Paul Murray - An Evening of Long Goodbyes

After a moment’s delay, staring at the white shape, Laura relinquished me and flew off into the darkness. ‘Now then,’ I addressed Mrs P, ‘we happen to be entertaining, as you know, and I’m not sure it’s appropriate for you to be wandering about in your nightgown —’

‘What’s happening?’ she said. ‘What’s happening to our house?’

‘A power cut, I just told you,’ she was starting to unnerve me, ‘so if you want a candle, fine, and if you don’t then I think you ought to go back to bed, because frankly you’re being a little, ah, frightening.’ Her hair was undone and hung loosely down her back; her shift was old-fashioned, with buttons at the cuffs and the neck. She was close enough now for me to make out her glazed expression. ‘Now, Mrs P —’

She moved down the last few steps with one hand on the rail. She muttered to herself, then looked sternly at me. ‘They are coming, they are coming back. This is how it starts.’

‘How what starts? Where are you going?’

She reached the foot of the stairs and walked right past me, making a sharp right and calling, ‘Mirela, where are you? We must hurry…’

‘I say,’ I cleared my throat officiously at her receding form. ‘I say, now look, Mrs P — ow!’ A gobbet of hot wax had rolled down the shaft of the candle on to the back of my hand. ‘I — blast — look, I just have to go and put this down, you wait here —’ hastening to the dining room as Mrs P ambled away in the opposite direction, a mooching white square growing dim and small.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Laura asked as I searched for a candlestick.

‘Nothing, just a bit — where’s Bel and Frank?’ She was in the room alone, arranged languorously against a rosewood cabinet. I must say candlelight became her.

‘Dunno,’ she said, with a sort of allusive shrug — as if to suggest that this wasn’t necessarily a negative development. ‘Must have gone to bed.’

It seemed to me that she had placed an infinitesimal stress on the last word; but I couldn’t be sure. I thrust the candle into a holder. Now I could look at her properly. She was directing her gaze innocently towards the fireplace, as if reflecting: but some kind of transformation had definitely taken place. Even her stance was different. She leaned against the cabinet with her hips thrust brazenly forward, hands in her pockets; a button of her blouse had come undone and locks of hair hung in erotic disarray across her forehead.

‘It is getting late,’ I said ambiguously, making my way around the room installing candles in candelabra. With a barely perceptible sway she followed my movements, bestowing on me what seemed like singularly amorous smiles.

‘I suppose I should call a taxi.’ Her voice had dropped in pitch to something smoky and dry that called to a secret part of me.

‘I suppose,’ I said. She did not move. I continued with my candles. With each successive flame my vision blurred and my desire inched higher; until it seemed I was surrounded by a bacchanalian fire, through which Laura’s face danced up and down like the needle in a compass. I felt like Nero, leading Rome through her last waltz. ‘Must have been fun, though, catching up with old Frank like that,’ I said casually.

‘I wish work was always this much fun,’ she said absently. The Rigbert’s had left a carmine sheen on her upper lip. She rolled her head back, splaying her fingers and running them over the bevelled doors of the cabinet. ‘Though if I was this rich, I’d never do a day’s work again.’

My heart skipped a beat. For a long, strange moment, as she smiled at me, her form seemed to take on an extra lustre from somewhere that made the candles seem dim by comparison; and I was afraid to move in case I should disturb it. Had I misjudged her, after all? Was this the real Laura, shaking off the dust of the quotidian world? I glanced at the clock. It was midnight: there was still time enough for us to find out.

‘Then again,’ she added carelessly, ‘I might get bored, being rich on my own.’

I brought the last wick to life and extinguished the taper.

‘What do you do,’ she said, ‘when you get bored?’

‘I don’t know.’ I took a sauntering step towards her. ‘Have things insured.’

She brought her head down and stared directly at me. ‘Are you insured?’

I drew back sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘I mean,’ she giggled, ‘maybe I should have a look at you … while I’m here, like. Just to be complete.’

I took her hand. Candlelight chased back and forth across her face. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I said. Our arms curled around each other’s waist, her blouse lifting to expose a cool, silvery swatch of stomach. Under the lintel she stopped and looked up at me. ‘Are you just going to leave all those candles lit?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘It’s a fire hazard,’ she said indistinctly. ‘Forty-four per cent of fires are caused by naked… naked…’ She sank her head on my chest. ‘God, Charles, I’m so drunk.’

‘Nonsense,’ I urged her. ‘You’re quite sober. Just all that heavy food.’

We reached the stairs. I tried to balance her on one hand and a candle in the other. She was increasingly unsteady: I realized suddenly that there was a real danger she would fall asleep before we could get around to doing anything. ‘Tell me about Titanic ,’ I suggested as we negotiated the third and fourth steps; she had seemed quite exercised about it earlier on.

‘So sad,’ she sighed, ‘so sad… all those people… they’re all on this boat, the Ti —, the Ti —… I’ve seen it six times at least ’n’ I always cry…’

‘Oh yes?’ I gasped. She was getting heavier, too.

‘Leonardo DiCaprio in his tuxedo, such a babe… and Kate Winslet so pretty, even if she’s a tiny bit fat, so what?’ Her feet clunked against the steps. ‘But Kate’s Winslet’s fiancé, right, ’s a fucking, a fucking bastard… thinks he can control her, doesn’t even care she loves someone else… hate people like that think they’re better than you…’ Her brow clouded. ‘Like Bel thinks she’s so special cos she’s an actress — don’t get me wrong, Charles,’ whirling around to place a finger on my lips and nearly hurling us both down the stairs, ‘don’t get me wrong, I love her to bits — but even in school she was thinking she’s like this great actress and everyone else’s too boring t’talk to… but she’s no fun , he’ll see that sooner or later. Never even come out for a drink with us, stuck in her own little world, made herself miserable ’n’ doing all that weird stuff to herself, that’s her business if she wants to go —’

She stopped abruptly, and pulled back to study my face. Perspiration glistened above her lip and soaked my shirt. She had grown pale, and the candlelight had turned against her, giving her hollows, making her gaunt. ‘Charles, don’t get me wrong,’ slurring the words slightly, ‘I mean like she’s great and I love her to bits… and it’s so nice to finally meet you, she always talked about you in school, you all sounded so grand, like kings and queens…’

She trailed off. We looked sadly at each other.

‘I think,’ I said gently, ‘we ought to call you that taxi now.’

‘Charles,’ she said tearfully, biting her lip.

‘Yes?’

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘Oh. Oh well, quick, this way…’ I led her sniffling up the remaining stairs and down the corridor to the bathroom. I handed her the candle at the door. ‘Do you want me to hang on for you out here?’ She was about to reply, but then her eyes bulged and she put her hand over her mouth and rushed in.