The Mistress - Jill Childs Page 0,67

read in here. And do his marking.’ I turned to her, smiling. ‘He probably marked some of your essays in here, over the years.’

‘And his poetry? Did he write that here too?’ Her voice was tight.

‘Sometimes. More often, sitting on the floor over there.’ I pointed to the radiator in the corner and pictured him there, his back against it, his knees drawn up, hunched over a pad of paper, his hair falling forward. A glass of wine by his elbow. In the zone.

I was so proud of his writing, when we had first met. When he first wrote about me, about his love for me, his poetry seemed such a precious gift.

Things changed, first between us, then in the poetry too. The writing became restless, as he did. Poems about unfulfilled longing, about escape. And then, finally, about his passion, thinly disguised, for other women. He seemed to think he had the right to betray me publicly in poetry. An artist’s right. It was about him, after all, this poetry. About his ego, his needs. There was no loyalty in it. That was when I stopped going to his events to hear him read.

I picked up the pile of books I’d set aside for Megan.

‘I’m giving away most of his things, but I just wondered… these seemed worth keeping.’ I handed them to her. ‘If you wanted them? I’m sure Ralph would be pleased for you to have them.’

She looked over them, one book at a time, going through the motions of opening each volume and scanning the contents, flicking through the pages, stopping here and there to run her eye down a particular poem or quotation. One or two still bore Ralph’s flamboyant signature on the flyleaf and I saw her pause and stare at it, as if she were spooked by the idea of taking a dead man’s possessions.

I put my hand on her arm. She was trembling.

‘Don’t take them if you don’t really want them. It’s fine. Honestly.’

We left the books where they were and trooped back to the kitchen to sit again at the table. Again, she focussed on the floor, avoiding my eye. This silence was so unlike her. I watched, trying to understand.

It was all wrong between us and I didn’t know why. She was so withdrawn, just as Bea had described. I’d always been her friend. We’d got along easily. I’d always kept her confidences when she’d confided in me – worries about boyfriends, best friends, schoolwork. I’d never betray her, and she knew it. Her secrets were safe with me.

‘Is it the books? Have I upset you?’ I spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not that.’ Her voice was hard with emotion, as if it hurt her to get out the words.

The kitchen clock ticked down the silence.

Finally, I said, ‘What is it, Megan?’

A shadow passed over her face. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Just stop asking! You’re as bad as Mum.’

I reached out a hand to her, soothing. ‘It’s fine. Look, forget it.’

I opened my arms to her and she pressed herself into them and clung to me. Soon, her body started to heave with hard, dry sobs, her face against my neck. I put my arms around her and held her tightly, as I might hold Anna, stroking her hair with one hand and pressing her to me with the other.

‘Sssh, Megan. I’m sorry,’ I whispered into her hair, trying to calm her. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. You just seem upset.’

She pulled away. ‘How can I tell you? I can’t tell anyone.’

I shook my head, looking at the distress in her eyes.

‘Why not? What is it, Megan?’

She withdrew from me altogether, leaving me with empty arms. ‘You’ll blame me.’

I blinked. ‘For what?’

She looked so guilty.

‘Oh, Megan.’ My heart stopped. ‘You’re not – you’re not pregnant, are you?’

‘Pregnant?’ She looked horrified. ‘No! Why would you even think that?’

I blew out my cheeks. ‘I don’t know. I just thought, maybe, a new boyfriend…’

She glared at me.

I hesitated, feeling my way. ‘Is that it? You’re seeing someone?’

‘I’m not seeing him.’ She retreated again, perching on a chair, her legs pulled up. She looked so young, hugging her knees. ‘I thought he was on my side, but he started saying stupid things. That he loved me. Needed me.’ She banged her hand on the table as if she couldn’t bear it, as if she couldn’t hold it in any longer. ‘He said it was all my fault – that I’d led