Lionel rises from his chair and switches off the desk lamp. He picks up his cane, which was leaning against the edge of the desk, and makes his way in Violet’s direction.
She concentrates on her breathing as he approaches, on maintaining her clinical detachment. His heavy dark hair, his heavy dark eyes: they are simply features, objects offered up for her observation. The neat white triangles of his bow tie, lying snug against his throat: an aspect of dress.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Violet. You’ve been on my mind constantly. I’ve been looking out for you everywhere, whenever your damned husband appears in the room. Wanting to speak to you, to get to the bottom of you.”
He stands far too close. Violet holds her ground and stares at the hollow of his throat. “Well, you’ve done that now, haven’t you? Are you satisfied?”
Lionel reaches around her to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray behind her.
“No, Violet. I’m not satisfied at all.”
? ? ?
VIOLET IS STILL AWAKE when the bedroom door creaks open and Walter’s footsteps pad across the rug to the bathroom. She stares at the ceiling and listens to the rush of the faucet, the quiet bumps and clicks as he removes his clothing, discards his linen, hangs his jacket and trousers in the wardrobe. He will be thorough, she knows, taking care with every crease. His hands will pass along the sleek wool, just to be sure.
A year seems to pass before the damp lemony smell reaches her nostrils, before the bed sags under Walter’s weight and the light switches off beyond her closed eyelids.
“Are you awake, child?”
“Hmm?” Stirring. Bleary.
“I believe I smelled cigarettes in my study, when I came in. Or was it my imagination?”
She rolls her head and blinks her eyes open. “Hmm? Oh, that was Lionel. He fetched us back from the office. Henry Mortimer and me.”
“Yes, I recall Jane sending him off to find her boy. I suppose you asked him for a drink?”
“A glass of brandy. His knee was hurting him.”
“Did you fuck him, too?” Walter’s tone remains companionable, mildly curious, as if he were asking her what she ate for dinner.
“What? No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.” Her heart smacks against the sheets.
“You can’t hide it from me, you know.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Walter. Of course I haven’t. Where do you get these ideas? I’ve hardly met him. He had a drink, that’s all. We talked for a bit. He smoked a cigarette in your precious study.” She rolls over, turning her back to him.
“Child, I quite understand the attraction. He’s a fine sleek animal. He had any number of women back at Oxford, to my certain knowledge.”
“Well, he hasn’t had me. I dislike him more than ever, in fact.” Her eyes are closed again; she is thinking of Lionel’s lips, so close to her own in the shadowed corner of the study. His massive shoulder brushing hers, as he reached to stub out his cigarette. The intimate scent of his shaving soap disarming the pungency of the tobacco. All this, she had resisted. She had turned away from his imminent kiss, from the willing energy of his nearby arms. The injustice of Walter’s accusation slips neatly between her ribs.
“I will find out, Violet. I could find out right now. I could tell if he’s been inside you. Shall I?”
Violet says nothing. She waits for the expected sound of his footsteps, for the whir of the Victrola’s plate and the scratch of the needle, because that’s the sort of thing that would amuse Walter: confirming his wife’s infidelity by the very act of enjoying her himself.
But her husband only laughs and settles himself into the mattress.
“Good night, child.”
Vivian
Don’t ask me how I ended up alone in a taxi with Doctor Paul, headed downtown. Ask my mother, who had made sure I was good and liquored up before she executed her master stroke. I looked down at the pocketbook in my lap, full of Violet’s letters to my aunt Christina. The champagne whirlpool in my head refused to stop swirling. What was it about champagne? I should have stuck to vodka.
“Sneaky,” I said. “Miserable, devious, underhanded rapscallion. That’s you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” He was perfectly sober, damn him. “Your mother called me up at the hospital, out of the blue, and asked me to a party. Begged me, really. I rearranged my schedule. It would have been rude to refuse when she went to such trouble.”
“You are so smug.”
“I am.”
“What if Gogo had been there, hmm? What then?”
Hesitation. “I didn’t think she would.”
“Oh, really?” I looked up at his profile in the streetlights. “How could you be so sure?”
“I called her yesterday, to see how she was doing.”
Gogo hadn’t mentioned this little fact. I curled my fingers around my pocketbook. “Good. I’m glad you did.”
“Believe it or not, Vivian, I want to do the right thing here.”