delightful, high-flying businessman husband should suddenly discover an interest in gynaecology astonished her.
'No,' she said. And she continued to deny him. Now the pain of the mistake of it cut her in two.
She clutched the wheel and slowed a little. That was the thing about long car journeys - there was nowhere to hide your brain.
Last Tango in Paris, it was.
Oh, go butter those scones, woman.
Despite her sterling efforts, he remained flaccid for a week.
If a mind-reading alien wandered in and rummaged around in their respective brains, what terrifying, terrifying madness would be revealed ...
The Swains. The Swains. Mrs Fytton's Swains.
Lunatic, Lunatic. Lunatic all.
Time to let the swains bubble up to the surface, be considered, and be dealt with for once and for all. Nothing like a motorway for dealing with the grimmer side of the cranial filing system. The Swains, then. And let that be a lesson to her. Shadows of the past, be they gone.
3
April
His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork.
mae west
She was now but half an hour from her destination. Just time to bring them out, one by one, those Male Lunatics Rampant, shake them and put them back in the drawer marked Unnecessary. She slowed the car and took her mind to those first painful days when she was free and when, mindful of the counsellor's advice, she was on red alert and prey to the first Volpone who came along with wandering hands and a soulful light in his eyes.
Sheep are renowned for looking sympathetic, especially if one announces the name of a well-known fox to them, and she was just passing fields and fields of the woolly creatures. All looking very sympathetic indeed. Volpone, she repeated, opening the window and calling out to a field of chomping ewes. 'VOLPONE!' Sometimes lunacy is catching.
Victor.
And a lesson that one should never take up with a bloke with a vanquisher's name. What with his innocent smile (hiding foxy teeth) and the soulful light and the wandering hands, and her being a trusting sort of a person who, as a happily married woman, had read her Fay Weldons as if they were fairy tales, she was not prepared for the killer instinct of the average small-female-game-hunting male. Not his honey tongue, not his seductive and quivering external equipment -not his lunacy. And certainly not her vulnerability to it.
She looked into Victor's eyes and read there kind understanding and pleasing desire. It was one in the morning on the pavement outside the Chelsea Arts Club. She was too drunk to even see a taxi, let alone hail one. He took her hand, which she so willingly proffered, and led her down the garden path. She fell through her front door; he picked her up and looked at her all night with tender light of love in between bouts of electrifying orgy. She went on reading the same ocular tenderness until all her little feathers were quite smoothed, not a ruffle in sight. Until she could say the name Ian without weeping or kicking the furniture. Until she could believe, yes, believe it was that easy.
At which point the ocular message from Victor became cloudy. She read panic, suddenly, when she suggested normal things like going on holiday together ('Ah, well, urn, oh, I'm not very good with holidays as such') or meeting her children ('Ah, well, um, oh, I'm not very good with children as such') or actually getting out of the house in which he still lived with his divorced wife and two dogs ('Ah, well, um, oh, I'm not very good at living on my own as such ...')
He did not feel ready to commit.
'Commit?' she said. 'Commit? You managed to commit yourself to having your dinners cooked for you while you watched the mud-wrestling or the pogo-stick championships or whatever it was. You managed to ...' And then she shrugged and backed off. 'Ah, well, um, oh, I'm not very good at dealing with inadequates as such.' With which she marched out. And then marched back again. And then
'No,' she said. And she continued to deny him. Now the pain of the mistake of it cut her in two.
She clutched the wheel and slowed a little. That was the thing about long car journeys - there was nowhere to hide your brain.
Last Tango in Paris, it was.
Oh, go butter those scones, woman.
Despite her sterling efforts, he remained flaccid for a week.
If a mind-reading alien wandered in and rummaged around in their respective brains, what terrifying, terrifying madness would be revealed ...
The Swains. The Swains. Mrs Fytton's Swains.
Lunatic, Lunatic. Lunatic all.
Time to let the swains bubble up to the surface, be considered, and be dealt with for once and for all. Nothing like a motorway for dealing with the grimmer side of the cranial filing system. The Swains, then. And let that be a lesson to her. Shadows of the past, be they gone.
3
April
His mother should have thrown him away and kept the stork.
mae west
She was now but half an hour from her destination. Just time to bring them out, one by one, those Male Lunatics Rampant, shake them and put them back in the drawer marked Unnecessary. She slowed the car and took her mind to those first painful days when she was free and when, mindful of the counsellor's advice, she was on red alert and prey to the first Volpone who came along with wandering hands and a soulful light in his eyes.
Sheep are renowned for looking sympathetic, especially if one announces the name of a well-known fox to them, and she was just passing fields and fields of the woolly creatures. All looking very sympathetic indeed. Volpone, she repeated, opening the window and calling out to a field of chomping ewes. 'VOLPONE!' Sometimes lunacy is catching.
Victor.
And a lesson that one should never take up with a bloke with a vanquisher's name. What with his innocent smile (hiding foxy teeth) and the soulful light and the wandering hands, and her being a trusting sort of a person who, as a happily married woman, had read her Fay Weldons as if they were fairy tales, she was not prepared for the killer instinct of the average small-female-game-hunting male. Not his honey tongue, not his seductive and quivering external equipment -not his lunacy. And certainly not her vulnerability to it.
She looked into Victor's eyes and read there kind understanding and pleasing desire. It was one in the morning on the pavement outside the Chelsea Arts Club. She was too drunk to even see a taxi, let alone hail one. He took her hand, which she so willingly proffered, and led her down the garden path. She fell through her front door; he picked her up and looked at her all night with tender light of love in between bouts of electrifying orgy. She went on reading the same ocular tenderness until all her little feathers were quite smoothed, not a ruffle in sight. Until she could say the name Ian without weeping or kicking the furniture. Until she could believe, yes, believe it was that easy.
At which point the ocular message from Victor became cloudy. She read panic, suddenly, when she suggested normal things like going on holiday together ('Ah, well, urn, oh, I'm not very good with holidays as such') or meeting her children ('Ah, well, um, oh, I'm not very good with children as such') or actually getting out of the house in which he still lived with his divorced wife and two dogs ('Ah, well, um, oh, I'm not very good at living on my own as such ...')
He did not feel ready to commit.
'Commit?' she said. 'Commit? You managed to commit yourself to having your dinners cooked for you while you watched the mud-wrestling or the pogo-stick championships or whatever it was. You managed to ...' And then she shrugged and backed off. 'Ah, well, um, oh, I'm not very good at dealing with inadequates as such.' With which she marched out. And then marched back again. And then
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