Читать книгу A Pure Clear Light - Madeleine John St. - Страница 5
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Оглавление‘Simon, there’s a woman over there who keeps looking at us.’
‘Surely not.’
‘There is. For God’s sake; take a look yourself. It must be someone you know.’
‘Hardly likely, darling. Just your, imagination.’
‘I haven’t got any imagination, as you perfectly well know. Look, there she goes again. Hurried, furtive glances. Oh my God.’
Simon shrugged. ‘It’s probably Flora,’ he said.
Gillian pulled her hand away from Simon’s. ‘That was despicable,’ she said.
And so it was: for Flora was Simon’s deceived, betrayed wife, and Gillian was his mistress, and whether or not their liaison itself was in poor taste (as some might have averred) flippant or jesting remarks very surely were. Simon’s expression was all contrition; shame filled his heart. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
Gillian said nothing. It was Flora to whom the apologies were actually due: strange that it should be she who should apparently be more conscious of this. She picked up her glass and drank, glancing across the crowded brasserie as she did so. Simon saw her sudden startled glance. ‘There she goes again,’ she hissed. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Simon, take a look yourself. Look in the mirror.’
Gillian was sitting with her back to the wall, which was lined with mirror glass; Simon, opposite her, peered into its depths. ‘Such a lot of people,’ he said. ‘Where is she sitting, exactly?’
‘Over by the door. In a black hat. You should spot her easily.’
Simon looked again, and this time he saw the hat: he saw the hat, he saw – briefly, dreadfully, and just sufficiently – the face beneath it. ‘Oh my God,’ he said. And he seemed to shrink down in his chair, as if wishing to extinguish himself entirely.
‘Who is it?’
‘Of all the putrid, idiotic bad luck.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Don’t look now,’ Simon said, ‘for God’s sake, don’t look now – in fact, don’t look again, ever. She mustn’t know we’ve seen her. There’s just a chance that she won’t be sure it’s me. After all, she’s only seen my back.’
‘Unless she’s seen your face in the mirror,’ said Gillian. ‘Who the hell is she, Simon?’ Gillian was terrified that it might, indeed, be Flora, whom she had never seen, whom she hoped she might never, never see; she was appalled at the idea in any case of their having been seen, she and Simon together: that some innocent explanation might just conceivably be offered and accepted for their presence here, now, was almost beside the point. And what, so far, had the unknown woman seen – their clasped hands? the veil of intimacy which enclosed them here in this crowded place? Who, in any event, was she?
‘Well, it isn’t Flora,’ said Simon.
‘Thank God for that.’
‘But it’s almost as bad. Almost.’
‘Which is?’
‘It’s Lydia. It’s Lydia Faraday.’
‘And who, exactly,’ said Gillian, ‘is Lydia Faraday?’