All the Beauty of the Sun by Marion Husband Read Free Book Online Page B

to notice.’ He had glanced at Edmund’s reflection in the mirror and it seemed as though he didn’t want him there, that he had angered him in some way. He had certainly sounded angry as he’d said, ‘But now you can’t take your eyes off it.’ Brushing past him into the bedroom, naked too and seeming to take care not to touch him at all, Paul snapped, ‘Are you staying or going?’
    â€˜Staying, if that’s all right.’
    â€˜Then for God’s sake get back into bed.’
    In the café, Edmund remembered that it was then that Paul had seemed ordinary again, and not only ordinary but awkward and angry, his too-thin body repellent. As though he had sensed his repulsion, Paul got into bed quickly, covering himself with the sheet before reaching for his cigarettes and lighting two at once, wordlessly holding one out to him. Edmund got into bed too, taking the cigarette although he hadn’t wanted another. He allowed it to waste away between his fingers, all the time wondering what he might say to a man who seemed to him to be at turns ugly and breathtaking, as though Paul was two men and he could only see one of them at a time. Perhaps the duality was his own, a sudden schizophrenia triggered by too sudden feeling.
    In the café Edmund poured his tea and wished he had ordered toast as his stomach growled hungrily, surprisingly – shouldn’t he be robbed of his appetite? Stirring sugar into his cup he remembered how Paul had turned to him, seeming to make an effort to suppress the anger that had come over him so abruptly and finally breaking the silence Edmund hadn’t known how to end.
    â€˜Have you always lived in London, Edmund?’
    Edmund had laughed; it seemed such a facile question, given the circumstances, as though they were strangers meeting at a dull party. Smiling, he turned to look at him, intending to ask if he would like a potted biography, but found that he could only look at him, and that nothing he might say could matter less. He supposed he was dumbstruck, ridiculous, because Paul laughed self-consciously as he said, ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
    He had looked away at once. ‘Sorry.’
    â€˜It’s disturbing.’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    Another silence expanded between them, one that this time grew until it seemed possible he would never be able to bring himself to speak to this man again, knowing what an idiot he had been with that look of his. He could imagine just how he had looked: his eyes all wide with amazement that he could want another person so badly. Desperately trying to think of something to say that would be light-hearted and not at all disturbing, he failed and so he repeated, ‘Sorry,’ and then, out of masochistic politeness, asked, ‘Would you like me to go?’
    â€˜No. I’d like you to stay. And you didn’t answer my question. Have you always lived in London?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Paul lit another cigarette. Exhaling smoke, he said, ‘And how old are you? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?’
    Edmund laughed uncomfortably. ‘Why?’
    â€˜Just wondering.’
    Too quickly Edmund said, ‘Twenty-two next month.’
    â€˜And what do you do? To earn a living, I mean.’
    â€˜I work in a bookshop.’
    â€˜Do you like it?’
    â€˜Yes. Yes, actually I do.’
    â€˜And you walk out with Ann.’
    â€˜Walk out?’
    â€˜I don’t want to presume anything.’
    â€˜Yes, we walk out .’
    â€˜And what about your work, your painting – was she right about that? Have you given up?’
    â€˜That’s enough.’ Agitated, Edmund had got up and begun to dress, hunting around the bed for his clothes. He sensed Paul watching him and wondered which Paul he would see if he dared to meet his gaze: a skinny, disfigured queer, he supposed, an impertinent queer who asked too many questions, one who must be some kind of magician