Close Relations by Deborah Moggach Read Free Book Online Page A

had been faithful to his wife but even this hurt her. ‘Faithful’ was such a beautiful word. She had looked it up in her
Shorter Oxford Dictionary
. ‘
Faithful: firm in a fidelity or allegiance to a person to whom one is bound by any tie; constant, loyal, true
.’ Her heart, sinking, had barely been cheered by ‘
Conscientious in the fulfilment of duty
’.
    Prudence approached the office. Despite the traffic roaring down Museum Street there was a shiny, rinsed feeling in the air. Last night’s rain had washed the pavements clean. In a few minutes she would be seeing Stephen. Her spirits rose; suddenly the street had the bustling optimism of a Frank Capra movie. Luigi, who ran the snack bar opposite, trundled in a trolley of fruit-juice packs. A woman polished the brass plate of the occult bookshop on the corner. Outside Beveridge and Bunyan a green van was parked on the pavement. It said Fox Gardening Services. A woman unloaded plants from it.
    Beveridge and Bunyan occupied two houses, knocked through to make them interconnecting. Prudence’s office was on the ground floor – a narrow, partitioned-off space with a window onto the street. Trish, her secretary, was pouring boiling water into the cafetière. Trish was a bouncy, uncomplicated girl; she lived with, and supported, a flabby young man called Don who Prudence suspected was gay.
    â€˜So did you persuade him to go bungee-jumping?’
    Trish shook her head. ‘He’s such a wimp. How was your weekend?’
    â€˜Went to my sister’s. The one in the country.’ Prudence suspected, rightly, that her secretary considered her life spinsterly. ‘My little sister arrived from Nigeria.’
    â€˜Want a Hobnob?’ Trish offered her a biscuit. She popped one into her mouth and opened the diary. ‘Editorial at ten, jackets at twelve and lunch with Elspeth Wilmslow.’ This was an author who was writing a book about paint techniques. Prudence suspected there were enough of these already. ‘Shall I book Pièro’s?’
    â€˜No, the Groucho. She’s coming all the way from Huddersfield. She might want to bump into someone famous.’
    Prudence looked at the pile of manuscripts on her desk. She was halfway through editing – well, rewriting – the book of pasta recipes. She was also working on a
Whither Britain Now-
type monograph by a
Guardian
columnist, which might do well if its publication coincided with a Labour win at thenext election. On the other hand, it might not. At times she felt that every book in the world had already been written countless times and was simply being reissued, disguised under another title. This didn’t dismay her; not on Monday morning, not when she was waiting for a tap on the door.
    A tap. She swung round. Stephen stood there. He wore his green corduroy jacket. Her chest folded within itself.
    â€˜Morning, Trish. Pru. Has Bill shown you the mock-ups for the authors’ cards?’
    â€˜Not yet.’ She looked at Stephen’s clothes. She longed to buy him something new. She couldn’t even buy him a pair of socks. ‘Alan wants to see us both at four.’ She turned to her secretary. ‘Trish dear, could you photocopy these?’ Why did she call her dear? Because Trish was bathed in her happiness.
    Trish left. She was not a curious person; she suspected nothing.
    Stephen said: ‘I’m sorry.’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’
    He shut the door. They collided, bumping against the edge of the desk. After two days they always felt awkward with each other, especially in the broad daylight of the office. The hiatus of the weekend set them back to being acquaintances. His interlude of family life made him strange to her, all over again. It usually took them until Tuesday to recover their old intimacy. Prudence rubbed her cheek against his, shyly. He smelled of the aftershave his wife must have given him. It seemed to have a