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Back Life at the Top Save as PDF
Chapters (30)
  1. Introduction
  2. LIFE AT THE TOP
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. About the Author
  30. About the Cover

“I should have guessed it myself,” I said. “And he gave you that horrible cheap scent, so you wore it. I expect he gives a bottle to all his whores. You haven’t much pride, have you? He’d just finished with one woman, and you had to be the next. What was the attraction? Is he better in bed than I am? Is he?”

“It isn’t that,” she said. “You think that’s the answer to every­thing.” She stood up. “Joe, I’m sorry, but I can’t keep awake any longer. I’m too tired to make sense of anything you say. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

I grabbed her arm. “Why did you go with him?”

“He listens. He always listens. And he’s not so” – she searched for a word – “so damned triumphant as you . . . He was in a mess, he’d reached rock-bottom, everyone despised him. He needed me. You don’t need anybody. You just use people.”

I released her arm. “I never was unfaithful to you,” I said.

“You have been these ten years.”

I looked at her uncomprehendingly. “I swear to God—”

“Do you think I’m a fool, Joe? I was when we first married, but I’ve had my eyes opened since. Do you think people don’t still talk about it?”

“Alice is dead.”

“That’s it. That’s exactly what I’m complaining about.” She lit a cigarette. “At least I was unfaithful with a live person. I had that much decency. So you think you’ve the right to abuse me now, you think you’ve the right to call me a whore.”

“She’s dead,” I said, helplessly. “She’s not in my mind at all.”

“If she isn’t some other woman is,” she said. “I only know that I’m not and never have been.”

She looked at me accusingly; suddenly I had a lunatic impulse to kneel at her feet and ask her forgiveness.

13

13

The four fledglings’ mouths gaped so wide as to be ridiculous; they were parodying themselves, as was the mother sparrow, whose head was drooping despondently as if she’d given up the struggle to feed them.

Harry had borrowed my Zeiss Ikon to take the photo; it was a pretty good effort for a boy of nine. I wondered what it was doing on our bedroom wall and how the grey and primrose wall­paper had changed to plain cream distemper and the light grey fitted carpet to black lino and a tatty oatmeal rug at the bedside.