Noonday

TWENTY-EIGHT

The moment she turned the corner into Gower Street, Elinor stopped, for there, on the steps of her new home, was a familiar shape: Paul. No more than a silhouette in the darkness, but she’d have known him anywhere. He was dressed to go on duty, his shabby uniform recalling the long, black, obviously secondhand coat he’d worn at the Slade, always managing to look supremely elegant — in sharp contrast to Kit, who’d looked like a sack of potatoes in his expensive Savile Row suits. Paul hadn’t even been aware of the contrast, which in Kit’s eyes had rather added to the offense. The prince in Act Two, she’d called Paul once, teasing. All these memories, bobbing to the surface, merely sharpened her sense of betrayal.

He had propped a large parcel, wrapped in brown paper, against the railings, and was carrying another, much smaller, package under his arm. “I brought these.”

The larger parcel had to be one of her lost paintings. She wanted to rip the paper off, find out which one, but she restrained herself. Confused now, for this obliged her to be grateful — he’d have gone to considerable trouble to get it and possibly some risk — she opened the door, and gestured to him to step inside.

She led the way upstairs. “A long haul, I’m afraid.”

“You’re on the top floor?” He waited until they’d finished their climb and she was opening the flat door. “Not very safe.”

“I go to the shelter. Besides, it’s cheap.” She nodded at the parcel. “Which one?”

“Me, I’m afraid.”

They looked at each other, and she turned away, unable to share the irony that, in other circumstances, would have had them both laughing. “Well, I look forward to that.” She pulled the blackout curtains across and lit a lamp. “Sit down.”

“There’s two.”

“Toby?”

“Yes. A bit damaged. Not too bad.”

She couldn’t bring herself to thank him.

“I think that’s it, I don’t think there’s a lot left. A couple of parcels, you know, big brown envelopes with strong, coarse string round them, but I couldn’t reach them. I’ll have another go tomorrow.”

It was imperative to thank him. “No, well, it’s lovely to have these. Thank you.”

The words stuck in her throat. An awkward silence fell. So far there’d been no mention of why they were here, in this strange room.

He cleared his throat. “So you decided you couldn’t stand the cottage after all?” The cough was a nervous tic; he was inching his way forward.

“I need a London base.”

Innocuous enough, on the surface, but “I need” was the language of separation and they both knew it. A few days ago this would have been a joint decision. He looked at the fireplace, at the empty grate. “I hear you’ve been commissioned.”

“Yes, I went to see Clark.”

“Congratulations.”

“Who told you?”

“Neville.”

“I don’t know how he knew.”

“He always knows; he’s eaten up with jealousy.”

He was inviting her to gang up against Kit, which at some points in the past she would have been very ready to do. But not anymore. “I saw you,” she said. “With that girl.”

“Ah.”

After waiting a few seconds, she let out an incredulous laugh, only just not a yelp. “Is that it?”

“I don’t see what else I can say.”

“You could — oh, I don’t know…Explain?”

“It just happened.”

“It just happened?”

He spread his hands.

“Oh, I see. The war, the nasty bombs — everybody jumping into bed with everybody else. So you thought you had to jump too?”

“I’m not saying I’m proud of it.”

“Hallelujah!”

Silence. His almost-unnaturally long, slim fingers were beating a tattoo on the arm of the chair.

“So what happens now?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, are you going to live together? Do you want a divorce?”

He looked startled. “No, of course not, it’s over. She’s gone.”

“Well, that’s convenient.”

“It didn’t…Well, frankly, it wasn’t all that important. Not to me.”

“And you think that makes it better?”

He clearly didn’t know what to say.

“Do you know, Paul, I’d actually rather you were breaking your heart over her. I wish you were in love with her; I wish you were suffering the torments of the damned, because then it would mean something. Better that than an itch in the groin you couldn’t resist scratching.”

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked, stitching the silence. The sound seemed to penetrate his brain, at last. “You bought a clock.”

“Yes.” She turned to look at it. “Which reminds me, I’m due on duty in a few minutes.”

“Do you have anywhere you can paint?”

“Through there.”

“North facing?”

She stood up. What did one say in these circumstances? It was hardly a normal parting: twelve hours from now one or other of them might be dead. She felt a tide of desolation sweep over her for the lostness of the one who would be left; never again to have the opportunity of saying what needed to be said. Well, here was the opportunity. Here. Now. And yet she couldn’t speak.

He stood up. “There’s no need to see me out.”

She shook her head. Going down the stairs, they didn’t speak at all. As she opened the front door onto the steps, she tried to think of something to say, but her mind had gone blank.

On the pavement he turned and looked at her. “Take care.”

She nodded. “And you.”

It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.