Rachel Cusk - The Temporary

The street was quiet and motionless, and in the absence of its activity Francine felt the thin, freezing night air penetrate her clothing and touch her skin. Ralph was taking a long time to answer the door. The thought of his panic pleased her, but in view of the fact that she had lingered shivering at dark shop windows on the way to ensure the expiry of a full half hour beyond the time on which they had decided, she had expected him to be straining with anxious readiness for her arrival. She turned on her heel in irritation so that her back was to the door — he would certainly get the message when he finally decided to open it! — and wearily assumed an aspect of contemplation towards the street. It was really very cold now, and she knew that the pale skin on her nose and chin tended to become inflamed in such conditions. The thought kindled a flame of indignation at her predicament, and she had just turned to ring petulantly a second time when she heard a sudden thunder of footsteps and the rattling of locks as the door opened.

The hall behind him was dark, and Ralph seemed different standing there from the person Francine remembered. In the grey illumination of the street lamps his face looked severe, almost unfriendly, and there was something complex in his unfamiliarity which sent a tremor of aversion through her. For a moment he didn’t say anything at all, and without his direction Francine found herself unable to act. Experience had created the expectation that her reception would be a warm and windless affair, a meteorological certainty brought about by the constant current of her attractions, and she naturally shrank from the coolness of Ralph’s greeting.

‘Hello,’ he said finally, still standing in the doorway as if he had no intention of permitting her to progress beyond it. A strong instinct informed Francine that things were not proceeding in the correct way.

‘I thought you weren’t in,’ she said. Her voice twanged unkindly in her ears, forgetting its recent lessons in intonation, but the sight of Ralph made her feel horribly as if she didn’t care what he thought. In fact, the situation was growing every minute less acceptable — why was he making her stand there in the cold, looking at her with that rude expression? — and had the rejection it implied not compelled her to endure it for the purposes of investigation, she felt sure she would have turned around that minute and gone home. All at once, as if sensing their arrival at the threshold of an impossibility, Ralph, although apparently at the expense of some effort, underwent the necessary transformation.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the pale plate of his face breaking into a smile. He turned and switched on the hall light. ‘I was on the phone when you rang the bell and I couldn’t seem to get away — sorry, do come in.’ He stood back to allow her in, his cheeks suffused with colour as he ran a hand over his hair. ‘Sorry, you must be frozen — sorry, come in. How are you?’

In the light of the hall, Francine felt the situation returning once more to dimensions she recognized. She looked at Ralph and was alarmed to notice a curious dark stain on his lips, like blood. He smiled again reassuringly, ushering her with his arm towards an open door on the right.

‘It’s just through there,’ he said. ‘Go ahead.’

Her inability to comprehend it, as well as Ralph’s belated restitution of the appropriate behaviour, encouraged her to forget what had just happened. She followed his directions and found herself in a large, warm room glowing with lamplight. Its welcoming atmosphere exerted an immediate improvement upon her spirits, and she even managed to summon some enthusiasm for the thought of how flattering the gentle light must be to her complexion.

‘I’ll just get you a glass of wine,’ said Ralph from the doorway. ‘Make yourself at home.’

He disappeared and moments later she heard the proper sounds of the kitchen, the thump of cupboard doors and the clink of glasses. The room was really quite elegant, and although Francine thought the presence of heavy curtains and shelves full of books and what looked like second-hand furniture a bit old-fashioned, still it had a kind of authority which she judged to be pleasing. The floor was wooden — a feature she knew from magazines to be fashionable, and for which she awarded Ralph credit, notwithstanding the fact that she secretly thought the effect somewhat miserly — and there was a fireplace at the other end with a mirror over it. She immediately crossed the room and stood in front of it to see if the ordeals of the interlude between her last reflection in the office toilets and her arrival here had wrought any unwanted changes. Surprisingly, she actually looked improved by the exercise, and she peered more closely, suspecting the dim light of concealment. Magnified, the image was still pleasing and Francine regarded it with satisfaction. She had never known her appearance not to be well behaved, but she was wiser than to let this consideration relax her discipline of it.

Ralph’s footsteps sounded down the hall behind her and she lowered her gaze to the mantelpiece, where she was confronted by a photograph of Stephen Sparks in a silver frame. His presence surprised her, and she greeted it with mingled bitterness and excitement. It was a close-up of his face, although she could see his hair, which was much longer than it was now. It looked unfashionable and rather silly, she thought disappointedly.

‘Here we go,’ said Ralph, putting two glasses on the table.

The stain had disappeared from his lips, and the sight of his short hair made Francine warm to him. He came and stood beside her at the fireplace.

‘Stephen in his hippie era,’ he said, nodding at the photograph.

‘I like your flat,’ said Francine. The presence of the photograph suggested something complicated which might interfere with the now-smooth transmission of Ralph’s interest in her. Unconsciously, she hoped that Stephen would be admonished from the mantelpiece by the sight of them together. ‘How much do you pay?’

‘What? Oh, I don’t — I mean, I do, but I own it.’

‘Really?’

Francine’s sense of her own foolishness was ameliorated by her pleasure at his ownership. She felt the reassuring thirst for conquest rise in the wake of this newly ingested information.

‘Well, it’s only small,’ Ralph said. ‘Here, have some wine.’

He handed her a glass. The wine was red, and she felt a slight cooling of her admiration as she wondered why he hadn’t given her a choice, or at least offered her something like a gin and tonic instead. When he had suggested drinks she had vaguely imagined them having cocktails, with a lustrous cherry speared by a parasol. Red wine tasted bitter to her, and in any case she thought people only drank it at dinner-time, not before. The memory of their unpleasant doorstep encounter began to rally from its consignment, and with it came the recollection of their telephone conversation, in which Ralph had been abrupt and not at all polite. At the time she had been quite impressed by his assurance, though, and this factor, along with Ralph’s flat, his now improved manners, and his really not unpleasing appearance, rose in battle against Francine’s disaffection. She waited to see what his next move would contribute to the conflict.

‘Do you know, I didn’t even ask you if you wanted red wine,’ he exclaimed suddenly. He made a gesture with his hands which suggested impatience with himself. ‘It’s just that it’s all anybody seems to drink these days — sorry, would you have preferred something else?’

‘No, I love it,’ said Francine, immediately taking a mouthful as if to mark it territorially. It tasted acrid and rather dirty.

Ralph glanced at her and then looked down. He wasn’t looking at her as much as she had expected: when she had met him by chance that time in Camden Market his eyes had kept bounding towards her, two shining, hungry dogs straining on a leash, and she wondered why the more comfortable element of his ardour had been exchanged for this new atmosphere of restraint. It proved difficult to locate a solution to this mystery which pleased her, and she abandoned it with the thought that the very darkness of Ralph’s motives at least guaranteed an intensity of which she was confident of being the object. He drank from his glass, tipping back his head slightly so that most of the wine drained down his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then looked at it.