room to make sure nothing untoward was happening, high cheekbones glistening, bony hand through dark hair in anxiety. Nerina replaced her mask. Sharif clearly felt better. He nodded his approval. He almost smiled. He loved her. She was his most precious object. He wanted no part of her harmed. He went out again. The black bundle that was Nerina glowed with self-congratulation. Ellen thought of Bernard, thought of Prune, thought of Jed, thought of herself, transmuted from Ellen to a goat-inflicted fantasy that was Eleanor. Eleanor laughed and said, ‘Twins! Twins with orangy yellow elbows!’
Nerina stopped being a cosy black bundle and turned into a thin black wraith, by virtue, Eleanor thought, of standing straight, still and offended. Her metal nose mask caught the light from a dancing-girl lamp.
Mrs Khalid said, rather sharply, ‘I don’t think much of your idea of damage containment, Ellen.’
Nerina relaxed and said, ‘That’s okay, Mum. I don’t think it was anything too bad. I’ll go and lie down a bit. They aren’t half kicking about inside.’ And she smiled at Eleanor. Mrs Khalid relaxed too.
Mrs Khalid said as Eleanor went, ‘Lovely to see you again, dear. Such a pity Nerina didn’t stay on at college. But you know what love is.’
‘I do,’ said Eleanor.
Mrs Khalid’s nails were worn to the quick. When she’d been working they’d been long and polished. Eleanor had admired them.
‘I hope everything goes well for you,’ said Mrs Khalid at the front door. ‘I really do. As for me, I just try and keep Nerina happy.’
She shut the door, and it seemed to Eleanor that everything was safe and cosy inside, and noisy and dangerous outside. On the wide pavement in front of her, people of all shapes and sizes and ages crossed and criss-crossed, frenetic in their activity, like ants; yet dull in expression, apathetic of mien. No one was beautiful. Most were in some way distorted or deformed. It was not a good area. A vent at her feet gusted steam from the processes of frying fish in what smelt like everlasting oil, and whirled discarded wrapping paper about her ankles. What was everyone doing? They seemed to understand their own purposes but perhaps they didn’t, any more than she did. A mini-whirlwind lifted a polystyrene dish—large chips, large fish—and it hit her midriff. It didn’t hurt but she was quite afraid.
Valerie laughs thrice
HAD MY RELATIONSHIP WITH Hugo been like any other in the world, and not so very special, I might have thought he was what the columns of Aura refer to as ‘cooling off’. He arrived at the hotel room which was our home apparently exhausted and just a little offhand. Instead of instant lovemaking he sat in the armchair and asked me to ring room service for coffee. There are no coffee-making facilities in the Holiday Inn; if you want any you have to ask them to bring it up, and however hard the staff try to look disinterested, professional and enigmatic, I have no doubt but they return to the kitchens and have the most animated conversations about myself and Hugo. Especially since Stef, on leaving, apparently shouted at the unfortunate girls in reception, ‘There are a pair of adulterers living it up in Room 301, and like as not paying only the single rate. I suggest you look into it!’ Or so the bellboy, trying to be helpful, told me. He is a pleasant lad, Jack, who brings up and takes down the many faxes that travelled between myself and Aura, Hugo and the Independent.
Hugo then took out a packet of cigarettes and smoked one. The entire third floor was designated as a non-smoking area. They ask at reception when you book in. ‘You haven’t started smoking again!’ I said in surprise.
‘The first one for six years,’ he said. ‘The strain of all this is getting to me.’
Now this disappointed me. Naturally I wanted to be a source of happiness to him, not strain. Sensing my reaction, he put out his free hand and stroked mine. I didn’t remind him about the third floor being a smoke-free zone. Stef, I have no doubt, would have done exactly that. It’s all too easy to fall into a maternal role in any relationship—being either the good mother, or the bad mother—and it doesn’t do. (I write for Aura—I read Aura. I know these things. I have no choice.)
I told Hugo about Belinda’s visit, but not about Brenda’s letter; the burning of which now seemed to me