The Radiant Way. Margaret Drabble

was? Esther’s strange allusion to a hornet’s nest? That look of frank dislike and satisfaction from Antonia Haycock? That uncharacteristically and overly broad anecdote from Pett Petrie? Hilda Stark’s excessively theatrical departing conspiratorial embrace? That odd, bitter, comradely crack about men from Kate Armstrong? That glance of panic from her daughter Sally? All these messages had been sent forth, and she had received none of them, had continued to consider herself in charge, in control, the prime mover. Until, under the mirror, after many a circle and feint, after many a playful retreat and renewed approach, Ivan at last cornered her, and even before he opened his mouth she felt the smell of fear from herself: her pores broke open, she stood there panting slightly, her hair rising on the back of her neck in terror, her heated skin covered in icy sweat: ‘And when,’ asked Ivan pleasantly, ‘are you two going to make the announcement? Is it to be tonight, or do we wait?’

      The words meant nothing, or should have meant nothing. She smiled foolishly. Her mind leaped. It ran, it leaped, it scrambled for cover. It turned.

      ‘And why not tonight?’ she said.

      ‘You’ve kept your own plans very dark,’ said Ivan.

      ‘Ah well, you know me,’ she said, knowing nothing.

      ‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ said Ivan. ‘I think you two stuck it out pretty well, in the circumstances. How long has it been? Twenty years?’

      The utterly expected, the utterly unexpected, can they be the same thing, she wondered.

      ‘Your name,’ Ivan continued, ‘has been linked with Gabriel Denham’s, but I don’t even see him here tonight.’

      She stood there: he stared at her. She could say nothing. A pillar of salt. She was dependent on him. She could not move until he released her.

      ‘Whereas Henrietta, I see,’ Ivan continued with a remorseless pity, ‘is very much at home here.’

      ‘Henrietta?’ Liz echoed. It was the moment she was most to regret. It betrayed ignorance. Only a second’s ignorance, but ignorance. Had Ivan noticed? Desperate, she found again the faculty of speech, heard her own voice, familiar, natural, even powerful: ‘Ah yes, Henrietta. Yes, we see a good deal of Henrietta.’ She had no notion of what her words meant, but they sounded good, they fortified her, and she continued bravely, ‘But as for Gabriel, whose name has not been linked with Gabriel’s? I think you must find a more interesting candidate than Gabriel. What about, for example – ’ and she cast her eyes around her assembly, seeing reprieve, in the approaching form of Edgar Lintot, her first husband, ‘what about Edgar? Now that would be an interesting plot, for us at least. I see a great deal of Edgar these days, you know. We often lunch together. Well,’ (and the plausibility of her own tone, at the moment, amazed her) ‘sometimes.’

      ‘What’s all this?’ said tall, beaky, dedicated Edgar. ‘Gossip, is it? I’ve come to say good night, Lizzie. I’ve got a long drive tomorrow. Very nice party, very nice. See you at the meeting.’

      ‘Yes, gossip,’ said Ivan tenaciously. ‘We were talking about Charles and Henrietta. I wonder what New York will make of Henrietta.’

      Edgar was not listening. Ivan did not interest him, gossip did not interest him, he had given up the personal life. He kissed Liz on the cheek. ‘I think it’s on the thirtieth, isn’t it? Have a good time with the Japanese tomorrow. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

      ‘Give my love to your mother,’ said Liz. She managed to edge herself out of her corner, away from Ivan, back into the current. She followed Edgar a few paces across the room. Ivan, behind her, was accosted by a fellow-journalist. He wanted to retain her, to keep her, to tease her, to worry her, to kill her, but he could not: she escaped. Escaped to a comforting, numbing succession of thanks and farewells, for the party was beginning to break up: ‘Happy New Year,’ echoed again and again, as Liz searched vaguely for Charles but could not find him, Happy New Year, see you soon, goodbye, say goodbye to Charles for me, goodbye. And there, in a conspicuous lull, was Lady Henrietta herself, extending her hand and cheek. Seeing her, Liz saw it all. The certainty inspired her. She drew breath.

      ‘And when,’ she asked politely, ‘do you go to New York?’

      Henrietta looked back, with a frigid calm, beneath which lay a hesitation.

      ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Yes. I thought February.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Liz.

      ‘Perhaps we could talk some rime? . . . May I ring you? We could have lunch?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Liz. She had won, temporarily: she had managed to give the impression that she knew. Though what it was that she knew, she could not at that moment have said.

      The two women kissed, again, and drew apart.

      It was to be a long night. The hard core of party-goers stayed on until the small hours, drinking coffee, sprawled on settees, sinking into morose abuse and gloom, surfacing occasionally to laugh, to chatter, relapsing, rising, sinking again. Joseph O’Toole (always among the last to leave any party) sat in a corner with Anthony Keating talking of God. Kate Armstrong came in with another tray of coffee. The young people had gone upstairs, to bed, or not to bed: strains of music drifted from the upper regions plaintively. Charles reappeared, after half an hour’s absence, and threw himself into an armchair, where he lay back for some time with his eyes shut. Liz thought he looked appalling, and wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. Blotchy, middle aged, fat. She was frightened of him. She had always been frightened of him. That was why she had fallen in love with him. He had power over her. And now he was going to divorce her and marry Lady Henrietta Latchett. She knew it all, now: she had divined it all. Too late for self-respect, but not too late to exact a little vengeance. No wonder he looked so crumpled. He was about to embark on a new life in New York with the most boring woman in Britain. And she, at her age, what was she to do? A terrible, drunken tiredness filled her and she too sat back and shut her eyes. The room turned, as it had done in the parties of her youth.

      The sight of both host and hostess apparently sleeping rallied the laggards, eventually, and with apologies they began to stumble to their feet. Liz and Charles rose too. Little was said: it was too late. Only one interchange could Liz later remember: ‘A very good party, a better party than ever,’ said the recently felled historian Giles, now fully recovered, to which Liz heard herself reply, ‘Well, it’s as well you made the most of it, for it will be the last.’

      The announcement was greeted with mute and grave acceptance by the departing guests. Cold air drifted in through the front door. Liz shivered. The door shut. She and Charles returned to the drawing-room. They sat down. Ceremonially, as it were: to attention, as it were.

      ‘I’m going to bed,’ said Charles, but did not move.

      Liz stared at him. She could see that he was frightened of her. He looked lamentable, disadvantaged, weak. His eyes were bloodshot.

      ‘You didn’t dare to tell me,’ said Liz.

      ‘I think we should get divorced,’ said Charles.

      ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think I’d try to stop you? Did you think I’d plead with you to stay?’

      ‘No,’ said Charles, dully. ‘It wasn’t that. Not that at all. Anyway, I thought you knew.’

      ‘If you thought I knew, why didn’t you tell me?’

      He laughed briefly.

      ‘This was a very expensive charade,’ she said, pursuing her advantage. She was beginning to think she knew where she was. He nodded agreement, muttered that he thought a grand finale would be her kind of thing, better to wrap it up in style, he said, echoing Ivan. And then he suddenly said, in a more natural tone, in an everyday tone that she rarely heard from him these days, ‘And anyway, I thought it wouldn’t matter to anyone, now the children are grown up.’

      ‘What?’

      Patiently, he repeated, as though perhaps she had not