were usually out of London, staying with one or other set of parents, or, in season, shooting on one of the estates of Felicity’s many uncles. There was no possibility that he could get out of these arrangements: he was making an advantageous marriage, and he had to think of the consequences. And yet I knew that at some point he would contrive to have an affair with Sarah, of which he would say nothing. It would be one of those brief affairs of which hehad the secret, and she would amuse herself with him, until she decided to turn her attention to somebody else. And then, if he were lucky, and if she had left him intact, he would do the same.
My own domestic economy was simplicity itself compared with Brian’s. I had only my mother, at this moment no doubt making her way to Selfridges with Jenny, and my own empty flat. I was therefore in a position to give all my attention to Sarah, which is what I did. I do not blame myself for this, nor do I blame Sarah for her part in the affair. She was not completely indifferent to me, nor was she completely untrustworthy. Perhaps what I saw from the outset was simply incompatibility. I tell myself that there have been worse cases. And yet, although my own case was so unremarkable, I very nearly did not survive it.
5
I never read love stories. If I read modern fiction at all I tend to go for thrillers of the most traditional kind, perhaps because they satisfy my sense of justice. Angela, my wife, read a lot, but in the same selective fashion, preferring up-market sagas of village life in which every mild imbroglio is satisfactorily sorted out. These novels, I suppose, flattered her somewhat exaggerated sense of her own gentility. Like Lady Stavely, in
Orley Farm
, my mother’s favourite novel, ‘She liked to see nice-dressed and nice-mannered people about her, preferring those whose fathers and mothers were nice before them.’ On these grounds alone my mother and I qualified, though I flatter myself that Angela never knew how distant I was in my mind and feelings from that niceness she so treasured. Poor girl, she was moderate in all things,except one. In that way she ensured that she would never be forgotten.
Had I read literature, steeped myself in fantasy instead of the law, I should have been better prepared for the condition in which I found myself after Sarah’s visit to the office. I should have known that being in love means knowing no respite. I should have viewed my daily telephone calls to Paddington Street with resignation, or even with indulgence. They were never answered, except at one remove. ‘Hi, this is Sarah and I’m not here right now. Leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you.’ Strange how many people affect an American accent and locution on these machines. Soon I took to strolling up to Paddington Street after work; it was not far from the office after all. I was extremely lonely at this time, yet found it impossible to contact any of my friends. If they were trying to contact me I was unaware of the fact, since I was out of the flat most of the time. My evenings had come to take on a strange pattern. After a hasty meal I would walk up Baker Street to Paddington Street, to see if there were a light in any of the windows. Since I did not at that stage know which of the flats was Sarah’s this was a particularly pointless exercise. Yet I came to rely on that furtive evening walk as part of the day’s activities. If it did nothing else it prepared me for sleep.
The invitation to the house-warming had not materialised, and my fruitless telephone calls did nothing to elucidate the matter. I could of course simply turn up at her door in the course of one of my evening patrols, but I shrank from so obvious a solution to the problem. Three years at Oxford and nearly four in Paris should have alerted me to the notion of courtly love, but I rather think that even if I had been acquainted with it, had grown up believing in minstrels and
My own domestic economy was simplicity itself compared with Brian’s. I had only my mother, at this moment no doubt making her way to Selfridges with Jenny, and my own empty flat. I was therefore in a position to give all my attention to Sarah, which is what I did. I do not blame myself for this, nor do I blame Sarah for her part in the affair. She was not completely indifferent to me, nor was she completely untrustworthy. Perhaps what I saw from the outset was simply incompatibility. I tell myself that there have been worse cases. And yet, although my own case was so unremarkable, I very nearly did not survive it.
5
I never read love stories. If I read modern fiction at all I tend to go for thrillers of the most traditional kind, perhaps because they satisfy my sense of justice. Angela, my wife, read a lot, but in the same selective fashion, preferring up-market sagas of village life in which every mild imbroglio is satisfactorily sorted out. These novels, I suppose, flattered her somewhat exaggerated sense of her own gentility. Like Lady Stavely, in
Orley Farm
, my mother’s favourite novel, ‘She liked to see nice-dressed and nice-mannered people about her, preferring those whose fathers and mothers were nice before them.’ On these grounds alone my mother and I qualified, though I flatter myself that Angela never knew how distant I was in my mind and feelings from that niceness she so treasured. Poor girl, she was moderate in all things,except one. In that way she ensured that she would never be forgotten.
Had I read literature, steeped myself in fantasy instead of the law, I should have been better prepared for the condition in which I found myself after Sarah’s visit to the office. I should have known that being in love means knowing no respite. I should have viewed my daily telephone calls to Paddington Street with resignation, or even with indulgence. They were never answered, except at one remove. ‘Hi, this is Sarah and I’m not here right now. Leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you.’ Strange how many people affect an American accent and locution on these machines. Soon I took to strolling up to Paddington Street after work; it was not far from the office after all. I was extremely lonely at this time, yet found it impossible to contact any of my friends. If they were trying to contact me I was unaware of the fact, since I was out of the flat most of the time. My evenings had come to take on a strange pattern. After a hasty meal I would walk up Baker Street to Paddington Street, to see if there were a light in any of the windows. Since I did not at that stage know which of the flats was Sarah’s this was a particularly pointless exercise. Yet I came to rely on that furtive evening walk as part of the day’s activities. If it did nothing else it prepared me for sleep.
The invitation to the house-warming had not materialised, and my fruitless telephone calls did nothing to elucidate the matter. I could of course simply turn up at her door in the course of one of my evening patrols, but I shrank from so obvious a solution to the problem. Three years at Oxford and nearly four in Paris should have alerted me to the notion of courtly love, but I rather think that even if I had been acquainted with it, had grown up believing in minstrels and
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