Corduroy Mansions Page 0,54

corner, near the window, a couple actually laughed at something one of them had said, their eyes bright with mirth.

Enough.

She made the observation casually. “Something interesting in the paper?”

Oedipus shrugged. “Not really.”

Barbara felt her heart beating faster. She was fully aware of what she was doing. Her relationship with Oedipus Snark had lasted for two years. She had hoped for something out of it. She had hoped that he would give some indication that he was at least thinking of something permanent, something publicly acknowledged. She had hoped that they might get invitations headed “Oedipus and Barbara.” She had hoped that he might remember her birthday without being prodded; she had hoped for a few signs that she was important to him. But I am not, she thought. I am a casual companion, that is all; an incidental adjunct.

She drew in her breath. “Do you know that game that children play? Where they say, Would you rather be eaten by a lion or a shark? Or would you rather …”

Oedipus did not glance up from the paper. “What?”

“I said that there’s a game that children play,” she said quietly. “My nephew played it when he was ten. He kept asking me which of two options I would like.”

“Your nephew? The one who liked cricket?”

At least he remembered, she thought. Louis liked cricket, and Oedipus had talked to him about it. He had promised to take him to Lords one day because he knew somebody there and the boy’s eyes had lit up. Of course he had never taken him.

“Yes. Louis. Remember?”

“I remember him. Lewis.”

“Louis.”

“That’s what I said.”

There was a short silence. Then Barbara continued. “So,” she said, “would you rather be with me or in the House of Commons? Do you prefer me or the House of Commons? Or how about this: Would you rather be on a slow boat to China with me or be elected leader of the Liberal Democrats? Or …”

Oedipus lowered his newspaper. “What’s all this?” he said.

Barbara reached for a spoon. She did not know why, but she reached for a spoon and held it firmly in her right hand, as if it were a weapon. With this spoon, I shall …

“I’ve had enough, Oedipus.”

The newspaper was now lying on the table, the corner of one of its pages dipped in the butter, which was soft. Oedipus frowned.

“Is there something biting you?” he asked, glancing over at the table nearest them. Women were impossible, he felt. They wanted attention. Attention, attention, attention—all the time. One could not even read the paper without them wanting you to talk to them instead. They were fundamentally unstable creatures, Oedipus Snark thought: demanding, critical, quick to take offence because one was doing something as innocent as reading the paper.

Barbara looked at him, trying to get him to look her in the eye. But he would not. His gaze moved away to the neighbouring table, to the ceiling, to the newspaper in the butter.

“I don’t think that there’s much point in our continuing to see one another,” she said. “I really don’t. You show no interest in me, you see? You don’t really care for me.”

She tried to keep her voice even, but it faltered as she spoke the words she had not spoken to him before. I only want to be loved, she thought. I only want what other people get, which is somebody who loves them. And I thought it might be you, and I was so wrong. I’m convenient to you, that’s all. You want somebody around you because you don’t want to be by yourself. But you don’t really mind who it is, do you? You don’t.

She stood up, nudging the table as she did so and causing Oedipus’s coffee to spill. It made a large brown stain on the tablecloth.

“Look what you’ve done,” he muttered. “What a mess.”

“You can get a train back,” she said. “You can get a train back or stay here all weekend and read the papers. I don’t care either way.”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “You do, you know. You do care,” he said, adding, “see?”

39. Barbara Ragg Acts

SHE PACKED through her tears. She thought that Oedipus would come up to the room, would follow her, would plead. And she might relent—might—if he at least apologised for his indifference. If he had said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Barbara, I’ve been under such pressure and you know how it is …” she would have dropped whatever it was that she