently: “he works for Treasury. Very high up in Treasury.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he whispered.
Grinning, Phoebe said: “Well, we had another glass of fizz to cheer him up a bit. That was my third, if you’re counting.”
“No. Is this relevant?”
“Yes. Also the fact that it was a freezing cold June night.”
Ralph looked at her with wild surmise.
“To put you out of your misery,” said Phoebe, grinning broadly, “he’d got all encouraged, with a bit of help, and got in there. And it was going quite good—given that he’s the type that’s got the fixed idea that the longer he can pound away, the more male he is.”
“Like so many of us,” said Ralph faintly.
“Yeah,” she replied, grinning. “And I was enjoying it, to start off with. Only after a bit I knew I’d have to have a pee. So I said—now, I admit this wasn’t super-tactful but take it for all in all it hadn’t exactly been my night, either—‘For God’s sake stop for a bit, I’m busting for a pee.’”
“So he stopped?”
“Mm. He got very upset, but being a gent stopped all right—pouting like nobody’s business. And I duly went. And when I came back—”
“I think I can guess.”
“I’ve never been able to understand just how natural bodily functions can be so off-putting,” said Phoebe dreamily.
“Ya don’t say!” he gasped, laughing like a drain. “Did he eventually get it up?”
“Well, eventually. After a large dinner and a brandy. Preceded by some extremely long-drawn-out self-recrimination, naturally.”
“In response to which you no doubt played the rôle of little feminine comforter.”
“No: in response to which I said he could sit there sulking all night if he wanted to, but I was (a) gonna have another pee and (b) have some dinner, once my period got started I seemed to eat like a wolf.”
“I’d say his failure to perform was fully justified,” said Ralph faintly.
Phoebe sniffed.
Grinning, Ralph added, rubbing his hands: “Now, who do I know down in Wellington that’d really appreciate it? –I’ve got a conference down there in May, did I say?
“No. And you could leave my name out of it.”
“I could leave Owen’s name out of it, too, but it’d spoil the point of the story, rather!” he gasped. Phoebe gave him a hard look. “Yeah, all right, I’ll spare you. Only because you come out of it relatively well, though.”
“I don’t know that I entirely believe you. But I do know that if you do mention my name, people will inevitably jump to the correct conclusion as to how you got the story.”
“Ya got a point, there. Well, talking of having a pee and eating like a wolf, you ready for either?”
“Yes—both,” said Phoebe, promptly getting out of bed.
“The woman has no tact,” he sighed.
“Just as well you’re not a sensitive plant, then, Ralph,’’ she said, strolling off to the bathroom.
Ralph lay there for ages—well, at least five seconds—pouting, and thinking he was so a sensitive plant, why couldn’t she see past the mask? Then, sniggering slightly, he got out of bed, collected his plastic shopping bag, and wandered out to the kitchen to make dinner.
… “I’m glad you had the sense to put an apron on,” said Phoebe, strolling into the kitchen and pinching a piece of sliced mushroom before he could stop her.
“You were so worried about my health and safety that it only took you”—Ralph glanced at his watch, which he’d somehow forgotten to remove, earlier—“twenty minutes to check up on it.”
“Yeah.” Phoebe ate another piece of mushroom.
“Leave those alone! There’s only a few, and they cost the earth: I got them at the nayce shop in Newmarket, you realize these are the inordinately expensive mushrooms that the Governor General and Lady Cohen eat?”
“They’re not eating these ones,” said Phoebe mildly, pinching another bit. “What are you making?”
“It’s a surprize,” said Ralph, immediately going all huffy.
“Making it up as he goes along,” said Phoebe knowingly to the ceiling. Ralph smirked. “Can I do anything?” she added loudly.
“Yes. Pour me a glass of that.” He nodded at it.
Phoebe did so. “Is it for the sauce?”
“No,” said Ralph, drinking it. “A-ah: that’s better!”
“You’re as bad as Graham Kerr!”
“That dates you,” he noted acidly.
“Yes; but just think, Ralph: what could we possibly talk about, if we didn’t have this background of shared experience on which to draw?”
“Abstract ideas? Philosophy? Works of art? Literature? History?”
“Aw, them,” said Phoebe in disgust. “Youse can talk about them with anyone.”
“You reckon?”
“I never said intelligently. Or even intelligibly,” she replied, grinning.
“No, quite. Pass us that lettuce.”
She did so but objected as he began to slice it finely: “I thought you reckoned chopped lettuce was a lower-middle-class perversion?”
“It is. This is not chopped lettuce. This is a chiffonade.”
“Oh. A French lower-middle-class perversion,” she noted.
Choking ever so slightly, Ralph retorted: “Get out of the kitchen, Phoebe, I can’t stand the heat.”
“You and the rest of the male population,” she noted, strolling out again. Not neglecting to pinch another piece of mushroom as she went.
Ralph raised his eyebrows slightly. He made a moue at the fridge. “Which samples from the male population provoked that, I wonder?” he murmured. “One asks oneself, Was it One? But the answer is definitely ‘No’, of course.”
… “Pudding?” said Phoebe hopefully, wandering back twenty minutes later.
“No! And get your filthy paws off that melon!” he howled.
“Tut, tut, Ralph: descending to the coarse vernacular of we commoners,” noted Phoebe, withdrawing her hand from the melon. “If it isn’t pud, what the fuck is it? –I warn you, fruit and peanut butter all mucked up in a nouvelle cuisine-type sauce makes me want to spew.”
Ralph closed his eyes for a few pregnant seconds. “In God’s name, what gave you the idea that that constituted nouvelle cuisine?” he moaned.
“About five hundred of the local arty-tarty chop-houses. Isn’t it?”
“NO!” he howled. “And neither is bits of hydrangea on the side of the fucking plate! And do you want anything specific, or are you doing it to annoy?”
“Yes. Dinner.”
“It’s coming along nicely!” said Ralph huffily. “Or was until five minutes ago.”
“Well, what’s the melon for, then?” pursued Phoebe, unmoved.
“Guess.”
“Uh—oh, I know, I’ve had that loads of times. Don’t put too much ginger on mine, will you?”
“Wrong again,” he said mildly, unwrapping the prosciutto. “Don’t touch it!”
“I wasn’t! What is it? That Jewish stuff?”
“God Almighty,” he muttered. “Just go away, Phoebe, dear: go and lie down on your nice big sofa with a nice cold cloth on your poor hot head, why don’t you?”
“It is bloody humid still, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ve had that at The Golden Lamb, it’s some sort of ham. It was foul.”
“I, too, once made the mistake of having this dish—so-called—at The Golden Lamb,” said Ralph grimly. “Being under the misapprehension—though God knows why—that someone there knew something about food.”
“The lamb’s always good,” she conceded.
“Exactly,” he sighed.
“I’ll go away, if you don’t want me,” said Phoebe very sadly.
Ralph rolled melon slices artistically in prosciutto. Actually they’d probably have looked better just spread out. Oh, well. He tied each little bundle artistically with a chive. Phoebe muttered: “Crikey.”
“Slightly nouvelle,” he murmured, smirking. “Regard.” He laid the bundles out in fan shapes on two large plates—thank God her dinner plates were plain white—and set a tiny fluff of fennel against each fan.
“And?”
“That’s it, you spiritual nullity, you female hoon, you walking stomach, you Antipodean Gargantua, you hamburger-eater,” he said acidly.
“I thought ‘spiritual nullity’ was best,” replied Phoebe dispassionately. “Aren’t you going to pipe some foul sauce round it in a very thin, artistic swirl? I seen that on the telly, once.”
“No.”
“Aw-wuh!”
“One does not eat sauce with melon and prosciutto,” said Ralph severely, trying not to laugh.
“Oh, I don’t think you were meant to eat it.”
Ralph gave in and sniggered. Then he said: “Bend over.”
“Eh?”
“Hang onto the table, if you like: but bend over.”
“If you’re gonna wallop me, I warn you, I’m a gold belt in karate and tai kwon do.”
“Not gold, black!” he said, choking slightly. “And I’m not going to do any such thing: from what depths of the murky subconscious did this hang-up about male authority figures pop up, Phoebe?”
“Some sort of guilt complex, I think,” replied Phoebe vaguely. “I just remembered that we never actually done it. Did we?”
“Thanks very much!”
“Don’t mensh.”
“If you’re not gonna bend over,” said Ralph, picking up the wine bottle, “I might just as well get sozzled. Though as a useful alternative to bending over, you could stand on this here chair.”
“I’ve got long legs,” said Phoebe, trying not to laugh.
“Not that long.”
“Um—well, what did you have in mind?”
“It’s a surprize,” he said, smirking over the rim of his glass.
“Actually, I don’t go much on surprizes,” admitted Phoebe, wresting the bottle off him. She got herself a glass.
“Do you know, I think that had begun to dawn on me?”
Phoebe drank her wine. “This isn’t bad.”—Ralph closed his eyes for a moment.—”I was thinking of doing a tour of the vineyards: you could tell me where to go.”
“No doubt.”
She put the glass down and said on a resigned note: “All right, if you’re gonna sulk, I suppose I’d better bend over.” She bent over but added in the voice of one bent over: “Why is it always the woman that gives in, in these situations? Now if our positions were reversed, I suppose you’d be sulking for a week.”
Ralph put his glass down and came round the table. “Hang on to the table. I don’t think our relationship is yet such as warrants the reversal of our positions, dear heart. However, should you so desire—”
After a few seconds Phoebe said in a strangled voice that didn’t have all that much to do with the fact she was bending over: “Not really.”
“Quite.” He knelt.
After a few seconds Phoebe gasped: “Oh, God, Ralph!”
Stopping momentarily, Ralph murmured: “I thought so. Come on, have a come for us.”
“What if I can’t later?” she said in a strangled voice
“What if World War Three starts before later ever gets here?”
“Ya got a point.”
“I have; but if I put it in there it might start World War Three.”
“Do it with your tongue, then,” said Phoebe in a strangled voice.
Ralph obliged. When she was at the panting and gasping stage he stood up, turned her round, and shoved it up her. Phoebe—not altogether to his surprize—let out a shriek and came like the clappers without his having to do anything else at all. Just as well, really. He withdrew, panting, put his arms round her very tightly and said into her neck: “I want like Christ to come.”
“Yes!” panted Phoebe. “Shall I—?”
“No,” he said in a strangled voice. “Hang on a bit.”
Phoebe hung on a bit. She didn’t feel capable of anything much else, actually.
Finally he drew a deep breath and released her. “That was a bit of a mistake, take it for all and all.”
“Not from my end— Oh, dear. I see what you mean.”
He grimaced. “Holding back like fury would seem to be contra-indicated at my advanced age.”
“Advanced bullshit. We’ll do it proper after dinner: you’ll be all right.”
Ralph pulled his apron back into place, looking resigned. “You really think so?”
A little smile hovered on Phoebe’s wide mouth. “I can practically guarantee it.”
“Good,” he sighed, pulling her gently against him. “That was most gratifying,” he said into her ear.
“Mm: good,” agreed Phoebe, hugging him.
“Feel better now, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, sighing. “I dunno how you figured it out, but that was what was wrong with me, all right.”
“Put it down to experience,” he said weakly.
“Yeah.” She kissed him gently but to her surprize he pulled her fiercely to him and kissed her desperately. “Oy,” she said mildly when he seemed to have stopped. “What was that about?”
“Possibly about the fact that I’m crackers for you,” replied Ralph, releasing her. “Grinding jealousy, sleepless nights, an’ all.”
“Eh? Crap!”
“Oh, I know it’s crap,” he said mildly.
“Is this one of those appetite feeding on what it—uh—feeds on things?” asked Phoebe suspiciously.
“It’s been a long time since you actually taught any English Lit., hasn’t it, Phoebe?”
“Yeah. –Is it?”
“Probably,” he sighed. “I’m as randy as Hell approximately twenty-four hours a day, that I do know.”
Phoebe was very tempted to tell him it was probably his age and that she had very little to do with it. She refrained with an effort. But she did say lightly: “Red-headed twins wouldn’t come into this at all, I suppose?”
“Uh—no. Unfortunately.”
“On a theoretical level,” said Phoebe, mouth twitching.
“Oh, on one of those! Uh—probably.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“We men are at the mercy of our animal natures, you know,” he said, pouting.
“Get on with the dinner,” replied Phoebe mildly. She picked up the wine bottle in a casual manner but Ralph wrenched it off her.
“I prefer to dine with ladies who are marginally conscious.”
“Ooh, how did these ladies get into it all of a sudden, Ralph?” squeaked Phoebe. She went out, shaking all over.
Ralph stood there and sniggered for a bit. On the whole, though, he didn’t know whether he felt better or worse for it all.
… “I definitely feel better,” he announced, some time later.
“You feel better? You’re sure you don’t feel wonderful, marvellous, exhilarated, completely satisfied, or even totally shagged out? Any of those would be quite flattering, really. But ‘better’?”
“Better,” said Ralph definitely.
“I felt a lot better after dinner,” replied Phoebe, pouting, but with a smile lurking.
“Well, how do you feel now?”
“Oh, still better.”
Ralph gave in and sniggered. “I suppose you want me to say ‘Darling, the earth moved’?”
“No, that expression always inspires me with an almost uncontrollable urge to look under the bed.”
Swallowing, he said: “There would be some sort of feminine logic behind that remark, would there?”
“How would I know?”
He gave a snort of laughter.
“Nergh, nergh,” said Phoebe pleasedly. “Now can you please shut up? I’d quite like just to lie here for a bit.”
“Mm.”
They lay there for a bit. After that Ralph’s hand, which was more or less round Phoebe’s upper-arm, crept over and started to stroke her breast slowly.
“Not more?” she said in horror.
“No: just nice,” he murmured.
“Mmm…”
After a further period he said thoughtfully: “Didn’t the phone ring at one stage, back there?”
“Yes, I think it might have.”
“Unless it was your neighbour’s phone... I think the stage in question was when I was huffing and puffing and woofing a bit and you were saying something along the lines of ‘Nice doggie: ooh, more.’“
“Saying? Me? Saying? I’ve been accused of quite a few things in the past, but—”
“All right: hollering. I think you’re the loudest lady I’ve ever had.”
“‘Had’?” said Phoebe, as if it was a particularly niffy sock.
“All right, been done by, since you apparently demand the active voice.”
“Only sometimes!”
“I’ve noticed that. Like when you grabbed me brandy glass out of me palsied hand, wrenched me pinny off me and got down to—er—”
“Brass tacks,” said Phoebe with a gurgle of laughter.
“Tacks? Is it that weeny?” squeaked Ralph.
“Stop fishing. On the basis of a random sample I’d say it was average.”
“One likes to know such things, of course,” he said tremulously.
“I’ve never seen a really huge prick,” she replied thoughtfully.
“Ooh, goody. That does make me feel better. –You mean the sort that youse girls swap stories about in ya girls’ locker-room?”
“No; I think I mean the sort that youse boys swap stories about in your boys’ locker-room.”
“This could well be. Talking of phones—”
“Good God, were we?”
“I certainly was,” said Ralph firmly. “Talking of phones, as I certainly was, why don’t you get an answering-machine?”
“I have got one. Only after it kept giving me urgent messages from Westby in person to ring him about nothing in particular, I kind of felt it had outworn its welcome.”
“You would do,” he acknowledged.
“So I really only put it on if I’m going to be away for a bit. Or if I’m expecting a call and have to be out—you know,” she explained, hitching the sheet up a bit.
Ralph unhitched the sheet. “These are much too nice to be hidden away.” He stroked them gently. “Not chilly?”
“Not really.”
He turned over and buried his face in them. “Nice,” he said in a muffled voice.
“Mm,” agreed Phoebe contentedly.
After a while he murmured: “Had you thought we might see a bit more of each other?”
“I thought we’d both seen absolutely everything there was to see!’
“No: dirty weekend or something.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose there’s Easter coming up. Or will you have to do your deacon act?”
“Clot!” he said with a laugh. He looked up at her, twinkling. “Well? What do you say?”
“It’d have to be somewhere pretty well off the beaten track,” said Phoebe uncertainly. “Uh—Pahiatua. Or Ngaruawahia. –No?”
“Definitely not Ngaruawahia,” said Ralph, wincing. “I’ve got an old uncle down there: well, old, but with all his faculties.”
“Would he tell on you?”
“No. Against the male code. But I wouldn’t put it past him to tear a strip off me. And he’d certainly tell Tom and Bob. Especially Tom, Tom’s quids in with old Alec, God knows why: manages to strike the right Good-Keen-Man-From-Way-Back note, I think.”
“Tom does?” said Phoebe faintly.
“Quite. Laconic mateship personified, that’s his act when he’s down there.”
“Crikey,” said Phoebe faintly.
“Quite,” said Ralph with a little smile. He put his face back between her breasts.
Phoebe looked down at him uncertainly. After a few moments she said: “Pahiatua?”
“Sidders?” replied Ralph.
“Eh?”
“One is not confined to these shores: think oysters and worlds,” he murmured.
“I’m thinking of what I spent on that ruddy skiing holiday at the flaming Chateau last August!” replied Phoebe frankly. “Not to mention of how much my rates went up last year.”
“Pace Women’s Liberation, I wasn’t suggesting any disbursements on your part.”
“Think again,” said Phoebe grimly.
Ralph looked up. “No, really: I’ve got pots, ask anyone. Well, not anyone. Ask Tom, if ya like.”
“He’s already told me. Jemima told me about the loan: that was bloody decent of you, Ralph.”
Flushing a little, he retorted: “Proves how little I have to throw it away on, ya mean. Well?”
“Uh—it’ll come to a tidy sum,” she warned him in a weak voice. “Unless you were contemplating staying at the Y?”
“The Wentworth, more like. And business class there and back.”
“What?” gasped Phoebe. “Pay all that extra for the same plastic food and a bottle of indifferent fizz?”
“No, I pay all that extra for the leg room. Not to mention the smiling servility of the hostesses.”
“Yuck.”
“Ay owe it to may K,” he said in very refeened tones.
“I dare say. What if we meet the Queen Mother while we’re paying homage to your K?”
“It will be a pure coincidence: you will be travelling to an educationists’ conference, and I will be popping over to consult with a bunch of fellow medicos.”
“Belinda Cohen’d never swallow that!” gasped Phoebe.
“Of course not. She would, however, be enabled to pretend to.”
She swallowed.
“And thereafter will never be able by so much as a hint, nay a glance, to suggest to you that she Knows All.”
“Of course she will, Ralph, don’t be a raving birk: that’s precisely the sort of thing that Belinda Cohen specialises in!”
“All right, then. a lovely clean motel at Pahiatua.”
“They are. Well, the one I once stayed in was. Sparkling clean.”
“I won’t ask who with,” said Ralph faintly.
“No, don’t. Actually, I can’t remember. Coulda been— No, it wasn’t. Or was it? Actually it could have been Owen, now I come to think of it.”
“How long has this thing, or not-thing, with Owen been going on, dare one ask?” he enquired faintly.
“Uh—ages. Well, let’s see... Twenty years or so, I suppose. Not that it is still going on. Well, not that I’m aware. Well, I haven’t heard from him for a while.”
“Just a postcard at Christmas which said: ‘Christmas Greetings from Khandallah, Owen’?”
“No: rather a nice little wooden pot, actually. Black beech, I think. That’s it, on the dressing-table.”
Ralph twisted round and glared at it. It was a nice little pot. “You can think of his fiasco every time you look at it, how convenient,” he said nastily.
“Mm. Uh, you’re squashing me a bit,” she pointed out.
Sighing, he rolled back onto his side of the bed. He lay on his back and glared at the ceiling. There was a fine crack running all the way across it: the flats were certainly old. As flats round here went. “Well, Sydney or Pahiatua?”
Phoebe swallowed. “Whichever you like, if it’s your money that’s being thrown away.”
“Good, Sydney! Actually, not the Wentworth, I have a feeling it's old Jerry Cohen’s stamping ground when they go over. No, a lovely little boutique hotel in Rose Bay. Authentic genuine antiques, an’ all. It’s brand-new!” he assured her, beaming. “Okay?”
“Great,” said Phoebe weakly.
Ralph got out of bed and padded off to retrieve the brandy bottle and a couple of glasses.
“Come to think of it,” he said, getting back into bed, “the Cohens won’t be over there, but the Rose Bay hotel’s much nicer.”
“How do you know they won’t be there?”
“Bumped into Sir Jerry at the Club the other day and let him beat me at chess. They are all, including, one gathers, the Weintraub family in toto,”—he poured brandy carefully—“taking off for the delights of Nelson this Easter. Where, one gathers, some connection is celebrating a golden wedding, or some such.”
“Oh.”
He handed her a glass. “In due course, you will no doubt have an opportunity to act surprized at being apprised of this exciting piece of—”
“You can drop that, Ralph,” said Phoebe in a hard tone.
“—family gossip,” continued Ralph, unmoved. “Don’t drink that without warming it, you peasant,” he advised, too late.
She swallowed Cognac. “Us peasants have never heard of them refinements.”
Ralph sighed loudly. He warmed his glass carefully between his hands.
After a certain period had elapsed and he was still warming his glass Phoebe said cautiously: “This dirty-weekend thought occurred to you some time ago, did it?”
“The minute I laid eyes on you,” he assured her.
She swallowed but said doggedly: “You know what I mean.”
“If you mean, have I been hoping to spend Easter with you for more than approximately five minutes: yes,” he sighed. “And if you mean, was I taking your acceptance for granted: not entirely. I had considered it as lying within the realms of possibility, however: is that bad?”
“No... Why do I still get the feeling I’ve had the ground cut from under me feet, though?” demanded Phoebe, rolling her eyes.
“Possibly because you’ve never before encountered such an expert tactician as I, and your limited faculties are incapable of immediately absorbing this. –At least now you know you can’t expect a counter-offer,” he pointed out, as she glared at him.
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said mildly.
Ralph raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t Weintraub go in for dirty weekends? Too cautious? Not enough stamina? Too mean?”
“No, just a lot more married than you apparently are.”
“Oh, I shall tell poor dear Audrey that some Sydney saw-bones requires my urgent presence for a lucrative consultation. Dollar signs will light up in her eyes and she won’t take in another thing.
“Aren’t you ever afraid she might audit your books and catch you out one of these days, Ralph?” she asked nastily.
Ralph sipped his Cognac. “Mmm... No,” he said definitely. “Too dumb. Can’t add two and two. Wouldn’t know a balance sheet, let alone a crayoned-in spreadsheet, if she fell over it. Besides, believe you me, only I and my tax accountant know the secrets of my balance sheets.”
“I think I believe that,” said Phoebe in horror. “All of it, what’s more. It must be catching, or something.”
“What, intelligent clear-mindedness?” asked Ralph acidly. “I’d doubt that, frankly.”
“No: total cynicism!”
They sat there comfortably propped against the pillows, sniggering gently and sipping Cognac. Couldn’t be bad, Ralph decided, with his usual intelligent clear-mindedness. Couldn’t be bad.
Phoebe turned over in bed, groaning slightly, and peered at the bedside clock. Liar. –Shit, that was the phone! She grabbed up the bedside extension.
The Telecom New Zealand engineer had tried to assure her she couldn’t possibly need two extensions: crikey, the phone was only in the passage! And if she really wanted an extension, she didn’t need one in the sitting-room as well: one in the bedroom would be enough. And she didn’t need an extension at all, not in a flat this size. Phoebe had asked him acidly whether his bosses knew of these attempts to discourage would-be clients. The man had remained unmoved. Phoebe had enquired whether, in these days of privatization, he wasn’t scared of losing his job if he went round discouraging clients like that? He had said: “Have it your own way, lady.” Then he’d assured her she couldn’t possibly have a push-button phone. Phoebe had pointed out that she’d seen an ad for them on TV saying they were available. And she’d verified this when she’d applied for the extension. Three months ago. They were available, he agreed. She’d have one, Phoebe had said instantly. He didn’t have one in the van, he’d have to put in a requisition— A martial light had lit up in Phoebe’s eye.
Phoebe had got the push-button phone. That very day. There were probably very few other people in the country who could have accomplished as much. Every time she looked at it she felt a surge of vicious triumph.
After a certain amount of fumbling with buttons she was able to gasp: “Hullo?” and be almost sure of getting a response.
“Hi, that you, Phoebe?” said an American voice. Phoebe didn’t even need it to add, as it immediately did, “Sol Winkelmann here.”
She was filled with a rushing surge of emotions, amongst which one was definitely gladness, another was furious anger because he’d been out of touch so long and was ringing her out of the blue, and another was definitely a sick fear that he was ringing to say he’d met some dolly in the States and had married her— Christ, how totally absurd! As if she—
Filled with annoyance at the total absurdity of this last emotion—though she was aware that there were several more emotions in there that she couldn’t immediately define and that her subconscious mind was probably deliberately preventing her from analysing, Phoebe replied feebly: “Oh, hullo, Sol.”
“How are you?” he said.
“Oh—fine,” replied Phoebe limply. There was a short pause. “How are you?” she added.
“I’m just fine, thanks.” There was another short pause. “I rang you last night, your time, but I guess you were out,” he said hoarsely.
Phoebe found to her annoyance that her face and ears had gone very red. “I guess I must have been,” she said shortly.
There was another pause, rather longer. Sol’s throat was dry; he swallowed with difficulty and said: “I thought I’d let you know I’ve decided to settle out there.”
“Here?” said Phoebe weakly.
“Uh-huh. Sure. Well, up north a ways, I guess. I’m opening a boating-supplies store at Carter’s Inlet. Pat’s dad’s backing me. We’ve got it all fixed, now.”
“Good. I’m glad,” said Phoebe weakly. Another short pause. “So when are you coming out, Sol?” she said brightly.
“Quite soon. Well, it’s Bobby’s birthday in April, I guess I’ll stay for that. Early May, I thought. I’ve got a buyer for the store here, we’ve signed papers and all, but he can’t take it over until May anyway.”
“I see. Uh—would you like me to meet you at the airport?”
He replied politely: “That’d sure be nice, Phoebe.” So politely that she couldn’t for the life of her tell whether he was pleased or not. And if he was pleased—well, why else was he ringing her, for God’s sake?—just how pleased he might be. Come to think of it, he had those frightful middle-class American good manners, maybe the whole phone-call was only good manners—
“Have you booked your flight yet?” she said in a brisk voice.
“Sure, I’ve got all the details...” He gave her all the details. Phoebe wrote them down numbly.
Sol thanked her politely and assured her he would look forward to seeing her again.
Phoebe was now awake enough to roll her eyes madly at the ceiling as he did so. “Good. Me, too,” she said.
There was another pause.
“Have you got anywhere to stay?” she said abruptly. “You can stay with me for a bit, if you like.”
Sol swallowed. “That’s real nice of you, Phoebe. Only I’ve gotten myself booked into a motel up at Puriri for the first two weeks. Susan and Alan asked me to stay with them, only—” He paused. “Well, in the first place they won’t be home when I get there, those relatives of Susan’s who live near that ski resort in the South Island—would it be Mount Hutt?”—Phoebe made a faint affirmative noise—”Yeah, I guess that’s it; well, it’s their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. And Alan’s keen to stop off some place, I forget its name, some place in the South Island, I guess, where they grow apples. –Would that be right?”
“Probably,” said Phoebe weakly.
“I’ll be looking about for a place of my own, of course. Not too far from the store.”
“Mm. I believe property’s still quite cheap at Carter’s Bay. Bloody Kingfisher Bay’s prohibitive, of course.”
“Yeah... I’d sure like to live round Waikaukau Junction some place, only Jerry’s been into that for me: Jake Carrano owns virtually the whole valley. Though those nice Butlers own a fair amount of ground—say, did you ever meet them?”
“I’ve never actually met them; but I’ve spoken to her on the phone once or twice.”
“Well, they’re real nice folks. –Say, did I ever tell you about their great house?”
“Several times, Sol,” said Phoebe with a smile in her voice.
“I guess I did, at that,” he admitted slowly. Phoebe could hear he was smiling.
“Do you think they might sell you a bit of their land?” she said.
“We-ell... I guess I might go into that when I get there, huh?”
“Yes,” said Phoebe limply. Don’t commit yourself to anything definite, Sol! she thought in considerable annoyance. “It wouldn’t hurt to go into it,” she said pointedly.
“No,” he agreed tranquilly. “I guess not.”
Phoebe held the receiver away from her ear and glared at it.
“Uh—well, I guess I better let you go, huh?” he then said.
“What? Oh—yes! I—uh—I’ll look forward to seeing you.”
“Yeah. Me, too. It’s been real nice talking to you, Phoebe,” he said politely.
“Yes,” Phoebe replied limply.
“Well, I’ll see you in May, huh?”
“Yes. Good-bye,” said Phoebe limply.
“See ya,” he said, and hung up.
Phoebe stared at the receiver. “CRIKEY!” she bellowed. She slammed it down with as much of a crash as she could achieve with a flimsy plastic receiver of a push-button phone.
She bounded out of bed, marched over to the windows, flung the curtains back—regardless of who might be watching her with binoculars from the North Shore—and slid back the glass doors to the balcony. Not very quietly. Then she shrouded herself in a cotton house-coat of intensely bourgeois design—as Ralph Overdale had not failed to remark—and stomped off to the bathroom, muttering under her breath. After that she stomped into the kitchen, still muttering, and made herself some instant coffee and singed toast. She added a glass of orange juice, put the lot on a tray, and retired to bed with it.
“Shit,” she muttered, glaring out at the glorious view of the harbour. “What does he want, for Christ’s sake?”
The harbour didn’t respond. It sparkled at her in the usual blue way it had in late March. It was dotted with yachts—also quite usual in late March. In fact, on most Sunday mornings of the year. Phoebe sipped coffee. “Boating supplies!” she said loudly and bitterly, pouting at the yachts.
She sipped again. She couldn’t see the high-rise abortion on Stanley Point from this angle but she made a face in its general direction. “Don’t commit yourself, Sol, will you?” she said nastily. This was highly unfair, of course: Sol had just taken the huge step of committing himself to emigrating to—if you took the width of the wide blue Pacific and the width of the continental United States and added ’em together—which Phoebe, in a very weak moment round about the week before Christmas last year actually had—half a world away. Phoebe knew it was highly unfair but that didn’t stop her saying it.
She sipped coffee again. “‘How are you, Phoebe, meet me at the airport, Phoebe, oh, I’ve fixed up to stay in a flaming motel, Phoebe!’” she misquoted angrily to the harbour. She drank some more coffee: it had cooled a bit and she could taste how thoroughly revolting it really was. Sol had made real coffee for breakfast when he’d stayed the night with her— Bugger the man, anyway!
By the time she’d worked her way through the coffee and was starting on the singed toast and eyeing the orange juice, which was definitely leering at her, Phoebe felt very slightly better. Very slightly. Avoiding the orange juice’s eye, she looked uncertainly at the phone. If Sol had said anything at all that might have indicated... Okay, given he was the cautious bloke to end all cautious blokes. And given the American vernacular… Had he? Well, had he? No, not really. Well, not at all. Well, okay: he’d agreed to her meeting him at the airport. Only that had apparently been because Susan and Whatsisface couldn’t. Phoebe tried to figure out what Sol would have said if Susan and Whatsisface had been able to meet him, and came to the conclusion that he’d have said “Gee, I guess that’s real nice of you, Phoebe, but I guess Susan and Whatsisface are meeting me. I guess.” More than likely with a few “maybe’s” in there, too.
“I guess maybe I could put Ralph off,” she said to the phone. It merely looked at her in its tasteful fawn plastic way. “I guess maybe I could burn my flaming bridges!” said Phoebe crossly to the phone. The phone looked as if it was agreeing with her: well, what could you expect from a Telecom phone? Phoebe looked at the harbour instead. It was still out there, sparkling blue-ly.
After a certain period, during which she absent-mindedly drank the orange juice, Phoebe said sourly: “I think I’m too flaming old to burn any bridges, thanks!” The harbour just sparkled. “It wouldn’t have hurt him to singe one or two,” she muttered.
After another certain period during which the sprinkling of yachts that must have been taking part in some sort of regatta all disappeared in the general direction of the Gulf, unnoticed by Phoebe, she said in a very sour voice indeed: “An eminent surgeon in the hand is worth any number of putative Yanks in the bush: he could still change his flaming American mind, bear this firmly in mind, Phoebe!” She dumped the tray beside her and got up.
In the shower the great surge of singing happiness that had threatened to overwhelm her earlier, and might even have done so if there hadn’t been all that anger at being ignored for months and then rung up out of the blue mixed up with it, very nearly overcame her. Very nearly. She got out of the shower feeling a lot better.
But she didn’t ring Ralph to cancel the dirty weekend, or even next Saturday. And she didn’t ring Nat to cancel next Wednesday, either.
Sol’s heart was pounding furiously when he hung up and his breath was coming short. It had taken a great deal of willpower not to just burst out with— Well, with something real naïve and stupid, Phoebe would have thought he’d—flipped his lid, was the expression, he guessed. Something like: “Let’s live together, Phoebe.” Or something even dumber, like: “Let’s get married, Phoebe, I’m crazy about you.” Yeah, that’d be dumb, all right. A lady like Phoebe Fothergill, with her career and all, living in a shack up Waikaukau Junction or Carter’s Bay or some place like that? Because a shack it was gonna have to be: even if he hadn’t already figured it out for himself—which he had, he wasn’t that dumb—old Sir Jerry had made the stringency of his financial position very plain. Very plain. Belt tightening all round. Sol didn’t care for himself, he had few wants and a flat belly: his belt ’ud take it. But he wasn’t too sure about Phoebe’s. And he was pretty damn sure that he had no right to ask any such thing of her. Nope. Not at their ages.
He got up and walked slowly up and down, not seeing the true awfulness of the décor he’d inherited from the apartment’s previous owner, a pink-haired Florida widow. He’d painted over the worst of it, but the drapes and rugs were pretty bad, still.
It was impossible not to be aware of his tremendous physical excitement, but then he’d known that about him and Phoebe the minute he set eyes on her. So what did that leave him with? Not all that much, he guessed. ...Gee, he’d forgotten how dry she could be; boy, she sure enough hadn’t seemed exactly over the moon at his news. Well, it was partly her style, he guessed. And partly, he admitted to himself with a sour grimace, the fact that you were so gutless you never kept in touch with her over all these months, Sol, guy. No, well, no point in raising false expectations... Then or now, he guessed. In either of ’em. He guessed.
Anyroad, did he really want Phoebe? Not like that, really want her? Could he stand her on a full-time basis? ...Could she stand him? Yeah, well, that was a point, all righty. The fact was—here he stared blindly at his wall of bookshelves without seeing them, his perambulations having brought him to this point—he was just a dumb Yankee boy, take him for all in all. Okay, not as dumb as some, but compared to her and her friends... Shit, that British education: shit, Jim Fisher might claim their education was nothing like a good English education or a good American one, either; only what Jim Fisher, who, Sol had finally got out of Phoebe in words of one syllable, taught New Zealand’s top scholarship boys, like the kids that regularly topped SATS each year, get it, Sol?—what Jim had meant by a good American education sure enough wasn’t your PS Forty-Two. Or even your Florida State. Some of us ain’t never even seen Harvard, Jim, boy, thought Sol sadly. Shee-ut, some us ain’t never hardly been north of the good ole Mason-Dixon! he thought, knowing full well that this was a preposterous exaggeration but feeling strongly that metaphorically it damn well suited the case.
After a whole lot of mournful, unfocussed staring he blinked, and realized that right in front of him was that Jack Kerouac he’d picked up second-hand way back... Ugh. Yeah: way back. He took it off the shelf and looked at the fly-leaf. Sure enough, in a scarce-formed hand was inscribed “S. Winkelmann,” and the year. WHAT? Wincing, Sol counted backwards. Ugh, again. What was that expression the Kiwis were always using? Cr-something. Crikey, that was it. Yep: crikey just about summed it up. He musta been nineteen: nineteen, and green as grass. He’d thought Jack Kerouac was the greatest gift to American literature since—well, you could sure as Hell skip Hemingway. And Mark Twain. And Poe, what anyone saw in— No, well. Since Thoreau, his thinking at the time had declared. Actually his thinking hadn’t progressed all that much, Sol admitted sourly, leaning his forehead against a convenient metal upright and ignoring the shelf of Henry James just above the Kerouac’s slot.
... Would it be worthwhile dismantling all this shelving and taking it with him? The realtors said no-one was going to want to buy it off of him; he guessed that was true enough. How many average Florida apartment dwellers desired a wall of their living-room entirely lined with moveable metal shelving? Industrial shelving: it was the kind they had in the store and it was real good for... Well, a wallful of books. Yeah, quite. He could unscrew it all—ruin its paintwork: that pale fawn wasn’t bad. He’d have to pack the books, in any case...
Sol couldn’t decide. He stared at the Kerouac. Could throw this thing away, his tastes had changed a certain amount.
Only Sol wasn’t the sort who threw books away, he knew this perfectly well. He had every volume he’d ever owned. Right back to the epics of Epaminondas and Clancy the Steam-Shovel... And that crazy thing about a duck called Ping that Gramma Rosenberg had given him, gee he missed Gramma Rosenberg... Phoebe would think, and probably say, she sure was an outspoken gal, that that was sentimental nonsense, everyone had to die some time and Gramma had lived to a good old age. And how old was he, anyway?
Sol put the Jack Kerouac back very carefully into the exact slot it always occupied. Between another Jack Kerouac and Plain Tales From The Hills. Probably, he recognized with a little twist of the lips, Jim Fisher wouldn’t believe the presence of the Kiplings. He’d believe the Kerouacs, though. And… His eye wandered on. Them D.H. Lawrences, that was for sure. Yup. Sol had long outgrown Lawrence, too, but he didn’t think this would weigh with Jim for an instant.
That period was long over, too. Sol’s eye wandered on. Further down was a shelf of Alison Lurie, Phoebe had ’em, too. He’d never managed to work up the courage to say casually “Oh, I’ve read those.” Actually, he thought Phoebe and her crowd would probably say “I’ve read her.” Not “those”. Super-casual, like. Well, whichever, he’d never worked up the guts. Why not? Gee, don’t ask me, I’m only a simple Yankee boy...
The simple Yankee boy grimaced. “Say, you turning Phoebe into the Parent figure to your Child, Sol, boy?” he said aloud. “Boy, ain’t that gonna make for a great relationship, now!”
Grimacing again, he went over to the bourbon, he knew where that was blindfold, and lifted it. “Yeah, and once this is gone that’ll be It, too,” he said sourly to the bottle. “Belt-tightening time. And no more of you at those New Zealand prices, neither!”
Knowing perfectly well he could go over to Abe’s and drink as much of Abe’s bourbon as he cared to, the simple Yankee boy poured himself a tumblerful and prepared to get totally bombed. Why? Don’t ask him, he was just a simple Yankee boy...
Next chapter:
https://theamericanrefugeeanovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/mix-n-match.html
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