The Temporary

Fifteen

‘Can I talk to Gary?’ demanded an American voice.

It was mid-afternoon, a time of lassitude and meetings, and the office was half-empty.

‘He’s not here,’ snapped Francine, who found interruptions of languor even more irritating than those of occupation. ‘Call back later.’

Lorraine looked up from the neighbouring desk, her fingers petrified in the air above her keyboard. Francine felt her gaze loiter and then wander away.

‘I see,’ said the man sternly. ‘And what’s your name, little lady?’

‘Francine Snaith.’

Lorraine’s eyes were on her again, avid now with interest.

‘Well, Francine, do you always talk to your boss’s clients that way? Because if you do, I think he should know about it.’

‘Sorry,’ said Francine sourly.

‘You don’t sound too sorry,’ said the man. ‘What’s going on, Francine?’

‘I’m busy,’ Francine replied. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

‘Well, if you can find the time in your schedule, tell Gary that Harry Rosenthal wants to talk with him.’

‘Who was that?’ said Lorraine excitably when Francine put the phone down.

‘Harry Rosenthal,’ said Francine coolly. She could feel her legs shaking beneath her desk.

‘Mr Rosenthal?’

Lorraine raised her eyebrows in pencilled astonishment and turned reluctantly back to her work, looking as if she were about to burst with the import of what she had just witnessed. Francine could see her shaking her head as she typed. She got up and made herself some coffee without offering to make any for Lorraine. It was still only three o’clock, but Francine was already straining with an almost uncontainable desire to leave the office. Mr Lancing was out for the afternoon and wouldn’t come in until the next morning, but Lorraine was watching her now, glancing vigilantly up from her screen every few minutes with the mistrustful aspect of a security guard. It would be impossible for her to leave unnoticed, and she had already gone home twice in the middle of the afternoon during the past week under the cover of illness and didn’t dare try it again. There were only two hours to wait before she could walk away free. Surely she could make them pass? She forced herself back into her chair and cast about for something to do. A tape recorded by Mr Lancing earlier in the day lay on her desk, awaiting transcription. Francine considered the possibility of typing it up, and felt her frame go limp at the prospect of something so laborious. Now that her sense of duty had run dry, she required not industry but entertainment to propel her through the long minutes. It had proved impossible, since that shrouded moment in which she had ceased to be interested in Lancing & Louche, to tame herself again into the habits of work, and her belief that she needed a change permitted the impulses of disruption to rule her in their stead. How could she be expected to carry on, when everything about the place now bored her? She needed excitement, variety! People didn’t look up any more when she came into the office — even Mr Louche no longer loitered at her desk — and Francine knew that, once extinguished, the quality of novelty could not be revived. Occasionally, faint warnings of a danger up ahead reached her ears, and when she heard them unpleasant anxieties crept across her thoughts. The agency would be angry with her if she lost this job. What if she didn’t find anything else? What if, when she dug into her resources, she found their seams exhausted, the future used up, all her luck gone? The idea was enough to induce panic, and Francine would try to struggle back into her harness, but in doing so she was faced with a still more disagreeable fate: her belief that she always deserved something better than that which she possessed was her engine, and without it she would surely grind to a halt. The thought of what might happen if she did filled her head with such noise that the sound of other perils was lost. She put Mr Lancing’s tape into the machine and switched it on. He had placed his mouth too close to the microphone, and when she put on her headphones she could hear his breath grating against her ears. She fixed her eyes on the screen and began to type.

At twenty past five Francine switched off the tape and started gathering her things. Mr Lancing’s letter dangled unfinished on the screen, but considering the effort she had gone to in making the gesture at all she felt it couldn’t be expected of her then to put herself out by staying late. Lorraine sat stolidly at her desk, as if she had no intention of going home. When she saw Francine rise from her chair, she looked at her watch. The telephone rang just as Francine was putting on her coat and she stiffened with impatience.

‘Miss Snaith? There’s a Stephen Sparks waiting for you in reception.’

‘For me?’ said Francine, not understanding.

‘That’s what the gentleman says.’

Francine put the phone down, her heart pounding with pleasure and fear. What was he doing here? As she stood the moment grew around her, glowing with significance. In it, the flavour of excitement, untasted for so long, deliciously returned. She had known he would come! There had been something between them at the party — all this time he must have been trying to find a way of seeing her alone! If only she hadn’t started things with Ralph, who knew what might have happened? The brutal thought that Ralph himself might have sent Stephen to talk to her stamped a sudden, heavy foot on her blossoming hopes. Would he have dared? The idea was disagreeable, and she took immediate action against it by ejecting it from her thoughts.

‘Bye,’ said Lorraine, without looking up.

‘See you tomorrow,’ said Francine, picking up her bag and sweeping past her.

She saw him as soon as she came through the glass doors; or at least, his demeanour informed her that it must be him, for she barely recognized his appearance. He was sitting on one of the large leather sofas at the end of the foyer, reading a newspaper. In his casual clothes he looked leisurely and incongruous against the hushed, industrious marble of the hall, his rustling pages loud above the tapping of heels and the low purr of telephones. His concrete presence, after the night-time memory she had nurtured of him, surprised her with its unfamiliarity. He leaned back into the sofa, smiling at something he was reading. Far from threatening his confidence, his separateness made it monolithic, and Francine felt suddenly rather afraid of him. She crossed the hall and stood in front of him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said finally, when he didn’t look up. Now that she had said something she felt better, and she readied a smile for his attention.

‘Aha!’

He leaped from his seat and to her surprise kissed her cheek. His skin was soft and slightly perfumed, like a woman’s. For a moment she could feel more than see him and her nerves instantly burned with consciousness. The force of his physical proximity seemed to envelop her in its currents, like heat.

‘How did you find me?’ she said, drawing back. She tried to stop herself from staring at him — he was so good looking, like somebody from a magazine! — but there was something beleaguering in the mobility of his face, his flickering smile, the enthusiasm of his limbs pressing against his clothes, which made it hard to unstick her eyes.

‘Not difficult.’ He shook his head and made a tutting noise through his teeth. With a pang Francine wondered if he was laughing at her. ‘Ralph told me. Weeks ago, I’ll admit, but how could I forget Lancing & Louche? Louche!’ He cackled. ‘Anyway, I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop in. Time for a drink?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Francine with studied reluctance, resolved to play him at his own game. She looked at her watch. ‘Where shall we go?’

‘Leave that to me,’ said Stephen, taking her arm and leading her towards the large glass doors. ‘I know a place.’

Francine felt an almost suffocating admiration at her throat as she permitted herself to be led. She remembered then that Stephen had been like that at the party, at once pinching and caressing, and the memory reassured her. He was so forceful, so completely in control of things; he made her feel alive! Her tainted circumstances, momentarily forgotten, came back to her blacker than ever. Why couldn’t Ralph be like that? Why had she chosen him, when Stephen had been there too? He liked her, it was obvious that he did. If only she had waited! She vaguely remembered waiting, in the days after the party, for Stephen to call, her disappointment, her bewilderment, when he didn’t.

‘So how are you, Francine?’ he said as they walked, arms still linked, out into the street. He glanced at her. ‘As lovely as ever, I see.’

‘Oh, I’m all right,’ said Francine wistfully.

‘Good.’ He steered her down a narrow turning into a small alley. ‘That’s good. Here we are.’

They had arrived at a small bar which, as Francine hadn’t known it was there, appeared intriguing. Stephen held open the door and she walked in ahead of him and down a flight of wooden steps, into a large cellar with barrels against the walls and tables with candles. Despite the early hour it was already crowded and echoing with laughter and conversation.

‘This is nice,’ said Francine.

‘Stick with me, honey,’ he said in a comic voice. ‘I know this town — I’ve been thrown out of most of it.’ He laughed, as if he were joking. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll get us something to drink.’

He wandered towards the bar while she sat down at an empty table. She watched him as he ordered, saying something to the barman which made him smile. He was wearing a suede jacket which looked expensive. Moments later he came to the table with a bottle and two glasses.

‘Thought you’d prefer white,’ he said, setting the bottle down on the table.

‘I do,’ said Francine, thinking triumphantly of the bitter ink Ralph had made her drink. Stephen inspected her with amused, brazen eyes, and as she felt his examination she realized that she hadn’t assessed her appearance in front of a mirror before she’d left the office. She looked back at him boldly to deflect him. Meeting his gaze, its unexpected penetration almost caused her physically to lurch, as if he had suddenly pressed himself against her. The warm tentacles of his proximity curled about her skin. For the first time in her life, she felt as if it didn’t matter what she looked like. His mouth, which moved constantly in a perpetual curve, seemed instead to be tasting her, feeding from her face.

‘So who are Lancing and Louche?’ he said, filling her glass. ‘They live up to their names, I hope.’

‘They’re my bosses,’ said Francine, sipping delicately. ‘They’re really boring.’

‘No skirmishes behind the filing cabinets, then?’

Francine giggled. ‘Not really.’

‘I bet you’re a bit of distraction, though, aren’t you? Running around the office in your — your very short skirt, if I may say. I see major deals falling through as you bring them their coffee, Francine.’

Francine giggled again. She felt her skin begin to blush beneath his words, as if they were hands. The sensation surprised her with its unpleasantness, and she tried once more to bathe in his attention. It was just as she had hoped it would be! Looking at his careless face seconds later, she felt a more distinct twinge of discomfort. She hadn’t felt that way at all when she’d first met him, had felt a glow, in fact, which had lasted for days afterward, and it dimly struck her that something had happened to her. A ridiculous ache for Ralph grew tight across her chest, and she picked up her glass and emptied it with one bitter swallow.

‘Steady on,’ laughed Stephen. ‘I won’t be able to carry a big girl like you all the way home.’

‘I can look after myself,’ said Francine, irked by his physical assessment of her

‘I’m sure you can.’

A brittle edge to his voice sundered their atmosphere and stranded them in silence. Stephen looked about him, suddenly indifferent to her presence, and when an attractive girl walked by Francine was astounded to see his eyes follow her quite openly, as if attached by invisible threads to her flanks. His gaze came back to her and his face assumed an expression of amusement, as if he could see what she was thinking. In that moment she suddenly hated him, hated him almost as much as she hated Ralph. Their connection with each other made a circuit for her anger and it flowed effectively between them in her thoughts.

‘How do you know Ralph?’ she said sharply, desperate to regain his attention but unable to think of anything else to talk about. The wine was beginning to creep numbly through her veins.

‘What? Oh, Ralph. We were at school together.’

Francine knew that already, but Stephen didn’t seem to think it odd that she should say she didn’t.

‘What was he like?’

‘At school?’ Stephen barked with laughter. ‘He was a prat, if you really want to know. A right little goody two-shoes.’

She felt a vague plummeting of disappointment, but the thought that Stephen might say more bad things about Ralph — things she could repeat to him later if the necessity arose — encouraged her back to interrogation.

‘Why were you friends with him, then?’

‘Well, I wasn’t, not to begin with. But then we had a sort of — arranged marriage.’

‘What do you mean?’ She wondered why Stephen could never say anything in a normal way.

‘Oh God, it was so long ago now.’ He waited, as if he had changed his mind, but when she didn’t speak either he continued. ‘Well, I got into a spot of trouble, as it were, and as a punishment they made me look after Ralph.’ He laughed. ‘Not much of a compliment to him, I suppose.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘You’re a nosy little thing, aren’t you? Well, it was just a bit of, um, high spirits. Public school, you know, hothouses of impropriety. Actually, it wasn’t really my fault. We all got caught by one of the masters, but they pinned the whole thing on me.’

‘Caught doing what?’

‘Don’t ask.’ He laughed delightedly.

‘I want to know,’ said Francine irritably.

‘Well, we were — how can I put it?’ He laughed again. ‘We were engaged in an initiation ritual, I suppose. It happened to most of the new boys, sort of to break them in. It was all pretty harmless, just sticking their heads in the bog or something.’

‘Oh.’

‘Except it all got a bit silly and the poor chap ended up strung up by his ankles with his face in the pan. No wonder he’s such a miserable bastard. Scarred him for life, probably.’

‘It was Ralph!’ said Francine triumphantly.

‘Clever girl.’ Stephen refilled their glasses. ‘So there you have it. That’s how we got lumbered with each other. Quite touching.’

‘Didn’t he have any other friends, then?’

‘Not really. Scholarship boy. His parents didn’t pay for him to go to the school,’ he explained when he saw that Francine didn’t understand. ‘And all of us nascent little snobs looked down our noses at him because he emanated from a council house. He was having rather a rough time of it. Shameful, really.’

As the words reached her ears with a muffled thud, Francine understood that she was witnessing the sudden, utter reversal of everything she had thought to be true. She sat in silence, her thoughts erased.

‘His father came to the school once to see him. Looked like a bloody tramp.’ He shook his head. ‘Then he died. They found him in some god-awful hotel room up in the north, rotting away. Horrible. I never met the mother, she was gone a long time ago. Cancer, apparently.’ He drank swiftly from his glass. ‘Poor chap’s a bit of a sad case.’

As quickly as she could accommodate each blow, another rained down on her, and as the images grew in her head she felt their contamination. She imagined his house, drawing vaguely on the topography of her old town to depict a bleak box wreathed in grubby washing, and then thought of Ralph’s father, a filthy tramp, lying in a hotel room. She had been cheated! How could he have lied to her, with his books and his educated voice and his pathetic exhibitions! How dared he make her feel inferior, as if there were something wrong with her, when he was just a common kid from a council house, the sort of person she had been taught never even to associate with! ‘Might as well get another,’ said Stephen, cheerful again suddenly as he emptied the last of the bottle into her glass.

And she had actually thought that he was posh, like Stephen — Stephen’s father was a lord, Ralph had told her — but he was just a pathetic nobody, a — what had Stephen called him? — a ‘sad case’ for whom people like Stephen felt sorry.

‘Yes, let’s,’ she said. She waited while he went to the bar, her mind churning up new outrages with every passing second. ‘So how did he get into university, then?’ she asked when he got back.

‘Ralph? Because he’s clever, of course. You don’t get into university for being rich, you idiot.’

‘I was only asking,’ said Francine bitterly. An urge to keep his alliance sweetened her tone. ‘I was just interested, that’s all. He never told me any of the things you just told me.’

‘Oh, he didn’t, did he?’ Stephen’s smile broadened. ‘Well, perhaps he doesn’t like to talk about it. It’s not all that surprising, is it?’

‘No,’ said Francine. Seeing that Stephen was defending Ralph, she dropped her eyes, drawing his attention to her own victimized feelings. ‘It’s just that I feel as if he’s lied to me.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, he pretended that he was — you know—’ Francine writhed her hands in distress and saw a look of comprehension dawn across Stephen’s face.

‘Thought you’d landed something out of the top drawer, eh?’ He laughed loudly, throwing back his head. ‘You little bitch! If the old dingbat had known that would make you jump ship, he’d have told you himself!’ He laughed again, wiping hilarious tears from his eyes.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Francine furiously.

‘Oh, calm down, Francine,’ said Stephen. ‘You’re a nice girl. Just go easy on Ralph. He deserves better.’

‘What, like you?’ she spat.

‘Oh, I’m no bargain, I know. God knows why he puts up with me.’ He sat back in his chair, crossing his legs, and then all at once impaled her with hard, frightening eyes. ‘I should have had you myself, saved him the trouble.’

‘So why didn’t you?’ she threw back.

‘Couldn’t be bothered.’ He shrugged. ‘For Christ’s sake, what does it matter?’

‘It’s what I wanted anyway.’

‘Did you now?’ He laughed.

‘I still want it.’ Francine felt wild with drink and daring. She thought of Ralph, of the loathsome thing that was inside her. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’re scared!’

‘There is the small matter of Ralph.’

‘I don’t care about Ralph,’ smiled Francine. Exhilaration sharpened her, and she felt keenly, deliciously herself. ‘Anyway, he doesn’t need to know.’

‘You’re not such a nice girl, are you?’ Stephen sat back in his seat, amused, and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Francine, can’t do it, not again. I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. Although I have to say, we’re made for each other.’

‘Why not? Just tell me why not?’

‘Ralph would kill me.’

‘I told you, he won’t find out.’

‘Of course he will. You’ll tell him. You won’t be able to resist it. I’ve been here before, believe me.’ She looked at him, not understanding, and he laughed. ‘So he didn’t tell you that, either? My, he has been discreet.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Oh, just a little past naughtiness. It was a long time ago.’

He fiddled shamefacedly with a beer mat, and Francine suddenly saw it.

‘With his girlfriend?’ she said deliriously. ‘With — what was she called — with Belinda?’

‘Clever girl’ He smiled. ‘I fucked the love of Ralph’s life and he still goes to the pub with me. That’s friendship for you.’

‘Does he know?’ said Francine, victorious with information.

‘I told you, of course he does. First sign of a quarrel and out it came, whack over the head. And that was the end of that.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Ah, lovely,’ said Stephen wistfully. ‘But she was a bitch to Ralph. And so are you.’

‘Ralph and I are finished,’ said Francine. ‘I finished it last night.’

‘So you’ve finally freed the poor creature from your clutches?’ Stephen laughed. ‘About time too. Was he pleased?’

‘So there’s nothing to stop us.’

Through a fog of drunkenness she heard the shrill music of her voice. Stephen drew back slightly at the sound. She tried to soften herself, smiling and leaning towards him.

‘Look,’ he sighed, picking up his glass. ‘You’re a beautiful girl, Francine, but at the moment I need you like I need — look, I don’t want to get involved, OK? It’s too late for all that. So just drop it.’ He looked at the wine bottle. ‘This is empty. We might as well go.’

He stood up and began putting on his jacket. When Francine got to her feet the room whirled, listing like a flailing ship. Her thoughts spun with it, indecipherable, but through them she felt something hard and compelling, a wire drawn tight along which she appeared to be strung. Stephen draped her coat around her shoulders and she gripped his hand as he led her through the crowded tables and up the stairs.

‘I’ll find you a cab,’ he said when they were outside. ‘Come on.’

The night had grown black and the air was piercing, agonizing. As they set off towards the busy street Francine felt the drag of failure, and the penetrating cold shrank in seconds the heady dilation of the recent hours. She felt packed again with all the lumpy, ugly furniture of anxiety which had come in the past few weeks to clutter spaces which had once been bright and empty, and trapped amongst it a searing, hopeless consciousness of the fact that things were going wrong visited her. In that moment, as Stephen walked ahead, a violent flame of resistance coursed through her and consumed it all. She would not let this happen to her! Why, when every glance in the mirror told her, when every look and gesture confirmed it, when she knew — had been told time and time again! — that she could have anything she wanted, why then was nothing as she wanted it to be? How had she come to these doomed and darkened passages, so far from the world she knew; what had happened to her magic, the arts she had practised for as long as she could remember, the spells which she had known would one day conjure success? A wave of drunkenness washed over her, and she stood still as the alley blurred in her eyes. Everything seemed all at once rather muddled. A jumble of images churned and then settled thickly on her surface. For a moment all of her was gathered and a forgotten doubt began to revive and struggle in her, beating its wings. She was sick, sick of herself.

‘Come on, Francine,’ said Stephen, waiting for her up ahead. He turned and walked back towards her. ‘You’re a bit tanked up, did you know that? Decidedly squiffy, as my dear old mother would say.’

Francine watched his mouth moving. Who was he, standing there making fun of her, talking about his mother, when he should be begging to touch her? They all wanted her — they all said it, that she was the most beautiful, the most desirable, that they would do anything for her. She hated them all, all of them! And most of all she hated Ralph, who had ruined everything and made it disgusting! Stephen was close to her now. She felt a pressure across her shoulders and realized that his arm was around her.

‘Come on,’ she whispered, turning and pressing herself against him. She felt him recoil slightly and she pressed harder.

‘Jesus,’ he said, laughing and putting his arms around her. ‘What are you doing?’

Her face was almost level with his and she lunged forward, trying to insinuate her tongue into his mouth.

‘Christ, Francine!’

He twisted his head to avoid her as a group of people came loudly out of the bar and along the street. One or two of the women giggled as they passed and a man shouted something.

‘Who cares?’ said Francine. ‘Ignore them.’

‘You’re drunk,’ said Stephen. His tone was milder now, and he ran a hand up and down her back. ‘Come on, stop it.’

‘Take me!’ she shouted. Her voice echoed along the empty alley.

‘What?’

Stephen began to laugh, but she planted herself against his open mouth and suddenly he started to kiss her violently, grabbing her hair with his fist and pulling back her head. He tugged her blouse free of her skirt with his other hand and she had a dull consciousness of pain as his teeth bit into her lips.

‘Is this what you want?’ he said viciously in her ear, turning her and forcing her against a wall. Her head banged on the cold brick. She struggled against him with surprise but his body was a cage, pinning her where she stood.

‘Stop it!’ she said, writhing against his grip as terror penetrated her drunkenness. His breath gusted warmly in her face. ‘Get off!’

As quickly as it had started the tumult stopped. The pressure of his weight fell from her, and seconds later, feeling the cold gather at her clothes, she realized he had gone. The sound of fading footsteps drifted to her ears and she turned her head to watch his dark back grow smaller as he disappeared. As if feeling her eyes, he raised his arm in a salute without turning around.

‘Bye, Francine!’ he called.

The sound of his laughter bounded back down the alley towards her and vanished. She heard the silence of the small street in the darkness, and beyond it the sound of cars passing, going somewhere far away. The wall at her back was cold and continuous. She tucked her blouse back into her skirt, drew her coat around her, and began to walk as elegantly as she was able towards the road.