Rachel Cusk - The Temporary

The anxiety which had moored in her stomach all day suddenly began to churn her juices as it propelled itself in circles of apprehension. She felt uneasy with the desires that had brought her here, a shady, duplicitous tribe of impulses with whom she did not normally do business. The street was crowded, and clashing waves of frenetic music burst from the noisy, brightly lit façades of open shops as she walked by. Several people had stopped at the window of an electrical shop and were gazing dumbly at the silent, animated screens of televisions. She pushed past them, depleted by the imperviousness with which they blocked her way. The thought of Ralph waiting for her, far from strengthening her against the vicissitudes of her journey, left her only with the unpleasant suspicion that her arrival was not urgently required. She drooped slightly and summoned again the possibility of going home, leaving him to sit there alone, punished by thoughts of her. The idea fortified her with enthusiasm and she quickened her pace. A man was approaching her along the street and she could tell from the intent angle of his face that he was trying to fix her eyes with his own. She met his glance and was surprised to find it irritating, filled with suggestion, with promises of whose emptiness she was suddenly assured. It occurred to her that these men who looked at her, these hungry strangers, were taking things from her without giving anything in return. She wondered why they should be permitted to visit her face so freely and then move on, as if it were but the distraction of a moment.

She reached a turning and stopped as a glowing lava of cars erupted from the traffic lights and flowed hotly across her path. Crossing it seconds later she recognized ahead the bar in which they had arranged to meet and she found herself hurrying towards it. She was late, a genuine ten minutes appropriated by a long wait for the Tube. She felt momentarily comforted by the sudden reality of time, the forceful packing of it after a day of empty, ghost-like hours which had haunted her one by one, each with its own ghastly tincture. Ralph had protested at meeting her in Camden, saying that he ought to come to West Hampstead, but to Francine the idea had sounded too much like a favour, a kind visit after which he could walk away free. She wanted him embroiled in scenes of himself from which he could not escape.

She saw him as soon as she arrived, sitting at a table in the corner with a newspaper. The bar was not crowded and her entrance was unimpeded, but as she swept past tables, glad again of her dramatic coat, and felt faces turn gratifyingly towards her, she was disappointed to notice that Ralph himself did not look up to observe her finely judged approach. The interlude somewhat restored her possession of herself, however, and as she sat down opposite him the sudden calming of her fractious uncertainties allowed her to manufacture a radiant smile.

‘Francine,’ said Ralph, looking up from his paper.

Francine was satisfied to see a look of surprise flit across his face, and knew that he had forgotten how beautiful she was. She was glad they had arranged to meet in a bar. The almost tangible force of public opinion around her — people were still looking round, she could see them from the corner of her eye! — seemed to offer some security against the disaffections solitude might have admitted.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said softly, forbidding the triumph which surged in her thoughts from exiting importunately through her mouth. She considered advancing the reason for her delay and then decided against it.

‘Don’t worry, I was enjoying catching up with the papers. What would you like to drink?’

Francine felt a mild chill of disappointment that he should have found her absence so productive. She noticed that he was wearing the same clothes as he had done the last time she had seen him, and could not decide what it meant.

‘Oh, I’ll have red wine,’ she said. As Ralph looked around for a waiter, she glanced at his glass and saw that he was drinking beer. ‘So what have you been doing lately?’ she said.

‘What?’ He craned his neck and flapped his hand ineffectually. ‘Oh, ignore me then, you idiot.’

Francine turned her head and immediately caught the waiter’s eye, drawing him with a smile to their table. She was relieved by the distraction. Her attempt at conversation had given her an odd sensation of nakedness.

‘You’re good at that,’ said Ralph once the waiter had disappeared. A slight grimness about his mouth kept the remark short of a compliment. ‘I can never get them to see me.’

Francine’s thoughts were alarmingly empty. She wished that she had rehearsed a topic, or, now that she knew Ralph read them, at least looked at a newspaper over lunch.

‘So what have you been doing lately?’ she said again.

‘Me? Oh, not much.’ He looked better than he had before, and when he met her eyes she felt a tug of attraction. ‘I haven’t done any reading for ages, so I mostly just caught up on things I’d been meaning to finish. Oh yes, and I went to see that exhibition at the Hayward.’

‘Really?’ said Francine, who had been unaware of ‘that’ exhibition but resolved to visit it as soon as possible. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Well, it was all right, but a bit thin, didn’t you think?’

‘Oh, I haven’t had time to go yet. I’m going over the weekend.’

She glanced at Ralph and caught the shadow of a strange smile on his lips. It gave her the idea that he might be thinking things about her which conspired against the impression she was attempting to make, and she grew diffident from the injury, looking down at her hands in silence until the waiter came with her drink.

‘What about you?’ said Ralph in a more kindly tone. ‘How was your weekend?’

‘Oh, exhausting. I went out every night.’ She remembered her telephone call to Ralph on Friday evening. ‘Except Friday, of course. I never go out on Fridays.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I like to have an evening to myself, just to relax, you know. I read a lot,’ she added.

‘But why Friday? Why not Sunday or Monday?’

‘I don’t know.’ Francine was growing uncomfortable with his line of questioning. She remembered the night they had first met, a Friday night. ‘Anyway, I do go out on Friday if there’s a party or something.’

Ralph looked perplexed.

‘So what sort of things do you read?’

‘Magazines mostly,’ said Francine. ‘They’re not just about fashion — they have really interesting articles as well.’

Ralph’s eyes brightened and she felt satisfied that she was beginning to understand him.

‘And what about books?’ he said. ‘Do you read books?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Francine named one or two of her favoured authors, those in whose thickly gathered pages she had found the best confirmation of her own ideas about how the world worked. Ralph didn’t appear to have heard of them. ‘Perhaps I’ve got the names wrong,’ she said, giggling for his benefit. ‘I’m not very good at remembering names. Normally they get passed around the office so you don’t get to keep them for very long.’

‘I see,’ said Ralph. ‘Would you like another drink?’

‘Thanks,’ said Francine. The red wine had flushed her cheeks and she felt her spirits begin to rise. Ralph had been drinking slowly, but now he drained his glass with conviction and set it firmly on the table.

‘I think I’ll join you,’ he said. ‘We might as well get a bottle.’

Watching him, she caught an expression on his face for which she was unable to find an explanation. It was as if he had forgotten she was there, and looking at him she had a sense of glancing through a window at something she shouldn’t see, something private. Seconds later he caught her eye and the expression disappeared hastily, as though he were embarrassed. She had sat many times at tables such as this, the face opposite her but a mirror in which her successes, her charms, every flicker of her loveliness were clearly reflected. Ralph’s face was unkind to her image, and Francine was unnerved by her suspicion that behind his barred eyes whole worlds turned, lives of thought were born and flourished, and that at the centre of its operations was a presence before whom she was powerless. She shrank slightly from this unpleasant notion of his complexity, and then returned with redoubled boldness, determined to conquer it.