The Beast by Hugh Fleetwood Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hugh Fleetwood
simple but beautifully cut grey silk dress, and the fashionable, high-heeled black French shoes, while looking elegant or chic or whatever on the employer, looked merely unfortunate on the employee. Charles had a theory that the business woman, whom he had met a couple of times, and who seemed to adore Lucy as much as Lucy adored her—she was breathtakingly patronizing—encouraged her secretary, whom she paid extremely well, to dress as she did just to show up her own style; just to make it clear to all who saw the two of them together, exactly who, or what, was the real thing. However , this was only a theory, and maybe he was being unfair; maybe it was all entirely Lucy’s fault.)
She asked him, now, what he would like; a coffee, a drink, something to eat—she could easily fix him something in a second if he hadn’t eaten and even if he had, if he wanted something else she could—
‘A coffee, really. That’s all.’
It was already made, and two minutes later they were sitting in the green and yellow living room (what colour was Lucy’s boss’s living room? Green and yellow did not help Lucy, whose skin was slightly yellowish anyway) picking up the conversation at the precise point—as if they were knitting it—at which they had left it when they had seen each other last, on Sunday. And when they had come, as it were, to the end of that particular row of stitches, Lucy asked, as she did every year towards the end of September, if Charles had finally managed to get his sleeping habits together for the fall.
‘Well, I seem to have done,’ he said with a small hopefulsmile; and a cough. ‘Maybe we could go to a show together next week if you’re free sometime?’
Years ago, when he had first met Lucy—and when, almost simultaneously, he had discovered the nature of the obsession that was to occupy him for so long thereafter—not wanting to share his secret, his own private duty, with anyone, he had had to think of some excuse to justify his almost never going out in the evening for nine months of the year. And not being able to think of anything more convincing, he had simply told her that through some whim of his body—some hyper-sensitivity to the seasons?—he was almost unable to sleep except in the fall. Which meant that if he didn’t go to bed around eight every evening , turning off the phone and answering no—rare—rings on his doorbell, and snatching every disturbed minute of rest that he was able to get before seven-thirty the next morning, he would never have managed more than three, or at the most four hours’ sleep a night. Which just wasn’t enough. Though quite why, in the dying months of the year, he suddenly found it possible to sleep uninterruptedly from midnight onwards—who could tell? He couldn’t, certainly. Could Lucy?
No, she couldn’t; and one of the reasons why he was so fond of her was that she accepted his story with hardly a comment, and had never suggested he might go to a psychiatrist to find out. She believed in the variety and richness of human nature; and if Charles had to go to bed at eight in winter, spring and summer, or said he did—well, she would just be glad that they could see more of each other in the autumn. (In fact they always took a vacation together—generally in Europe—for two weeks in July, and stayed up late every evening; but somehow, Charles explained—and Lucy, again, accepted—foreignseasons did not affect his sleeping habits; did not, as native seasons did, enter so disturbingly into his blood.)
Almost the only comment she had ever really made in fact had been once, years ago, when she had said: ‘It’s strange though, isn’t it, that it should be fall that affects you this way, and not winter.’
‘“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?”’ Charles had murmured with a little smile; and Lucy, who was a great believer in poetry, as well as in the richness of human nature, had nodded thoughtfully, and accepted that,
She asked him, now, what he would like; a coffee, a drink, something to eat—she could easily fix him something in a second if he hadn’t eaten and even if he had, if he wanted something else she could—
‘A coffee, really. That’s all.’
It was already made, and two minutes later they were sitting in the green and yellow living room (what colour was Lucy’s boss’s living room? Green and yellow did not help Lucy, whose skin was slightly yellowish anyway) picking up the conversation at the precise point—as if they were knitting it—at which they had left it when they had seen each other last, on Sunday. And when they had come, as it were, to the end of that particular row of stitches, Lucy asked, as she did every year towards the end of September, if Charles had finally managed to get his sleeping habits together for the fall.
‘Well, I seem to have done,’ he said with a small hopefulsmile; and a cough. ‘Maybe we could go to a show together next week if you’re free sometime?’
Years ago, when he had first met Lucy—and when, almost simultaneously, he had discovered the nature of the obsession that was to occupy him for so long thereafter—not wanting to share his secret, his own private duty, with anyone, he had had to think of some excuse to justify his almost never going out in the evening for nine months of the year. And not being able to think of anything more convincing, he had simply told her that through some whim of his body—some hyper-sensitivity to the seasons?—he was almost unable to sleep except in the fall. Which meant that if he didn’t go to bed around eight every evening , turning off the phone and answering no—rare—rings on his doorbell, and snatching every disturbed minute of rest that he was able to get before seven-thirty the next morning, he would never have managed more than three, or at the most four hours’ sleep a night. Which just wasn’t enough. Though quite why, in the dying months of the year, he suddenly found it possible to sleep uninterruptedly from midnight onwards—who could tell? He couldn’t, certainly. Could Lucy?
No, she couldn’t; and one of the reasons why he was so fond of her was that she accepted his story with hardly a comment, and had never suggested he might go to a psychiatrist to find out. She believed in the variety and richness of human nature; and if Charles had to go to bed at eight in winter, spring and summer, or said he did—well, she would just be glad that they could see more of each other in the autumn. (In fact they always took a vacation together—generally in Europe—for two weeks in July, and stayed up late every evening; but somehow, Charles explained—and Lucy, again, accepted—foreignseasons did not affect his sleeping habits; did not, as native seasons did, enter so disturbingly into his blood.)
Almost the only comment she had ever really made in fact had been once, years ago, when she had said: ‘It’s strange though, isn’t it, that it should be fall that affects you this way, and not winter.’
‘“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?”’ Charles had murmured with a little smile; and Lucy, who was a great believer in poetry, as well as in the richness of human nature, had nodded thoughtfully, and accepted that,