Corduroy Mansions

56. O, Venus

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

It sounded trite, almost a parody of an inhibited apology; but what does one say to somebody whom one has almost strangled, even if it is largely the fault of the victim for wearing too long a scarf and ignoring a cautionary tale? And the situation was made all the more difficult by the fact that Barbara did not know the name of the young man who was sitting in her now static car, gingerly touching his neck. She should have asked him at the beginning, she thought; introductions become more embarrassing the further one gets from the initial encounter.

‘And I don’t even know your name,’ she blurted out.

He managed a smile. ‘Hugh.’

She peered at his neck. ‘I’m Barbara. Barbara Ragg. And I’m really sorry about this. Especially after our conversation about Isadora Duncan. I should have . . .’

He began to shake his head, but the movement obviously caused him pain because he winced. ‘It was my fault. I should have taken my scarf off. You warned me.’

She reached out to touch the angry red patch of skin in a line round his neck. ‘That looks a bit nasty,’ she said. ‘I think we should get you to a doctor.’

‘No need. It’s just like one of those rope burns. It’s a bit sore but I don’t think that the skin is too bad. It’ll get better.’

Barbara looked doubtful. ‘It might be better just to have it checked. What if something’s crushed inside - inside your throat?’

Hugh smiled. ‘I wouldn’t be able to talk,’ he said. ‘And it feels fine inside - it really does.’

‘Well, at least let me put something on it,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something back at the flat that is really good for skin things. Zinc ointment. It really works. Would you like me to . . . ?’

He said that he would and they set off again, the scarf now tucked away behind the passenger seat. Barbara drove slowly; she was shocked by the experience and was imagining what would have happened if she had not braked so quickly, or had not reversed to loosen the scarf. She shuddered.

‘Where’s your place?’ Hugh asked.

She told him about her flat in Notting Hill and they discovered that he lived within walking distance. That was handy, she said, and he threw her a glance. She had spoken without thinking. Why was it handy? Did she seriously think that something was going to come of this chance encounter?

She wanted to ask him how old he was. She often found it difficult to judge men’s ages; women were easier because she was used to sizing them up as competition. Once one was past thirty, whether or not another woman was still in her twenties could be a matter of intense interest. They were the ones who were the real competition - the ones who could attract a man just by being the age they were, whereas after thirty . . . Well, it was just so unfair. One had to really work at it.

She decided to ask what had taken him to Rye. ‘I just wanted to get away somewhere,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of going on one of these cheap weekends in Amsterdam or Prague or wherever. All those drunken hen and stag parties. It makes me really ashamed to be British, just to see them.’

Barbara knew what he meant. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s not an edifying sight. I suppose there are no hen parties in Rye.’

‘None at all.’

There was a brief silence. Then she asked, ‘By yourself? Or did you go with somebody?’

He hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘By myself. Which was the point, really. I wanted to be by myself.’

‘Why?’

He looked at her in a way that suggested that it was a painful topic. ‘End of a relationship,’ he said.

She was thrilled, but said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘They end. That’s what relationships do: they end.’

‘Me too.’

‘What?’

‘I’m just out of one too.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Just over an hour ago.’

He let out a whistle. ‘That’s very recent.’

She smiled. ‘I suppose so. But it had been building up. I suddenly wanted to be . . .’ She paused. She had intended to say ‘to be free’ but it occurred to her that if she did, it would suggest that she did not want to meet somebody else. And that was not true. She wanted desperately to meet somebody else. And he would do; oh, he would do just fine.

He looked thoughtful. ‘I remember being told - years ago - by somebody or other that the best cure for a broken heart is another lover. Have you heard that?’

It was ridiculously trite - but she had heard it. And perhaps it was true, as trite remarks often can be. What goes round comes round - another trite saying if ever there was one, but nonetheless completely true. And if there was anybody who deserved to contemplate that particular aphorism, it was Oedipus Snark. There were many things that would be coming round to him, she thought - not without satisfaction.

‘You’re smiling.’

She nodded. ‘I was thinking of a saying that I think is probably true. “What goes round comes round.”’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Yes, I do. I’m thinking of the man I used to be involved with. He’s got it coming to him - he really has.’ She paused. ‘And you? Did she get rid of you or did you get rid of her?’

‘She got rid of me.’

Barbara marvelled at this. How could any woman let go of him - with his looks and his manner? How could she? ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. “I’m sure you didn’t deserve it.”

He laughed at this. ‘I don’t know about that. I suppose I have my irritating ways. And you never know - sometimes the chemistry just isn’t right, or it’s one-sided.’

‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘But when it’s right, you can tell, can’t you? You just know.’

He nodded. And then he looked at her sideways and their eyes met - just briefly, but they met.

Barbara said to herself: Oh, please, please, please! Please let nothing go wrong with this - this wildly improbable, impossible, but gorgeous thing. She was not sure to whom to address this invocation. To Venus, perhaps? If the goddess of love were listening, she would surely cherish such an invocation and understand the urgency, the yearning, that lay behind it.