suppose I could get them to press it. Laundry service? But just touching it, looking at it, makes me want to cry. With happiness, private happiness, not with guilt. Once only. It is a sacred dress. And she pressed her face into it and remembered Veneering’s hands and skin and hair and sweat as the dress lay like a slop of spinach on the wood floor of the weird tree house. I will never wear it again.
Time? It’s still only two o’clock. I’ve over three hours. Food? Not hungry. Perhaps try. Get room service. Get a saté from a stall.
She turned in her cotton clothes into the poor streets again, stepping through litter and ordure. A man without legs sat, his crutches splayed, opening shellfish, the shells thrown about him. She bought a pork saté from a boy yelling “Saté” insolently in her ear. Then she bought a warm, soft prawn fritter and stood eating it all. It smelled sweet and good. Looking up above the street stalls she saw on a hoarding a huge photograph. It was a young European girl naked to the waist and smelling a rose. It was, undoubtedly, Lizzie.
Well, of course not. How could it be? Lizzie was an intellectual. She’d been at Bletchley Park. And she was, or said she was, a lesbian. One didn’t think about it. She was always coming and going to Hong Kong. She told you nothing. There were rumours of her having something to do with the Chief of Police. She had known some terrible people, even at school. But she’d been serious, hard-working. But naked to the waist and a rose! Smelling the rose! Lizzie! Well, she does say she’s broke. No, I’m just tired.
I am wonderfully, deeply tired and I want him again. And again. And for ever. And I don’t mean Edward.
She wandered the street stalls, licking the prawn juice off her fingers. She peered into fragments of looking-glass, demons and cartoon toys. Wherever she went among the stalls were clusters of children eating where they stood, quietly, prodding their chopsticks into thimble dishes of fish and pork. Oh, how could I ever go West again? I’ll stay here. With anyone who wants me. One or the other. With anyone.
She had shocked herself. She had meant it. She’d go with a man who would let her roam in the market. “I’ll go down fast,” she told the poster. The girl with the rose now did not look like Lizzie at all. It was some American film star. Hedy Lamarr. She wondered how much the girl had been paid.
She was in the Old Col Hotel again. It was half past four in the afternoon. Make-up? Borrow Lizzie’s. (God, I look tired.) Dress? Green dress. I forgot to get them to iron it. It smells and I don’t care. I’ll never, never own such a beautiful dress again. And nobody will ever know. He won’t be there. Not at Edward’s party with its “wonderful news’—whatever that is.
When she was dressed she looked—after a little hesitation—out of her window and saw a white Mercedes parked outside, its windows dark and its number plate so short it looked like royalty.
“I shall certainly not hurry,” said the new Elisabeth and sauntered forth, her hair curly again, springy after the shower. I’m walking differently, she thought. They say you can always tell when a virgin is a thing of the past.
The car with the black windows gave no sign of remarking on her non-virginal condition, her walk, or on anything about her. When she stopped beside it nothing happened and she felt snubbed. If there was a driver inside, he was invisible. This was not a car you could tap or try a door handle. It might set off some terrible alarm.
The crowds were surging now from work. They parted around the Mercedes and then came back together again beyond it. Nobody looked at her or noticed her. As Nick had said this morning at the noisy family flat, “You get lonely here, you know. It’s not that they dislike you so much as that they aren’t interested. They just blot you out. Just occasionally they make it plain. You can be sitting on a bus with the only
Time? It’s still only two o’clock. I’ve over three hours. Food? Not hungry. Perhaps try. Get room service. Get a saté from a stall.
She turned in her cotton clothes into the poor streets again, stepping through litter and ordure. A man without legs sat, his crutches splayed, opening shellfish, the shells thrown about him. She bought a pork saté from a boy yelling “Saté” insolently in her ear. Then she bought a warm, soft prawn fritter and stood eating it all. It smelled sweet and good. Looking up above the street stalls she saw on a hoarding a huge photograph. It was a young European girl naked to the waist and smelling a rose. It was, undoubtedly, Lizzie.
Well, of course not. How could it be? Lizzie was an intellectual. She’d been at Bletchley Park. And she was, or said she was, a lesbian. One didn’t think about it. She was always coming and going to Hong Kong. She told you nothing. There were rumours of her having something to do with the Chief of Police. She had known some terrible people, even at school. But she’d been serious, hard-working. But naked to the waist and a rose! Smelling the rose! Lizzie! Well, she does say she’s broke. No, I’m just tired.
I am wonderfully, deeply tired and I want him again. And again. And for ever. And I don’t mean Edward.
She wandered the street stalls, licking the prawn juice off her fingers. She peered into fragments of looking-glass, demons and cartoon toys. Wherever she went among the stalls were clusters of children eating where they stood, quietly, prodding their chopsticks into thimble dishes of fish and pork. Oh, how could I ever go West again? I’ll stay here. With anyone who wants me. One or the other. With anyone.
She had shocked herself. She had meant it. She’d go with a man who would let her roam in the market. “I’ll go down fast,” she told the poster. The girl with the rose now did not look like Lizzie at all. It was some American film star. Hedy Lamarr. She wondered how much the girl had been paid.
She was in the Old Col Hotel again. It was half past four in the afternoon. Make-up? Borrow Lizzie’s. (God, I look tired.) Dress? Green dress. I forgot to get them to iron it. It smells and I don’t care. I’ll never, never own such a beautiful dress again. And nobody will ever know. He won’t be there. Not at Edward’s party with its “wonderful news’—whatever that is.
When she was dressed she looked—after a little hesitation—out of her window and saw a white Mercedes parked outside, its windows dark and its number plate so short it looked like royalty.
“I shall certainly not hurry,” said the new Elisabeth and sauntered forth, her hair curly again, springy after the shower. I’m walking differently, she thought. They say you can always tell when a virgin is a thing of the past.
The car with the black windows gave no sign of remarking on her non-virginal condition, her walk, or on anything about her. When she stopped beside it nothing happened and she felt snubbed. If there was a driver inside, he was invisible. This was not a car you could tap or try a door handle. It might set off some terrible alarm.
The crowds were surging now from work. They parted around the Mercedes and then came back together again beyond it. Nobody looked at her or noticed her. As Nick had said this morning at the noisy family flat, “You get lonely here, you know. It’s not that they dislike you so much as that they aren’t interested. They just blot you out. Just occasionally they make it plain. You can be sitting on a bus with the only
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