Corduroy Mansions

73. Free at Last!

Still outside her flat, Barbara Ragg now put all thoughts of yetis and their amanuenses out of her mind. She had been thinking about Errol Greatorex and his manuscript and about the damage that would have been done had the story found its way into the press prematurely. It was Oedipus who had alerted The Times, she was sure of it; he would have done it out of spite or even for gain. In fact, the more she dwelled on it the more convinced she became that money was his motivation. Oedipus was greedy: in spite of all his political rhetoric about sharing, he meant sharing only after he had helped himself to his own, somewhat larger share. I am finally free of him, she thought; I am free. And freedom had been so easy - as it often is. The step is taken, the resolution made, and the shackles fall away.

In her case, all that was required was for her to assert herself, to tell him what she thought of him, and he was deprived of all his power over her, as a muttered prayer or spell breaks the hold of some ghastly demon. No need for garlic or a sword of ice; merely a few words and Oedipus was . . . She asked herself what Oedipus was. History. That was it: Oedipus was history. The cliché, so easily uttered, nonetheless seemed to fit so perfectly, even if describing somebody as history was a very unkind thing to do. Well, he was unkind to me, thought Barbara, and if I have to be unkind to him in order to free myself, then so be it.

But this was no time to be thinking of Oedipus Snark because within the flat, she reminded herself as the key slipped into the lock, was a young man sent from heaven. She could still hardly believe what had happened. Never would she have imagined that she, Barbara Ragg, would do something quite as precipitate as pick up a young man in a car park - ‘A handbag!’ - and then, piling Pelion upon Ossa, take him back to her flat and allow him to move in. This last development almost took her breath away. Perhaps it was true that we all had an impulsive twin lurking beneath the surface and this twin occasionally manifested himself - or herself, in this case - and did something utterly outrageous. Perhaps her twin had done all this.

And yet why shouldn’t two people decide that they were suited to one another and embark, perhaps rather quickly, on a relationship? There were many occasions in this life, she thought, when the impulsive decision proved to be exactly the right one. Too much hemming and hawing could result in the missing of an opportunity. It would be too late. Had Robert Graves not written about this? she asked herself. Yes, he had. She had read a poem of his, ‘Dream Bird’, in which he said that once one had the dream bird in one’s grasp one should close one’s fist about it and hold it tightly - one should never let it go. She had done no more than follow this advice - to grasp at something that had presented itself suddenly and without warning, a romance with a young man who seemed as smitten by her as she was by him. Why wait? Why let the dream bird fly away? Graves certainly said you should not.

She closed the front door behind her. The light in her hall was on and there were sounds coming from the direction of the kitchen. She noticed that the mail had been retrieved from downstairs and neatly stacked on the hall table, bills to one side and personal letters to the other. Junk mail - those desperate Technicolor exhortations to avail oneself of take-out restaurants or invitations to send away photographs for printing - had been put at the back, neatly rolled and secured by an elastic band, ready for disposal. And a vase of flowers, which had not been there that morning, had been placed on the low shelf above the table: a small arrangement of roses and delicate supporting fern. For a moment she stood still and stared at the roses. Oedipus had bought her flowers on how many occasions? None. Not once.

She smiled. Further sounds emanated from the kitchen: running water, the sound of a knife on a chopping board. She made her way across the hall and pushed open the kitchen door.

Hugh had his back to her, but heard her come in and spun round in surprise. ‘You said that you were going to be late.’

‘Well, actually it is quite late,’ she said. ‘I’m normally back shortly after six.’

He picked up a tea towel, wiped his hands and then looked at his watch. ‘Oh, it’s seven already.’

‘You’ve obviously been busy,’ said Barbara, looking around. ‘You lose track of time when you’ve got lots to do.’

He tossed the towel down on the kitchen table. Then he crossed the room and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She felt herself blushing.

‘I wanted to surprise you with a meal that was already prepared,’ he said. ‘There’s a bottle of Chablis in the fridge and I thought we’d sit down and have a glass before we eat.’

‘We can still do that.’

‘Yes, I suppose we can. It’s just that I’ve still got some stuff to do. I have to clean some mussels.’

‘Mussels!’

‘Yes. And then we’re having . . . Well, I want it to be a surprise.’

Barbara beamed with pleasure. When had Oedipus last surprised her? ‘You’re terrific,’ she said.

‘Not really. I just like cooking.’

She moved over to the sink and looked at the mussels. They were large and succulent-looking. ‘I love mussels,’ she said. ‘I love all seafood.’

‘I know a place where one can get the most wonderful seafood,’ Hugh said. ‘Absolutely fresh. Clams. Lobsters. Octopi.’

‘Octopodes,’ muttered Barbara.

She regretted it the moment she said it.

‘Octopodes?’

She had to explain. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be pedantic. Octopi as a plural form suggests a Latin origin. But the word octopus is Greek and the plural should not be the Latin -i form but octopodes. I didn’t mean . . .’

He had turned round and resumed his work at the sink. Oh, she thought, and then, again, oh. I’ve hurt his feelings. Already.

‘Why don’t you go and have a bath?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Then dinner will be ready when you are.’

She went into the bathroom. I must be so careful, she thought.

Then she saw the box of bath oils, tiny flasks in a row, placed beside the taps. He had somehow found out her favourite and had bought it: Jo Malone. And next to that, Clinique’s Sparkle Skin - another favourite. How did he know? How would any man know?