When the food came he ate with swift economy. This was something Antonia had forgotten about him. For all his tricks and deliberately created effects, his movements were always oddly pleasing. Feline. No, make that wolfish. This was the man who was rumoured to have systematically slept his way through medical school and to have continued the process when he became head of psychiatric medicine at the big teaching hospital where he and Antonia had first met.
‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that you’d want to get right away for a while. That’s why I wrote to you. And someone at the hospital mentioned a cottage that’s available for a few months–it’s somewhere in Cheshire.’
It would be one of his women who had mentioned it. Saxon’s string puppets, someone had once called them: he pulls the strings and they dance to his music.
‘It’s apparently a very quiet place,’ the man who pulled the strings was saying. ‘And the rent’s quite reasonable.’ He passed over a folded sheet of paper. ‘That’s the address and the letting agent’s phone number. It might give you a breathing space until you decide what to do next.’
‘I haven’t the least idea what I’m going to do next,’ said Antonia, and before he could weigh in with some kind of sympathy offer, she said, ‘I do know you can’t re-employ me. That the hospital can’t, I mean.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. We all are. But it would be a great shame to waste all your training. You could consider teaching or writing.’
‘Both presumably being available to a struck-off doctor of psychiatric medicine.’ This did not just come out angrily, it came out savagely.
‘Writing’s one of the great levellers,’ said Jonathan, not missing a beat. ‘Nobody gives a tuppenny damn about the private life of a writer. But if you’re that sensitive, change your name.’ He refilled his glass, and Antonia forked up another mouthful of the beautifully fresh salmon which now tasted like sawdust.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got much money to fling around, have you?’ he said suddenly.
Antonia had long since gone beyond the stage of being embarrassed about money. ‘Not much,’ she said. ‘What there is will probably last about six months, but after that I’ll have to find a way of earning my living.’
‘Then why don’t you rent this cottage while you look for it? Whatever you end up doing, you’ve got to live somewhere.’
‘It’s just–I’m not used to making decisions any longer.’ This sounded so disgustingly wimpish that Antonia said firmly, ‘You’re quite right. It is a good idea. Thank you. And can I change my mind about that wine?’
‘Yes, of course. If you slide under the table I promise to pick you up.’
‘As I recall,’ said Antonia drily, ‘you were always ready to pick up anyone who was available.’
Appearance did not really matter, but one might as well turn up at a new place looking halfway decent.
Antonia spent two more days in London having her hair restyled into something approximating a modern look and buying a few clothes. The cost of everything was daunting, but what was most daunting was the occasional impulse to retreat to the small Bayswater hotel where she was staying and hide in the darkest, safest corner. This was a reaction she had not envisaged or bargained for, even though it was easily explained as the result of having lived in an enclosed community for so long and a direct outcome of being what was usually called institutionalized. Still, it was ridiculous to keep experiencing this longing for her familiar room, and the predictable routine of meals, work sessions, recreation times.
‘I expect you like to simply wash your hair and blast-dry it, do you?’ said the friendly hairdresser while Antonia was silently fighting a compulsion to scuttle out of the salon and dive back to the hotel room. ‘So much easier, isn’t it, especially with a good conditioner?’