Daniel Martin by John Fowles Page B

once put it. And outraged me, I was so sure my living with him proved I was a democrat, that I saw through all the ballyhoo, I might be an embryo star but my feet were on the ground. It was also a fear, almost a little girl’s fear that I should one day wake up and all this would burst like a bubble, so better not risk too much. But the other thing was paramount. I always felt safer when there was something in lovers I could despise. I couldn’t even call it political, a justifiable Women’s Lib attitude. It went much deeper, to a nasty little self-centred terror of being challenged and disturbed. Reduced to equality.
    I’d thought often about all this since I came to California. It may shock Dan, but it did play quite a part. He wasn’t very famous, or someone I admired deeply as a writer. Just quite famous and quite respected which meant I could still despise him a little and still feel he was a long step up from nonentity. He was perhaps going down and I was perhaps coming up, but for now the balance of success and experience and professional respect and everything else was heavily on his side. Except physically, I’d be doing him no favours.
    This all sounds so vilely calculated. I kept changing my mind about him (or it) through the rest of that day at work. And there were honestly all kinds of simpler things. Wanting to know him better, thinking how it would put the Prick’s nose out, feeling excited, both emotionally and sexually. I suppose I saw Dan as a sort of challenge. I remember having had a shower and staring at myself naked in the mirror, before he came. Feeling strange. Just not knowing. I’ve always known before.
    Then wanting, much later that evening, after eleven, him to make a move. He’d been pumping me, much better than my attempt at it during our Russian evening. I suppose the Cats are right, you do need regular confession. Like menstruation. He’d coaxed out of me what I really felt about the film, about Bill, about the Prick (we agreed for that name for Steve that evening). Everything. My never being quite sure what Bill wanted or what dotty new improvisations the P. would suddenly introduce into a scene, and why Bill let him get away with it so often. Dan was nice: the rushes I’m not allowed to see, I was doing fine. Even the ever-pessimistic Gold was impressed. But what I liked best was knowing Dan himself had passed me.
    Then the talk finally wearing thin, as if I was hinting that he should go, but it was only because I didn’t know how to say that he didn’t have to.
    A fantastic silence. It seemed to last for ever. He was lying on the couch, feet up, staring at the ceiling. I was sitting on the rug beside the log-place, hearth is too nice and old a word for it, back to the wall, staring at my toes. I was wearing a shirt, no bra, a long skirt. No makeup. He’d come in a blazer, foulard, studious informal like a smart Angeleno. Only he’d taken the blazer off. A blue flowered shirt.
    He said, If this was a script, I’d have the man get up and go. Or the girl get up and come. We’re wasting footage.
    He turned his head on the couch and looked across at me. I didn’t like that corny way he’d put it. He wasn’t smiling and I didn’t smile back. After a moment I stared down at my feet again. He got up, picked his blazer off a chair and just exited. Without a word. Not even a goodnight or a thank you for the meal. The door closed and I was left sitting there. Perverse: he’d have to do better than that and I still didn’t want him to go.
    But he went. I heard the outside door open and then it was slammed shut. Silence. I ran to… I don’t know, at least say something. And he was there, leaning by the front door, inside, staring down at the ground. The old trick.
    I turned back into the room and he came after me, switching off the lights. I remember he put his arms round my back and kissed the back of my head.
    I said, Dan, I’m not on the pill at the moment. That’s all.
    No