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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 kissed her on the cheek; that schoolgirl expression, which she didn’t seem to have used for a long time, provoked in me a queer avuncular tenderness.

“I’ll begin to worry when you’re not jealous and possessive,” I said.

“That’ll be the day.” She gave me a little push. “Now go and mix my Martini, slave.”

I mixed an extra one for myself whilst I was waiting for her. The quarrel was over, over almost as quickly as it had begun; the air had been cleared. But there would be other storms. And one of these days I wouldn’t be able to ride the storm. One of these days Susan was going to say something to which there would be no answer except to leave her.

Gerda was singing in the kitchen. The song was German; I could only catch something about a ship of death. The tune had a strange raucous poignancy; it wasn’t music so much as sorrow, a hoarsely real sorrow; that ship of death, as far as I could tell from my scanty knowledge of the language, was going to come soon to take away a lot of people. They didn’t expect the ship of death, but it was on its way.

I put down my empty glass and went over to the sofa. For a while, supine there with a cushion under my head, I had an illusion of happiness. I wasn’t tired, I told myself; I had just laid aside my pack for a moment.

There was a bunch of honesty in the copper jug on the writing-desk, the oval white seedpods translucent in the evening sunlight. I’d helped Barbara to pick them in the afternoon; she called them paper flowers. I’d told her the prettier names – satin flower, money flower, moon-wort – but to her they were paper flowers, too elegant and smooth for reality.

Suddenly the pack was on my shoulders again; there was no quietness in the room. I got up and looked through my pockets for cigarettes. There were none. I went to the silver box on the coffee-table, Susan filled it when she remembered; I seemed to have seen her open it today. The left hand compartment was full; that was always reserved for Turkish cigarettes. The right hand compartment was empty.

It didn’t matter, I told myself. It didn’t matter. I’d buy some on the way to the Alexandra Hall. I didn’t want one badly; if there hadn’t been any cigarettes there at all, it wouldn’t have both­ered me. I slammed the box shut and went over to the cock­tail cabinet.

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