The Post-Birthday World. Lionel Shriver
as if something were trying to get in. Breathing a bit too heavily still, she had assured herself that the high voltage in that basement snooker hall must already be dissipating to static electricity. Brushing her teeth before bed, she’d envisaged the relief of waking prudently by herself in her as-good-as-marital bed this morning—having done nothing disreputable, nothing that she had to hide from Lawrence or might be tempted to divulge in a confessional rush, after which he would never quite trust her again. Surely once she was straight, sobered up, and well rested, her scandalous impulse while leaning over that fancy match-grade snooker table would shrink to drunken, stoned idiocy, to mere naughtiness, to a delusional infatuation that—there is a God—she’d had the eleventh-hour sense to squelch. In the plain light of day, she would take the strange evening under advisement, as testimony that she should stay away from drugs, that she should drink moderately, that she missed Lawrence and needed to get laid. Over coffee, she had told herself, rinsing her mouth, you’ll shake your head in dry amusement and go ha-ha-ha.
Yet sipping her cappuccino this morning, she’d regarded her near miss with awe and respect. It hadn’t shrunk. To the contrary, what had appeared beforehand as a merely diverting flirtation on Ramsey’s part, one that could prove embarrassing or inconvenient for Irina, had only grown larger as she approached it. Last night had been like groping about in a fog and expecting to bump into a low stone wall, and instead banging her nose smack against an Egyptian pyramid. Whatever she had run up against on Victoria Park Road, by accident, in innocence, and however wisely she had about-faced and soldiered in blind lockstep in the opposite direction, it was big. Briefly, a whole other life had opened up before her, and the fact that she declined to avail herself of it could not eradicate the image.
One other memory had haunted her all day. At the end of that lift home, Ramsey had drawn into the lay-by in front of this building. He should have kept the motor running, to indicate that at three he had no expectation of being asked up “for coffee”. Instead he switched off the engine, and sat for what seemed a terribly long time—though it wasn’t—hands at rest in his lap with a dead quality. They were exquisite hands, with long, sinuous fingers and slender metacarpi, more those of a musician than a sportsman. Yet they lay on his thighs with corpselike inertness, the delicate dusting of blue cue chalk creased in his cuticles, lending them a ghoulish hue. He stared straight through the windscreen, his face, too, at rest, almost empty; he might have been contemplating a list of groceries to pick up on the way home at a twenty-four-hour Tesco. Irina as well made no move to get out of the car.
But that wasn’t the memory that lingered so. After a beat, they had both resumed animation, and Ramsey got out. Irina remained seated, because she could tell he preferred to come round. He was a gentleman. He opened her door with the gravity of a chauffeur ushering the bereaved from a hearse. As ever, that hand hovered at the small of her back as she walked half a pace ahead. Yet as she rooted for her keys and proceeded to the door, she turned to find him still standing in the street—as if to take the next step onto the kerb was to cross a line in the sand. Since he remained ten feet away and gave no indication of coming closer, that took care of any discomfiting question of a farewell peck on the cheek.
The two matching Georgian squares on which Lawrence and Irina lived were registered buildings, and in order to so much as change the outside colour of the window frames from black to white their management company had to ask permission from the National Trust. (They said no.) So pristinely preserved was this estate that production companies like Merchant-Ivory often used it as a backdrop for historical films. Thus while standard aluminium London street lamps glared a rude orange, the lantern to Ramsey’s left was an iron reproduction gaslight from the nineteenth century. The bulb was flame-shaped, its glow antique. Cast in this theatrical light, golden on one side with his other half in shadow, Ramsey himself could have been acting in a period drama; his uncompromising verticality seemed a posture from an earlier age. Tall, gaunt, and darkly clad, his figure evinced a brooding solemnity she associated not with Snooker Scene but Thomas Hardy.
“Good-night,” she said. “Thank you for dinner. I had a lovely time.”
“Yes,” he said. From lack of use and too many cigarettes, his voice was dry. “I did as well. Thank you for joining me. Good-night.” He stood there. “I’d say, ‘Safe home,’ but it looks like you’re going to make it.” A flickered smile.
She should have shot him a returning smile, and let herself inside. She didn’t. She looked at him. Stock-still before the kerb, Ramsey looked back. Unlike the pause in the car, really only a moment, this suspension was a solid fifteen seconds—which once you have already exchanged “good-nights” has the touch and feel of about a year and a half. Something unsaid passed between them, and if Irina had her way it would stay unsaid, too. Forever. She turned to the door with the resolve of capping a jar of something tasty that is not very good for you, like lemon curd, after having sampled a tantalizing half-spoonful—turning the lid tight, slipping the jar onto a high shelf, and closing the cupboard.
Irina blurted unthinkingly to Lawrence, “I have a confession.”
The look of instant wariness on his face announced that Lawrence liked everything to be fine, thank you very much, that Lawrence didn’t care for “confessions,” and that Lawrence might even have wanted, if necessary, to be lied to. He could seem so industrious, but in some respects he was a lazy man.
“When we finished dinner—” she continued in the absence of any encouragement. “Oh, and you’d have hated it—”
“Do we have anything in common?”
She laughed. “I like Memoirs of a Geisha and sushi. You don’t. Anyway, it was still early when the check arrived—” It hadn’t been remotely early. Irina was damned if she understood this compulsion to revise the irrelevant side details that didn’t even matter whenever you were tinkering with the main thing. “So Ramsey asked if I wanted to go get stoned, and, I don’t know. I said sure.”
“You hate getting stoned!”
“I clammed up, as usual. I wouldn’t do it often. I don’t mind it once in a while.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where did you get stoned?”
“Well, not out on the street in Soho. Obviously, we went back to Victoria Park Road. I’ve been there often enough, with Jude.”
“They’re divorced.”
“I happen to know that.”
“So you didn’t go back there with Jude.”
“Oh, never mind! I only had two tokes, and then he played a million practice frames and totally ignored me, and then rode me home. I just thought you’d be amused. In fact, I was sure you’d say I was ‘juvenile.’ ”
“You were juvenile.”
“Thanks. That was obliging.” She had wanted to—to tell him something else of course, but like the deluxe sashimi platter there were no substitutions.
“Nuts, I don’t want to miss the beginning.” Lawrence reached for the remote.
“We’ve five minutes yet. Oh, and I almost forgot!” She sprang from her chair. “I made you a pie! Would you like a slice? Rhubarb-cream. It came out fabulous!”
“I don’t know,” he said, peering at her with the intense examination to which she had subjected Lawrence himself not long before. “I had a snack on the plane …”
“I bet you spent all your free time in the hotel gym. And we’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“That you’re home, silly!”
His head tilted. “What’s with you tonight? You’re so—bubbly. Sure that dope’s worn off?”
“What’s wrong with being glad you’re back?”
“There’s glad and glad. It’s late. You don’t usually have this