Would she one day not remember what Robert looked like? She shut her eyes and tried to forget it now. It wasn't so much his looks as the way he smiled, the sound of his voice, that feeling of delight which the lover can experience at the mere fact of someone else.
He didn't make a fool of me, Cristine told herself 'I made a fool of myself. I'm good at that. It's probably my chief talent.'
"You never listen properly," her boss had told her once. She had been a young reporter then, running on tiptoe to get experience of life and work, never stopping to hear what anyone told her in case she missed life round the corner.
She had made a stupid mistake, confusing two names. Two irate and very important men had converged on the newsroom to protest about her. "You never listen properly."
She should have listened when Harry told her 'Don't take me seriously.'
He had been honest. He hadn't asked her to fall in love with that depth and intensity.
They had met at an official luncheon. Cristine had been there to accept an award on behalf of her news team for their coverage of a bitter little war in one of the emerging African countries. Western interest had been brief. A few news stories, pictures, and then the subject had faded from the newspapers. Cristine had been angry while she listened to the self congratulatory speeches. She had just flown back from seeing things she knew she would never forget and the whole thing had seemed unreal to her-- the expensive food, the men in well tailored suit, the cigars and wine. She couldn't help remembering a starving child who had begged in the streets of a township for food. She hadn't had any to give and so had poured all he loose change into the the little boy's hands. She had been on her way to fly home. The memory of his emaciated face had gone wit her every mile of the way.
But she wasn't there to give her opinions. She had made her polite little speech of thanks, and to sink the memory she had drunk more than she normally did. A mixture of wine and anger had made her sparkle. Harry had sat next to her. They fell into light talk and as the lunch ended he asked her "May I see you again?"
At first she was so often away doing a story that it was some time before she realized how involved she was getting, but she had thought it was mutual. Harry was always so happy to see her, so regretful when she had to fly off again.
He lived and worked in London. London was his idea of heaven. He knew everyone and went everywhere. As editor of a well- read magazine he got masses of invitations and was always welcome.
Harry was a social creature, he liked good company and his taste were all gregarious ones. He got complimentary tickets for every new play, opera, ballet. He got party invitations by the bag. Apart from his importance as an influential editor he made a charming guest. He was popular, especially with women.
Cristine had realized from the start that he had an eventful past. She got used to finding herself facing someone from it a woman with curious, amused eyes who half wanted to swap anecdotes about him and half wanted to keep them jealousy to herself. Harry was always delighted to meet them. He never showed any sign of embarrassment or confusion. "Marvelous to see you again." he would assure them.
Cristine had been through a phase of being sorry for them, the women who hadn't been able to hold him, not realising that it would be her turn very soon to recognise that couldn't hold Harry. He wouldn't let you.
She knew that now, she wished she had realized it from the start. She wouldn't have this sharp, bothering pain in her chest, like a mouse imprisoned by her ribcage tearing its way out.
The fact that love was an illusion didn't help at the moment. The illusion of love sting clung to her. When it faded, the pain would go too, she told herself. She wished she had rather more wine with her dinner. Sleep was being indefinite.
She closed her eyes and lay very still, breathing regularly, inviting sleep to come.
When she opened them again it was daylight. The mist had lifted. A frail sunlight was lingering its way across the walls and there was a sound of voices on the narrow outside the hotel.
It was a moment before she realized that what had woken her was the tap at the door. It came again and she called sleepily "Come in."
Her breakfast had arrived. No Times, though. The sallow- skinned floor maid explained with a shrug: "No papers- the mist."
Cristine made no comment. She slipped into her loose blue silk negligee and sat up, pouring coffee and spreading a roll with butter and thick cherry jam.
The coffee was milky flavoured again. What did they make it with? Acorns?
When she had finished she showered and dressed in a cream trouser suit. She meant to take another walk and send some postcards. "Send us a postcard." Johanna had ordered, not so much for the sake of hearing from her as because the eldest of Johanna's children, Kerry, collected stamps and Cristine had given his collection a wide selection from the places she visited. She never forgot to send him a card even when she was only somewhere for a day or two. Kerry was seven and believed the world revolved around him. He was at the age when this seemed an obvious fact and it wouldn't occur to him that Cristine, his favorite aunt, could fail to remember him. Cristine would hate to hurt his feelings or puncture his ego at such a tender age.
At intervals in her busy life she sometimes thought how nice it would be to have a son like Kerry. She was fond of him. "Easy for you." Johanna would tell her if she said so." You only see him on his best behavior. You should be here when he's got measles or doesn't want to go to bed because there's something on TV he wants to see. He's a little monster then."
---To be continued..
