John Braine - Room at the Top

"You were lovely, darling," I said.

"I thought you mightn't like me. You seemed so cold and scowly afterwards." She ran her finger along my forehead. "You're an awful old scowler." She kissed my forehead. "I'll kiss the scowl away. Don't you like me, old grumpy?"

"You've come between me and my sleep from the very first moment I saw you," I said.

"I thought you were horrid then," she said. "You stared at me so. And you scowled at Jack as if you wanted to kill him."

"So I did. Pure jealousy."

She put her hand on my wrist. "You've got 'normous bones. And a great big strong neck. Were you really jealous? I've never had anyone jealous of me before." She paused. "At least, I don't think so."

"You've broken so many hearts that you don't know."

"Oh what fun. Am I a femme fatale like Alice? In The Farm I mean. Very slinky and seductive?"

"Definitely not."

"You're horrid," she said, and rolled away from me. "I won't have anything more to do with you, Joe Lampton."

"You're something much better than a femme jatale," I said. "You're an enchantress. Young and fresh and fair ..." I remembered Eva's words. "Comme Ia rose au jour de bataille."

"That's beautiful," she said. She repeated the words; her accent was much better than mine. She flung her arms around my neck and covered me with kisses. "Darling darling Joe." Then we lay silent for a while. "Joe," she said, "what were you thinking about at the party? You said you'd tell me when we were properly alone."

What had I been thinking about? Then I remembered what I had to accomplish. I looked at the pale oval of her face with the large eyes, now dark and serious, and a scrap of poetry which Alice had been fond of came back to me.

"Tulip figure, so appealing. Oval face, so serious-eyed ..."

"That's Betjeman," she said. "It's gorgeous. I'm not so nice as that, though."

"It was written for you," I said. "I'll call you tulip, shall I?"

She hit me on the arm. "You're maddening, Joe. Tell me now. What were you thinking about last night?"

If I did tell you, I thought, what would happen? I've got her, I took my friend's advice, she's mine and I can do what I like with her. I've beaten that bastard Wales. I'll marry her if I have to put her in the family way to do it. I'll make her daddy give me a damned good job. I'll never count pennies again. And, every now and again, sharp as toothache, the loneliness, the torment of needing the one person I didn't want to need - those were my thoughts, those and a gloating appraisement of young virginity and a maudlin pity like a paste jewel in a toad's head. I pushed my conscience away from the controls and let my intelligence take over.

"You'll be angry with me if I tell you," I said.

"I promise not to be. Cross my heart."

"I couldn't."

"You are mean," she said. I could see tears glittering in her eyes. "You promised. I wish you hadn't told me - "

I kissed her hard, putting my tongue between her lips. "I love you," I said. "I've always loved you. That's what I was thinking."

"I love you too," she said.

I inserted the correct amount of delighted incredulity into my voice. "Do you really, Susan? Honestly and truly? Oh darling, I can't believe it."

"It's true. I think I did all the time - because even when I thought you were awful I thought a lot about how awful you were. And I was going with Jack and it was most confusing."

"Were you in love with Jack?"

"Not really. I've known him a long time and Mummy likes him. He's very safe and solid."

"Am I safe and solid?"

She dropped her eyes. "You make me feel funny inside," she said. "I never felt like that before."

"You make me feel all funny inside too. You know, there's hundreds of times I've cursed you - all the time we were going out together you seemed so cold and withdrawn, so damned platonic. I just gave it up, it didn't seem any use."

"Golly. Were you blazing with pent-up desire like people in books?"

"Too true I was."

"You never tried to kiss me."

"It was futile. You always know when a woman wants to be kissed."

"You don't like to be rebuffed, do you, Joe?"

Her tone was disconcertingly shrewd.

"No. I'll be honest with you. I can't bear it. Neither could you if you were me."

"Why should it be worse for you than for me?"

I felt angry. She was lucky, she'd always been lucky, she'd never known the reality of the cold bedroom and the stuffy living room with the blaring radio, she'd never had to worry about exams or a job or the price of new clothes, even her way of speaking with its touchingly childish affectations was a luxury no one of the working classes could afford. I wanted to blurt all this out; but she wouldn't have understood and, in any case, I must transform myself into a different person for her. She had, I felt instinctively, a conception of Joe Lampton which I'd never to depart from in the smallest detail. Self-pity and class-consciousness weren't included in that conception. Alice, would accept these things, though she'd play the devil with me for my stupidity. Alice was old enough to understand that men aren't all of a piece, old enough to take me as I was and not as she'd like me to be. I was taking Susan not as Susan, but as a Grade A lovely, as the daughter of a factory owner, as the means of obtaining the key to the Aladdin's cave of my ambitions; and she was taking me as the perfect lover and delightful companion, passionate and tender and exciting and infinitely wise; Susan might of course be prepared to take me with all my faults because she loved me so wholeheartedly - indeed, to behave badly might be a sure way of holding her. But I couldn't afford to take any risks.

"I'm horribly shy," I said. "I know it sounds funny, but I can never believe that any woman could possibly like me well enough to let me kiss her." I took her hand. "Darling, I know it sounds funny, but there it is. And perhaps - well, perhaps I'm a little conceited too. Masculine bumptiousness - in an odd way I think not only that I'm most unattractive but that I'm wonderful too. Too wonderful to be rebuffed." I moved away a little from her and lit a cigarette. "Oh God, I'm sick of myself. I'm afraid you've mixed yourself up with a very queer type."

As the words came from my lips I felt that they had nothing to do with me. And they hadn't: a part of me felt a great tenderness for her - she was as trustful as a baby - but the most important part of me was continuing the operation according to plan.

She kissed my hand. "They're beautiful. Square and strong."

"They're wicked hands. When they're with Susan they always want to go where they've no business to be."

"Oh, wicked Joe. Wicked hands. So warm too, warm as hot muffins. Oh, you are wonderful, you're the wonderfullest man in the whole world. Do you know, you're not queer a little bit? Most men are like that."

"Not like me."

"Silly billy, of course like you. Now you make me feel awfully old."

Her hands were icy. "We'd better go," I said. "You're cold."

" Not cold," she said. "Never cold with Joekins."

"Dearest Susan," I said. "I'll always keep you warm. But it isn't summer yet, you know."

"I'm not cold, so there."

"Don't argue. Or I'll beat you black and blue."

"I'd like that."

I helped her up to her feet. She put her cheek against mine, standing on her toes. "Joe, do you really love me?"

"You know I do."

"How much?"

"A hundred thousand pounds' worth," I said. "A hundred thousand pounds' worth."

Hoylake showed all his dentures in a dazzling smile. "Sit down, won't you, Joe? Cigarette?"

The slight unease which had accompanied me into his office evaporated; obviously he hadn't found out about me and Alice. I had been a little scared of that; local government officials are by no means free to behave as they like in their spare time. There's always the shadow of the Town Hall looming over one; I've known of married officials who've been told either to stop committing adultery or give in their notice. However, I didn't seriously consider the possibility of anything unpleasant happening that morning; I was in far too happy a mood, good fortune seemed to be following me like a huge affectionate dog. I'd been going out with Susan about a month now, and the memory of what had happened last night when baby-sitting at the Storrs' still left a haze of pleasure over my common sense - a world that could hold such pleasure, I reasoned, couldn't possibly be unkind to me in the slightest way.