Such Visitors (6 page)

A long silence. Their eyes did not meet.

‘Was it snowing, up there?' Lola asked eventually.

‘Snowing? Well, there was snow on the ground. No, but it rained a lot. Why?'

Lola thought for a while. She decided, for the first time, that the whole truth would not benefit her friend. ‘He said he particularly liked going for bitter walks in the snow.'

‘He's a funny one, all right,' said Rose. ‘What are we going to do about him, Lo?'

Now Rose had come to the point, Lola stretched her long legs with relief. The gin was beginning to turn her blood warmly to quicksilver. It would be quite easy, now, as such old friends, to be practical. They could solve the problem very quickly.

‘It's quite clear we both love him,' she said, ‘and it's quite clear he loves both of us. All we've got to do is force his hand in making a choice. Procrastination is the destructive thing. Hell, the greatest friends on earth could hardly be expected to survive the misery he's causing us, waiting for his decision.'

‘To be fair, he's only known us a couple of months, hasn't he? Perhaps,' she smiled, incredulous, ‘I mean, it could be he doesn't want
either
of us.'

‘Nonsense,' scoffed Lola. Rose copied the brusque, practical tone of her friend's voice.

‘Well,
my
position is quite clear,' she said. ‘I want to marry him.'

‘Do you?
Marry
him? Marry him? – I suppose that's what I'd like too,' said Lola.

‘He's the only man on earth I could possibly contemplate marrying.'

‘Well, you're ahead,' said Lola. ‘He feels closer to you, easier with you.'

‘But you frighten him more, and that intrigues him. You're the mystery figure. I'm the warm open book.'

They both laughed.

‘Put a shotgun at his head and there's little doubt who he'd choose,' said Lola. ‘Oh God, why on earth did this have to happen? And, more interesting, what is it that we love him for? Sometimes, I just can't think.'

‘Nor I,' said Rose. ‘After all, he's balding, unfit, drinks too much, pompous, vague, and possibly deceitful.'

‘Too short,' added Lola. ‘Awful breath after Sunday lunch, hideous shoes, drives dangerously, boasts boringly about his lack of friends. There's absolutely nothing I can think of, on the face of it, to recommend him.'

‘Except that his sympathy is overwhelming, and he makes me laugh.'

‘And also,' said Lola, screwing up her face with the effort of choosing the right words, ‘he has this extraordinary, understated relish in perfectly ordinary things. In his presence you feel the urgency of every day, somehow: the pointlessness of wasting time. Do you know what I mean? We've never discussed any of this, of course. He'd be loath to do any such thing, I'm sure, and so would I.'

Rose nodded. ‘In a subtle way,' she added, ‘not by paying obvious compliments, he boosts the morale. Makes you feel
better
than you imagined you could about yourself.'

‘All of which,' said Lola, ‘cancels out the mild deficiencies.' They both smiled, and were silent for a while.

The telephone rang. Lola leaned back on the sofa, eyes shut, not moving. When eventually it stopped, she turned her head almost sleepily to Rose.

‘You deserve him,' she said. ‘I can just back out quietly. Not see him any more till you're married, or whatever.'

‘Nonsense,' said Rose. ‘He'd be far happier with you. Endlessly intrigued. Honestly.'

‘Rubbish,' said Lola. ‘I'd drive him mad.'

‘He'd be bored to tears by my constant enthusiasm. Smothered by my open love. He'd be – '

Getting up, Lola cut her short. ‘This is utterly ridiculous,
Rosie,' she said. ‘Why not let's resolve it immediately?' She looked at her watch. ‘He must be at home. Let's go round now. Make him come to some conclusion.'

‘Isn't that a bit unfair, giving him no warning?' Rose, for all her reluctance, stood up too.

‘It's less unfair than carrying on like this. It may all end in disaster, but at least you and I can go back to where we were. That's what I really mind about.'

‘Me too,' said Rose.

Giving themselves no time to change their minds, they left the flat very quickly.

Gerald spent a most disagreeable evening. The gas fire produced no heat in his bitter room, there was nothing but stale cheese in the fridge. He was depressed by the unmade bed, the dust, the mess, the general lack of care that had increased since Rose's departure. He rang her, feeling a decent amount of days had passed since her mother's funeral: a little housework would take her mind off things, and he would reward her with a delicious dinner in some expensive restaurant. When there was no reply from her flat a vague uneasiness disturbed him. Where was this girl? Just when he needed her most. He rang several times, became increasingly irritated by the lack of reply. Finally, angry, he ate cold baked beans with the cheese, and rang Lola. Her presence, suddenly, seemed even more desirable than Rose's. She wouldn't offer to clear up, but her funny smile, in her place by the fire, would restore tranquillity. Besides, it was high time they renewed their carnal acquaintance in a place more comfortable than a snowy Down. Lola must be there, and come quickly. Goddammit, he loved the girl. The fact was astoundingly clear. He must do something about it quickly, before he booked himself a passage to Rio.

But there was no reply from Lola, either. He was let down on all sides, deserted, forlorn. Implacable. With no heart to study his briefs for the court case next day, or to read a book or listen to music, Gerald poured himself a large whisky and burrowed into his chair by the hissing fire. In the bleak hours that followed, moon glaring through the windows, some semi-wakeful dream of a composite girl teased his mind. Wearily,
he followed her movements: watched the heaving of Lola's bosom, the twinkle in Rose's eye – found a hand in his he could not identify, smaller than Lola's but larger than Rose's. There was a singular flash of pure Lola as she was the first night he had seen her, tall and aloof, scorning the winter air that made the others shiver. This was followed by a view of Rose, too, alone, radiating in the sombre hall of her mother's house. Then the two figures merged again, confusing, taunting.

‘To hell with you both,' he shouted out loud, stirring himself, the words flat and blurred in the silence.

He reached for yet another drink but found the bottle empty. His hands were stiff and cold: he rubbed them hopelessly together, trying to summon the energy to go to the cupboard for a new bottle of whisky. Then, from the profundities of his desolate state, he heard the far-off ring of his front door bell. He let it ring several times, to make sure it was not a further trick of the imagination, then struggled to his feet. He experienced a moment of being grateful to his education and upbringing: when called upon, however low, a man can and must make an effort. He straightened his tie, adjusted the look of discontent he could feel dragging at his face, and with supreme effort cast self-pity aside. Whoever was calling at his door would see a calm and satisfied man, a man whose own resources were enough. Pleased with this sudden transformation of his person, the gallant Gerald made for the stairs, new confidence ensuring a firm and eager step.

Lola and Rose stood there, inevitable snow on their hair and shoulders. Something united about them, something determined. Gerald forced a smile.

‘Come in,' he said. ‘Come in, come in, come in.

They followed him up the stairs in silence, kept on their coats, took their places on the floor in front of the fire. Gerald poured three drinks, took his place in his own chair. Through the confusion in his head, he sensed their silence was a little ominous. Perhaps they had some important matter about which they wished him to adjudicate: he was their friendly lawyer, after all. But if this was the case, Gerald felt perversely unhelpful. He would do nothing to broach the subject of their difficulty. From a befuddled distance he would watch them
struggle, sipping his drink all the while. Might even enjoy himself. But they said nothing. Eventually, his natural instinct to assist overcoming less charitable feelings, Gerald muttered, ‘Well?'

Lola drew herself up then, her long neck a gleaming white stem in the dim light. Her nostrils flared as they did sometimes, Gerald had noticed, when she was worried. A line of boyhood poetry came back to him.
The camels sniff the evening air
… Shelley, was it?

‘We've got to get this all sorted out, Gerald,' she said.

Gerald heard his own sigh of relief. All his life people had required him to sort things out. In his childhood, the drone of bombers over High Wycombe, there had been the matter of his socks. These, in the opinion of his old nanny, needed sorting out most days of the week. Gerald obliged, of course, without demur, rather enjoying marshalling the balls of red, blue and grey wool into strict soldier lines in his drawer. And Nanny had always praised him. In his teens he had something of a reputation for sorting out fights between dogs – due to a combination of his quick draw on a soda syphon, and his authoritative voice. After his father died, having sorted out the muddled will, he turned to sorting out his mother's lovers, placating the rejects and warning the present incumbent his position was likely to be temporary. Little wonder, then, he eventually turned his skills to professional use. Only a decent humility kept him from reflecting upon the number of his grateful clients, whose complex problems he had successfully sorted out over the years.

Whatever Lola had in mind, then, would be a routine matter.

‘How can I help?' he asked, recognising the sympathetic tone he used in the office when meeting with a new client.

‘You can decide.' Lola's response was quick, fierce.

‘You can clear up the confusion once and for all,' followed Rose, ‘and put an end to this misery.' She, too, was unnaturally fierce.

‘Confusion?' asked Gerald, mystified.

‘Don't try to be silly, Gerald,' said Lola. ‘Don't try to pretend you don't know what we're on about.'

Gerald tipped back his head into the familiar, comforting dip of a velvet cushion. He shut his eyes. The old thought came to
him that there is a deviousness about the demands of women that confuses the straightest man. To deal seriously with them, superhuman patience and tact must be called upon. It was very late at night to summon such energies, but Rose and Lola were his friends. He would try. He would cast aside all the burning logic of his own mind and attempt not only to understand but also to feel the torments of theirs. That way, as he had come to learn in his practice, is the best short cut to sorting out.

He opened his eyes. ‘If you could tell me more,' he said, ‘perhaps I could –'

‘We both love you, idiot,' Rose interrupted. ‘And it's plain you love both of us. Which one of us do you want?'

Gerald looked from her face to Lola's. In both their beautiful eyes he saw the same, naked love glowering through a thin film of hostility. He shivered, repeated the question silently to himself. Funny how he had not confronted himself with the actual question before. Now, faced with it, his responsive mind, for all the whisky, was concentrated wonderfully. Which one did he want? If indeed he wanted either. And if he did, what would he want her
for?
Life? Marriage? A divorce wrangle in court in ten years' time? God forbid: it would be better to remain friends with both. Platonic, if need be. If that was what was depressing them, the sharing of carnality. Women friends, as he well knew, had their limitations when it came to sharing a man.

‘There doesn't seem to me much problem does there?' he said, his voice unconvincing. ‘Surely there's no need for any such severing choice? Surely we can carry on as we are, all good –'

His final feeble word was lost in their hoots of derision, their scornful laughs.

‘How can you
demean
yourself with such a suggestion?' shouted Lola.

‘Does it never occur to you,' shrieked Rose, ‘what you are doing? Lola and I have been friends for
years,
you know. For God's sake, you've made gestures to us both. You've turned to us both, relied on us both, indicated you love us both …
Which one do you want?'

They gave him a moment's silence in which to reflect and
reply. But when he made no response they started up again, interrupting each other, repeating themselves. The questions came so fast there was no hope of Gerald contributing a thought, had he had anything to say – which, for once in his life, when it came to sorting out a problem, he hadn't. He was aware of a great desire to laugh. The situation, from his point of view, was highly comic: two beautiful women screaming at him to choose one of them, fired by their presumption that he loved both of them. Well, he did in a way. But love for anyone is an irregular graph, and while he would not deny that at moments his feelings for both of them had whizzed up the chart into astonishing peaks, for the moment they had caught him at a real low – tired, hungry, depressed, a little drunk. The warm adrenalin of certainty, which he presumed should accompany any major decision a man takes concerning the binding of his life to one woman, was far from him. All he desired was that they should leave him in peace, now. He would think about the matter for the rest of the night, and write to them both in the morning. He could book a ticket … They were glaring at him, silent at last.

Gerald heard himself give a small, friendly laugh, and felt his dry lips crackle into a small matching smile.

‘Well,' he said at last. ‘Why don't you toss for me?' His suggestion charged the silence with explosive fury.

‘We're in no mood for jokes, Gerald,' said Lola.

‘No, we're not,' said Rose.

Gerald wished they could see their own faces, wizened and glowing with anger. God, they were beautiful, each one in her own way. He felt terrible desire for them both. Then, in the moment of fighting that desire, an inspiration came to him. There was no time to prepare its presentation. He would put it very simply, eyes shut to make it easier.