Constance by Patrick McGrath

moment we arrived at our hotel she was sharply alert to the absurdities of English life. The fact that a grown man in a uniform addressed her as “madam”–as in, “Would madam care for some tea?”–this amused her. She said primly that madam would care more for some gin and tonic. When the man bowed, she bowed back. I was sitting nearby in the small comfortable lounge. She turned to me and I saw a schoolgirl who’d been mistaken for a lady and had no intention of correcting the error. From then on she conducted herself not as a lady but as an heiress from Texas seriously considering the purchase of anything her delighted eye fell upon. At those times she might seize me by the arm and gasp.
    —But Sidney darling, it’s too lovely, we must have it at once!
    She was peering at an oil painting black with smoke and age that hung over the fireplace in the dining room.
    —Honey, I don’t think it’s for sale.
    —Everything’s for sale. Daddy told me.
    The hotel staff humored her. They behaved with ludicrous formality solely to elicit more of what Constance considered her masterful imitation of a rich American girl. It was hard to say who took greater pleasure in the charade. It helped seal the deal. On our last night, in a restaurant in Piccadilly, after the theater–we’d seen a play by Harold Pinter, an unpleasant, immoral thing, Constance loved it–I made a proposal.
    —Do you know what’d be the smart thing for you to do? I said.
    She was fond of me that day. She cleared aside the silverware, placed her hands flat on the table, and rested her chin there, gazing up at me.
    —What’d be the smart thing for me to do?
    I reached over and took her hands in mine.
    —The smart thing for you would be to marry me.
    She pulled back at once and sat with her arms folded tight across her chest, staring at me, her eyes wide with shock. At times I forgot how young she was. She told me she barely knew me.
    —That’s not the case. You’ve just spent five days with me. I don’t slap you around, do I? I’m not a lush. I’m a fascinating thinker and I love you. What’s not to love back?
    She was utterly taken aback. She was deeply embarrassed. She couldn’t look at me. It was extraordinary. She’d have laughed if she hadn’t known I was serious. But no, she was bewildered. Her father had as good as assured her she’d die a desiccated virgin but apparently not. I didn’t tell her I’d brought her to London with this idea already in formation in my mind but I did tell her again that I loved her. But she couldn’t even discuss it then and only much later that night did she tell me that five days in a smart London hotel wasn’t enough, as a prelude to marriage, and that the idea terrified her, and anyway to make rapid intellectual strides was one thing but this was a direct threat to her autonomy, and anyway she didn’t like me. Then she repeated that she barely knew me.
    —You know me intimately.
    It was true. We’d achieved an impressive degree of intimacy in those few days. I believe I
awakened
her, or aroused her, at least, from a persisting distaste for any kind of sexual contact with a man. But she had such a tricky psyche, all turned in on itself like a convoluted seashell, like a
nautilus
, and at times I caught her
talking to herself
as though in response to what sheheard in that seashell. When I asked her who she was talking to she’d all at once startle and wouldn’t tell me.
    —But what’ll happen when we get back to New York?
    —Like what?
    —I don’t know! How can I know until I know you better? You’ll get bored with me. I’m not a real intellectual! I’m a cretin. You teach me stuff now, but there’s nothing I can teach you.
    —That’s not true.
    I sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. I gazed down at my cretin. She was more lovely at that moment than I ever remembered her, this pale and troubled child. She struggled up and wrapped her arms around her knees.
    —What do I teach