another man no longer lacerated him
with jealousy. After thirteen months, maybe he was beginning to grow out
of the obsession which had at first gripped
him so fiercely that he hadn’t been able
to control his feelings towards her. Falling in love – or lust – with a bitch wasn’t exactly conducive to
happiness. He’d already realized that, to his great cost. But as Loulou
had said when he’d last met her at Vampires,
nice people were so unutterably boring
the only way to last an evening in their company was to either get drunk
or fall asleep. And no-one had ever fallen asleep when they were talking to
Roz.
‘ It’s woman trouble, actually,’ she said now,
kicking off her high heels and swinging her legs up
on to the chaise. ‘Makes a change, I
suppose. And no, I’m not turning into a dyke,’ she added, displaying the
first flicker of humour since his arrival at the
cottage that evening. ‘You remember that letter I received from someone I was at school with? She wanted to
meet me for a drink.’
Nico nodded, returning to sit beside her and carefully not registering any surprise when Roz curled up
against him, kitten like and seeking
comfort. Her dark head nestled against his
shoulder and he placed his free arm around her, enjoying the unexpected, friendly intimacy and breathing in
the clean scent of her freshly washed hair.
‘You didn’t want to see her,’ he remembered, ‘and I couldn’t
understand why. Presumably you did, though.’
‘ We bumped into each
other quite by accident in Harrods and
she invited me to a dinner party. Loulou as well. I still didn’t really
want to go – I suppose you’d made me feel vaguely guilty.’
Roz, he reflected, was a man’s woman, instinctively
mistrusting her own sex because she expected them to behave as she herself did. It was odd, Nico felt, that in fact
the only female friend she did have was Loulou, who was so very
attractive and who by any standards could be regarded as a threat or a rival.
Women like Roz, in his experience, almost invariably had plain or unattractive
friends who could never hope to compete with them.
‘What was she like?’ He was beginning to enjoy playing the
role of amateur psychiatrist. ‘Gorgeous?’ Had she somehow managed to make Roz
feel inadequate, he wondered, amusement mingling with disbelief.
‘ God, no!’ she almost laughed aloud at the
idea. ‘Camilla’s turned into every teenager’s
nightmare of what it could be like to hit thirty. She looks like the
before pictures in those before and-after-I-lost-a-hundredweight adverts. She’s
got two children, no dress sense and she
looks so pathetically eager to please all the time – like an optimistic
rabbit – that I just want to throw something
heavy at her . . Roz’s voice trailed off as she remembered how Camilla
had thrown that enormous bowl of chrysanthemums
over Jack. She had been amazed at the time that Camilla had had the
imagination to pull off such a magnifi cent
stunt. Privately, she had been betting on a torrent of tears and a rapid
retreat to a locked room.
‘ So why is she woman-trouble?’ persisted Nico, offering
her his glass of Scotch and noticing as Roz
reached out to take it that several fingernails showed distinct signs of having
been bitten. That worried him more than anything else – Boadicea was more likely to bite her nails than ice-cool,
perfectly groomed Roz.
‘Because I’ve been . . . seeing,’ she chose her words
carefully, ‘her husband.’
The ormolu clock above the fireplace carried on ticking as
if nothing had happened and Nico stared at
it, willing himself to feel similarly unconcerned. He was an Italian,
but he had been trying for months to
overcome – or at least hide – his innate Italian jealousy. And it wasn’t
as if he hadn’t realized, he told himself carefully, that Roz was seeing other
men beside himself. It just wasn’t
particularly pleasing to be told about them, even if he had practically
dragged the truth
with jealousy. After thirteen months, maybe he was beginning to grow out
of the obsession which had at first gripped
him so fiercely that he hadn’t been able
to control his feelings towards her. Falling in love – or lust – with a bitch wasn’t exactly conducive to
happiness. He’d already realized that, to his great cost. But as Loulou
had said when he’d last met her at Vampires,
nice people were so unutterably boring
the only way to last an evening in their company was to either get drunk
or fall asleep. And no-one had ever fallen asleep when they were talking to
Roz.
‘ It’s woman trouble, actually,’ she said now,
kicking off her high heels and swinging her legs up
on to the chaise. ‘Makes a change, I
suppose. And no, I’m not turning into a dyke,’ she added, displaying the
first flicker of humour since his arrival at the
cottage that evening. ‘You remember that letter I received from someone I was at school with? She wanted to
meet me for a drink.’
Nico nodded, returning to sit beside her and carefully not registering any surprise when Roz curled up
against him, kitten like and seeking
comfort. Her dark head nestled against his
shoulder and he placed his free arm around her, enjoying the unexpected, friendly intimacy and breathing in
the clean scent of her freshly washed hair.
‘You didn’t want to see her,’ he remembered, ‘and I couldn’t
understand why. Presumably you did, though.’
‘ We bumped into each
other quite by accident in Harrods and
she invited me to a dinner party. Loulou as well. I still didn’t really
want to go – I suppose you’d made me feel vaguely guilty.’
Roz, he reflected, was a man’s woman, instinctively
mistrusting her own sex because she expected them to behave as she herself did. It was odd, Nico felt, that in fact
the only female friend she did have was Loulou, who was so very
attractive and who by any standards could be regarded as a threat or a rival.
Women like Roz, in his experience, almost invariably had plain or unattractive
friends who could never hope to compete with them.
‘What was she like?’ He was beginning to enjoy playing the
role of amateur psychiatrist. ‘Gorgeous?’ Had she somehow managed to make Roz
feel inadequate, he wondered, amusement mingling with disbelief.
‘ God, no!’ she almost laughed aloud at the
idea. ‘Camilla’s turned into every teenager’s
nightmare of what it could be like to hit thirty. She looks like the
before pictures in those before and-after-I-lost-a-hundredweight adverts. She’s
got two children, no dress sense and she
looks so pathetically eager to please all the time – like an optimistic
rabbit – that I just want to throw something
heavy at her . . Roz’s voice trailed off as she remembered how Camilla
had thrown that enormous bowl of chrysanthemums
over Jack. She had been amazed at the time that Camilla had had the
imagination to pull off such a magnifi cent
stunt. Privately, she had been betting on a torrent of tears and a rapid
retreat to a locked room.
‘ So why is she woman-trouble?’ persisted Nico, offering
her his glass of Scotch and noticing as Roz
reached out to take it that several fingernails showed distinct signs of having
been bitten. That worried him more than anything else – Boadicea was more likely to bite her nails than ice-cool,
perfectly groomed Roz.
‘Because I’ve been . . . seeing,’ she chose her words
carefully, ‘her husband.’
The ormolu clock above the fireplace carried on ticking as
if nothing had happened and Nico stared at
it, willing himself to feel similarly unconcerned. He was an Italian,
but he had been trying for months to
overcome – or at least hide – his innate Italian jealousy. And it wasn’t
as if he hadn’t realized, he told himself carefully, that Roz was seeing other
men beside himself. It just wasn’t
particularly pleasing to be told about them, even if he had practically
dragged the truth
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