Rachel Cusk - The Temporary

‘Bye,’ said Lorraine, without looking up.

‘See you tomorrow,’ said Francine, picking up her bag and sweeping past her.

She saw him as soon as she came through the glass doors; or at least, his demeanour informed her that it must be him, for she barely recognized his appearance. He was sitting on one of the large leather sofas at the end of the foyer, reading a newspaper. In his casual clothes he looked leisurely and incongruous against the hushed, industrious marble of the hall, his rustling pages loud above the tapping of heels and the low purr of telephones. His concrete presence, after the night-time memory she had nurtured of him, surprised her with its unfamiliarity. He leaned back into the sofa, smiling at something he was reading. Far from threatening his confidence, his separateness made it monolithic, and Francine felt suddenly rather afraid of him. She crossed the hall and stood in front of him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said finally, when he didn’t look up. Now that she had said something she felt better, and she readied a smile for his attention.

‘Aha!’

He leaped from his seat and to her surprise kissed her cheek. His skin was soft and slightly perfumed, like a woman’s. For a moment she could feel more than see him and her nerves instantly burned with consciousness. The force of his physical proximity seemed to envelop her in its currents, like heat.

‘How did you find me?’ she said, drawing back. She tried to stop herself from staring at him — he was so good looking, like somebody from a magazine! — but there was something beleaguering in the mobility of his face, his flickering smile, the enthusiasm of his limbs pressing against his clothes, which made it hard to unstick her eyes.

‘Not difficult.’ He shook his head and made a tutting noise through his teeth. With a pang Francine wondered if he was laughing at her. ‘Ralph told me. Weeks ago, I’ll admit, but how could I forget Lancing & Louche? Louche! ’ He cackled. ‘Anyway, I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop in. Time for a drink?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Francine with studied reluctance, resolved to play him at his own game. She looked at her watch. ‘Where shall we go?’

‘Leave that to me,’ said Stephen, taking her arm and leading her towards the large glass doors. ‘I know a place.’

Francine felt an almost suffocating admiration at her throat as she permitted herself to be led. She remembered then that Stephen had been like that at the party, at once pinching and caressing, and the memory reassured her. He was so forceful, so completely in control of things; he made her feel alive! Her tainted circumstances, momentarily forgotten, came back to her blacker than ever. Why couldn’t Ralph be like that? Why had she chosen him, when Stephen had been there too? He liked her, it was obvious that he did. If only she had waited! She vaguely remembered waiting, in the days after the party, for Stephen to call, her disappointment, her bewilderment, when he didn’t.

‘So how are you, Francine?’ he said as they walked, arms still linked, out into the street. He glanced at her. ‘As lovely as ever, I see.’

‘Oh, I’m all right,’ said Francine wistfully.

‘Good.’ He steered her down a narrow turning into a small alley. ‘That’s good. Here we are.’

They had arrived at a small bar which, as Francine hadn’t known it was there, appeared intriguing. Stephen held open the door and she walked in ahead of him and down a flight of wooden steps, into a large cellar with barrels against the walls and tables with candles. Despite the early hour it was already crowded and echoing with laughter and conversation.

‘This is nice,’ said Francine.

‘Stick with me, honey,’ he said in a comic voice. ‘I know this town — I’ve been thrown out of most of it.’ He laughed, as if he were joking. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll get us something to drink.’

He wandered towards the bar while she sat down at an empty table. She watched him as he ordered, saying something to the barman which made him smile. He was wearing a suede jacket which looked expensive. Moments later he came to the table with a bottle and two glasses.

‘Thought you’d prefer white,’ he said, setting the bottle down on the table.

‘I do,’ said Francine, thinking triumphantly of the bitter ink Ralph had made her drink. Stephen inspected her with amused, brazen eyes, and as she felt his examination she realized that she hadn’t assessed her appearance in front of a mirror before she’d left the office. She looked back at him boldly to deflect him. Meeting his gaze, its unexpected penetration almost caused her physically to lurch, as if he had suddenly pressed himself against her. The warm tentacles of his proximity curled about her skin. For the first time in her life, she felt as if it didn’t matter what she looked like. His mouth, which moved constantly in a perpetual curve, seemed instead to be tasting her, feeding from her face.

‘So who are Lancing and Louche?’ he said, filling her glass. ‘They live up to their names, I hope.’

‘They’re my bosses,’ said Francine, sipping delicately. ‘They’re really boring.’

‘No skirmishes behind the filing cabinets, then?’

Francine giggled. ‘Not really.’

‘I bet you’re a bit of distraction, though, aren’t you? Running around the office in your — your very short skirt, if I may say. I see major deals falling through as you bring them their coffee, Francine.’

Francine giggled again. She felt her skin begin to blush beneath his words, as if they were hands. The sensation surprised her with its unpleasantness, and she tried once more to bathe in his attention. It was just as she had hoped it would be! Looking at his careless face seconds later, she felt a more distinct twinge of discomfort. She hadn’t felt that way at all when she’d first met him, had felt a glow, in fact, which had lasted for days afterward, and it dimly struck her that something had happened to her. A ridiculous ache for Ralph grew tight across her chest, and she picked up her glass and emptied it with one bitter swallow.

‘Steady on,’ laughed Stephen. ‘I won’t be able to carry a big girl like you all the way home.’

‘I can look after myself,’ said Francine, irked by his physical assessment of her

‘I’m sure you can.’

A brittle edge to his voice sundered their atmosphere and stranded them in silence. Stephen looked about him, suddenly indifferent to her presence, and when an attractive girl walked by Francine was astounded to see his eyes follow her quite openly, as if attached by invisible threads to her flanks. His gaze came back to her and his face assumed an expression of amusement, as if he could see what she was thinking. In that moment she suddenly hated him, hated him almost as much as she hated Ralph. Their connection with each other made a circuit for her anger and it flowed effectively between them in her thoughts.

‘How do you know Ralph?’ she said sharply, desperate to regain his attention but unable to think of anything else to talk about. The wine was beginning to creep numbly through her veins.

‘What? Oh, Ralph. We were at school together.’

Francine knew that already, but Stephen didn’t seem to think it odd that she should say she didn’t.

‘What was he like?’

‘At school?’ Stephen barked with laughter. ‘He was a prat, if you really want to know. A right little goody two-shoes.’

She felt a vague plummeting of disappointment, but the thought that Stephen might say more bad things about Ralph — things she could repeat to him later if the necessity arose — encouraged her back to interrogation.

‘Why were you friends with him, then?’