us?”
She should have refuted that, but she feared the storm that would ensue. She had left him, hadn’t she? That great step had been taken, she need not learn to fight him. She told him she was in a hurry and must go.
“All right. I know that tone of voice. There’s no getting a word out of you when you’ve decided to sulk. You’ll soon get over that. I’ll be over very soon.”
As if she had invited him …
“No,” she managed to say. “Please, no.” The effort of refusing always made her tired, as if she really was the delicate creature she looked.
“I’ll drop in one evening,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’ll take you out somewhere.”
Mary went back into the kitchen and poured herself a second cup of coffee. It was going to be harder getting away from him than she had thought. The strength of will she hoped she was learning would be needed, but what of the strength that women can never acquire? She would never come near to matching him physically. Like stigmata appearing at certain triggers, her face suddenly stung from the blow on the cheek he had given her when he saw those puncture marks. She looked in the mirror and saw the flush that bloomedthere, brighter on the right side than the left. Alistair was left-handed.
They had been making love. He drew away from her and, extending his right hand, touched those marks with the tips of his fingers.
“What’s that?” he said. The tone told her he knew. “Scorpion bit you? Poison ivy? Barbed wire?”
There is something terrible about the mood of lovemaking, so tender, languorous, exciting in that uniquely warm and breathless way, being broken by a harsh voice, sarcasm, barely suppressed rage. Nothing comes so quickly as sexual desire and nothing ebbs so fast as sexual willingness. It was like feeling cold water poured over her body.
She turned her face away. “The bone-marrow harvest,” she said. “I told you I meant to do it.”
“You deceived me,” he said and, taking hold of her face in an iron grip with fingers that dug, struck her cheek with the flat of his hand, the hardest blow she had ever received. Until then, the
only
blow.
It was not quite a beating up he gave her. You could hardly call a slap on the face, a shaking, another slap, a pulling upright, and a throwing to the ground, beating someone up. She had crawled away and shut herself in the bathroom. Her cheek was bruised the next day and she had bruised her leg when she fell.
He apologized to her, he crawled, he didn’t know what had come over him, only that it never would again. Predictably, he showed the other aspect of the bully’s character. It was this wretched temperament of his, he excused himself, his love of physical perfection, his worship of the ideal.
“You’re so perfect, I can’t bear to think of your body assailed, plundered.” He was almost crying. “I can’t bear to think of all that beauty endangered.”
Except by him, she thought later, except by him. He had touched her bruised cheek with tears in his eyes.…
Still, that would never happen again. None of it would happen, it was all over. She had left and, under another roof, could withstand any onslaught. Upstairs she dabbed at her cheek with pale powder, as if it were still red and marked by Alistair’s hand. Her eyes had that panicky look he had lately induced in them, but as she made herself breathe deeply, her face smoothed and grew calmer, her shoulders relaxed. Gushi was brought back just as she was leaving. She showed him his freshly filled water bowl, gave him a quick caress, and, running now, caught up with Bean and his troop on the corner of Albany Street: Boris the borzoi, Charlie the golden retriever, Marietta the chocolate poodle, McBride the scottie. Only Ruby the beagle was absent.
“Gone on her holidays to Ilfracombe,” said Bean. He had a camera on a strap round his neck, like a tourist. “She’ll be missing the park. Them hounds need a lot of
She should have refuted that, but she feared the storm that would ensue. She had left him, hadn’t she? That great step had been taken, she need not learn to fight him. She told him she was in a hurry and must go.
“All right. I know that tone of voice. There’s no getting a word out of you when you’ve decided to sulk. You’ll soon get over that. I’ll be over very soon.”
As if she had invited him …
“No,” she managed to say. “Please, no.” The effort of refusing always made her tired, as if she really was the delicate creature she looked.
“I’ll drop in one evening,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’ll take you out somewhere.”
Mary went back into the kitchen and poured herself a second cup of coffee. It was going to be harder getting away from him than she had thought. The strength of will she hoped she was learning would be needed, but what of the strength that women can never acquire? She would never come near to matching him physically. Like stigmata appearing at certain triggers, her face suddenly stung from the blow on the cheek he had given her when he saw those puncture marks. She looked in the mirror and saw the flush that bloomedthere, brighter on the right side than the left. Alistair was left-handed.
They had been making love. He drew away from her and, extending his right hand, touched those marks with the tips of his fingers.
“What’s that?” he said. The tone told her he knew. “Scorpion bit you? Poison ivy? Barbed wire?”
There is something terrible about the mood of lovemaking, so tender, languorous, exciting in that uniquely warm and breathless way, being broken by a harsh voice, sarcasm, barely suppressed rage. Nothing comes so quickly as sexual desire and nothing ebbs so fast as sexual willingness. It was like feeling cold water poured over her body.
She turned her face away. “The bone-marrow harvest,” she said. “I told you I meant to do it.”
“You deceived me,” he said and, taking hold of her face in an iron grip with fingers that dug, struck her cheek with the flat of his hand, the hardest blow she had ever received. Until then, the
only
blow.
It was not quite a beating up he gave her. You could hardly call a slap on the face, a shaking, another slap, a pulling upright, and a throwing to the ground, beating someone up. She had crawled away and shut herself in the bathroom. Her cheek was bruised the next day and she had bruised her leg when she fell.
He apologized to her, he crawled, he didn’t know what had come over him, only that it never would again. Predictably, he showed the other aspect of the bully’s character. It was this wretched temperament of his, he excused himself, his love of physical perfection, his worship of the ideal.
“You’re so perfect, I can’t bear to think of your body assailed, plundered.” He was almost crying. “I can’t bear to think of all that beauty endangered.”
Except by him, she thought later, except by him. He had touched her bruised cheek with tears in his eyes.…
Still, that would never happen again. None of it would happen, it was all over. She had left and, under another roof, could withstand any onslaught. Upstairs she dabbed at her cheek with pale powder, as if it were still red and marked by Alistair’s hand. Her eyes had that panicky look he had lately induced in them, but as she made herself breathe deeply, her face smoothed and grew calmer, her shoulders relaxed. Gushi was brought back just as she was leaving. She showed him his freshly filled water bowl, gave him a quick caress, and, running now, caught up with Bean and his troop on the corner of Albany Street: Boris the borzoi, Charlie the golden retriever, Marietta the chocolate poodle, McBride the scottie. Only Ruby the beagle was absent.
“Gone on her holidays to Ilfracombe,” said Bean. He had a camera on a strap round his neck, like a tourist. “She’ll be missing the park. Them hounds need a lot of
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