Such Visitors (4 page)

Some days later, by the gas fire in his muddled sitting-room, Gerald discovered his first impression of Lola had been quite wrong. There was nothing frail about her. No: she was an athletic girl with calves of lively muscle and wrist bones that were handsome in their size. While she ate her way through his last supplies of Dundee cake and shortbread, she told him something of her outdoor life: she had played tennis one year at Junior Wimbledon; she skied each winter, sailed every summer, rode at weekends, jogged round Hyde Park three
mornings a week before breakfast – hated her secret job at the Foreign Office. Gerald was momentarily alarmed by the thought of such outdoor energy: worlds that were far from his. But then she smiled, brushing crumbs from her chin with the back of her hand, and he felt relieved again.

‘I suppose you think just because of all that I'm very hearty, don't you?' she said. ‘I learned judo till I was fourteen and I could fling my older brother over my shoulder, easy as anything.' Her eyes sparkled over Gerald's weary body, hunched deep in his armchair. ‘As a matter of fact, I expect I could still…'

Gerald shifted. ‘I'm sure you could,' he said.

‘Shall I try?'

She was both mischievous and serious. Gerald was torn between not wanting to disappoint her, and wishing to preserve some dignity.

‘Is this quite the place?' he asked, glancing about the piles of books.

‘Oh, anywhere'll do, won't it?'

Lola was already up, enormous above him, smiling her enchanting smile as she pulled him to his feet. He sensed scaling up the side of her as if in a fast lift: flat stomach, mounds of bosom beneath wool, thin neck, pretty teeth. Just for a second his eyes were level with hers. Then, the crash. He was grovelling on his own Turkish carpet, the small square of ugly reds and blues that for years he had meant to change, and had never been forced to study so closely before. He heard the sound of falling books, felt pain in elbows and knees. Lola was laughing, helping him up again.

‘There … Honestly. I told you. You all right?'

‘Fine.' Gerald had cupped his face in one hand, was pulling at the blue skin beneath his eyes. ‘You're still very good,' he said.

‘Well, it's nice to know I can still do it. Self-defence is very important these days. Of course, you aren't that heavy.' Gerald returned to his chair to hide his affront. ‘And I was scarcely attacking you.'

‘No. But you might have been. Anyhow, you were very sporting.'

‘Thanks.'

Lola bent down and kissed him quickly on the temple. One bosom rubbed his nose. Her jersey smelt slightly of mixed herbs. He watched her, in her kneeling position on the ground again, pour more tea and finish the cake.

‘You should meet my friend Rose,' she said. ‘She's the real one for judo. Though you'd never guess her strength, just looking at her. She's half my size.'

By the time Lola left it was almost dark. She claimed she had to be somewhere far away by six, and must hurry. From his first-floor window Gerald watched her run down the front path. She left large foot-prints in the new snow – it must have fallen during the afternoon. Funny they hadn't noticed it. Rubbing his elbow, Gerald wondered where she was going. He turned back to the fallen piles of books. Attempting to restore some order, he tried not to think. The evening ahead seemed long and empty. The warmth of the room, always to be relied on, had gone with Lola. The thief, he thought. The impudent thief. He wouldn't let her go, next time.

There followed a week of absence. Lola was away on some secret mission. But she rang, as promised, on her return – within half an hour of her return, as a matter of fact, Gerald noticed. She asked him to supper next evening. Just a stew, she said, and Rose might drop in.

Gerald spent a day of happy anticipation, enjoying the patience that comes with knowing there are only a few hours to pass. He tried to get used to the strange sensation that in time he and Lola might become proper friends. He bought two expensive bottles of wine, one white, one red, and rather hoped Lola would be alone.

But Rose was already there, peeling potatoes, exuding an air of efficiency that Lola altogether lacked. She was small and curvaceous, with pale wavy hair that kept falling about her face, changing its shape from moment to moment. She had vast yellow-green eyes that slanted cat-like, and one dimple when she smiled. The warmth of her was so powerful that for a moment Gerald saw Lola as a cold and distant mountain. Then the mountain laughed in absolute delight at his extravagant wine, and his lonely week without her turned to dust.

Over dinner in the small, hard kitchen with its dreadful
strip lighting and vegetable-patterned curtains, Gerald learned that Rose and Lola were childhood friends. They had been brought up together in Dorset, gone to school together, shared a love of sport and (much laughter in recalling the incidents) even a boyfriend in their teens. They still met at least once a week and, Gerald supposed, confided to each other the intimate secrets of their hearts in that peculiar way that girls seem unable to resist. They spoke of their sporting life, of course, praising each other's qualities of stamina and speed.

‘Rose can run miles and
miles
without getting out of breath,' explained Lola. ‘She always won the cross-country at school. There was no one to touch her.'

‘Ah, but Lola's high jump,' declared Rose.
‘That
was something. She broke all records.'

Gerald enjoyed the evening. The girls, chattering on almost as if he was not there, made him relax and smile. Having drunk most of the excellent wine himself, and having been persuaded to eat far too much of the heavy stew, a delightful sleepiness came upon him. Lola and Rose, immersed in their memories, didn't seem to notice his drooping eyelids. He could watch them unobserved. With some incredulity he reflected how only ten days ago there was no woman in his life with whom he could have wanted to spend the evening. Now here he was enjoying himself with two new ones, relishing their quite different attractions, and their friendliness. It was not the night, however – as during the afternoon he had vaguely thought it might be – to lay a gentle hand on Lola. For some reason, he would not want Rose to know any such thoughts had crossed his mind. And were he not to leave before Lola, Rose would be bound to guess his intentions.

So he left early, mumbling about an early start next morning. The girls were dismayed, but understanding. They both kissed him warmly on the cheek.

In his chilly bed, two hours later, Gerald was still thinking about them: Rose's eyes, Lola's smile; Rose's waist, Lola's full bosom. Both had rippling laughs, soft voices. Forced to choose between them, though, Lola would be his. She had a rare quality of calm, for all her mischievous fun, that gave him strength. Besides that, she was a creature of extraordinary
sensitivity: in the laughing discussion they had had about judo she had given Gerald a look but made no mention of the event that proved her skills had not rusted. Gerald would always be grateful to her for that. Lola, Lola, Lola, he said to himself: it's a cold night without you.

Then he heard the ring of his front door bell. He hurried downstairs, puzzled. He was not a man on whom unannounced visitors eagerly called. Something must be wrong. Gerald felt the excitement of fear.

Rose, muffled in a fur coat, stood on his doorstep. She held out his grey wool scarf.

‘You left this behind … Sorry. Have I woken you? Thought I'd drop it in as I was passing.'

‘Good heavens. No. Yes. I mean, well – look, do come in. Afraid I'm in my pyjamas.'

‘Are you sure?' Rose was already in the hall, snowflakes on the fur glinting in the dim light.

“Course. We'll have some whisky.'

He put on his dressing-gown, she kept on her coat. They sat on the floor by the gas fire, listening to its quiet buzz, aware of the full moon through the window.

‘Sorry it's so cold,' said Gerald. ‘I keep meaning to put in central heating, but can't face all the palaver.'

‘That's all right.' Rose shivered and smiled. ‘That was the most heavenly evening, wasn't it? I can't think why, but I know I'll remember it as a particularly nice evening. Won't you?'

‘Yes,' said Gerald. ‘Think I probably will.'

‘Lola says you've only met twice.'

‘That's right.'

‘She's the best person, actually, I've ever met.'

‘Ah,' said Gerald. ‘I can see she seems a … good sort.'

Rose laughed. ‘What do you mean, a good sort? I've never heard anything so pompous.'

In the fraction of the second that her eyes were closed with laughter, Gerald flung himself awkwardly against her, pushing her flat on to the floor. He kissed her with all the hunger that had been pent within him, festering, for two years. She wriggled furrily beneath him, murmuring something about knowing the moment she saw him it would end like this.

‘But can't we go somewhere more comfortable?' she said. They spent the night in Gerald's bed.

Rose stayed three nights and three days. During that time she tidied Gerald's flat, changed the sheets and bath towels, brightened the place with Christmas roses and winter leaves. Gerald would come back in the evening and find her cooking casseroles that smelt of past holidays in the South of France, a butcher's apron belted tightly round her tiny waist. Each evening he found himself unable to wait for the pleasure of her until after dinner, and later at night he would fall deeply asleep in her arms.

On the fourth morning she announced she had better be getting back to her flat. Gerald, whose reasoning was never its liveliest at breakfast, struggled with himself. He reflected on the speed with which a man can turn from solitude to cohabitation, and with what ease the new state of living together can feel like an old habit. He thought of asking her to stay, to live with him for a while. But she had already packed the small case she had fetched from her flat. She was washing the breakfast things with an air of finality. An invitation to stay, at that moment, would have seemed presumptuous. So Gerald let her go, all smiles and thanks for the happy time, anticipating a welcome return to his solitary state.

But when he got back to the flat that evening, still smelling slightly of Rose's scent, the breakfast things where she had left them tidily on the table, aloneness seemed less desirable.

He lit the fire, whose hiss had become confoundedly nostalgic, and a small cigar. He poured himself a drink and tried to concentrate on his briefs for the complicated case next day. But there was no heart in his concentration, no appetite for the cold food Rose had thoughtfully left in the fridge. Damn the girl. He found himself humming a tune from a musical of twenty years ago. At the age he had seen it the words had held no meaning for him:
I was serenely independent/And content before we met
…

And he would be again, given a few days. It was not as if he had wanted her, or any woman, to insinuate herself into his well-structured life. In so many years of bachelordom he had
learned the art of subtle evasion and self-protection. Rose had merely stirred some superficial desire in him, vulnerable after two years' chastity.

All the same, by nine o'clock he decided to ring her and tell her to come back. Just to talk. As he moved to the telephone, hesistant in the knowledge of his weakness, it rang. Rose, then, was even weaker than he: Gerald was glad.

‘For Christ's sake, come back quickly,' he said, no time to think of more reticent words.

‘Come back? It's Lola, not Rose.'

‘Lola? I'm sorry. How nice.' He had almost forgotten her in the last few days.

‘Rose has had to go home to Yorkshire to nurse her mother who's dying of cancer.'

‘Oh. I'm sorry. I wonder she didn't tell me herself.'

‘She thought about it, but decided the news would be inappropriate during the last few days.'

Gerald silently marvelled at Rose's sensitivity.

‘It might have made a difference,' he agreed.

‘I mean, one doesn't want to burden new friends with serious problems, does one?' There was remarkable lightness in Lola's voice.

‘No, of course not. Look here … What are you doing? Why don't you come round for a drink?'

The invitation was a reflex action. Having heard himself make the fatal suggestion, Gerald suddenly relished the idea of instant, innocent infidelity. Lola could tell him more of Rose, of her dying mother. Lola, platonic Lola, Rose's friend … All parties would understand.

‘I just might,' said Lola with maddening cool. ‘I'll see how I feel.'

She arrived two hours later, took her customary position on the floor as if she had never been away. The room was full again. Gerald poured glasses of wine. Almost at once Lola broke the news.

‘Rose loves you,' she said. ‘Exceedingly.'

Gerald raised an eyebrow. He reflected with some wonder on the swiftness of communication between women friends. Lola was smiling, sympathetic.

‘Oh yes,' she was saying. ‘Rose hasn't been so bowled over
for years. Ever, perhaps. I had a feeling, didn't I, you two would get on together?'

‘I remember.' Gerald sat down, rather enjoying himself. He wouldn't have minded hearing more. He searched for some way to convey his own modest feelings about the whole matter.

‘Isn't she being a little … precipitate?' he asked. Perhaps he should have said rash, daft, or infatuated.

‘Good heavens, no. How unromantic you are. I mean, you just know some things immediately, don't you?'

Gerald, who was always unsure of his initial reactions, had not the heart to disagree. ‘Perhaps,' he said, feebly. ‘But she indicated nothing of this to me, though she was very kind.' He glanced round the room at the neat piles of books, the vases of flowers. ‘She kept you in touch with activities, did she?'

‘Oh, we tell each other everything. Always have. That's why I didn't ring, knowing she was here.'