What’s wrong with that? If you had a child, you’d want that for him, wouldn’t you? To live in a world of beauty, prosperity; safety. To be happy, secure—and loved. Why is it wrong for me to want that for myself? I would have made a good husband.
Talking of husbands, I’ve seen plenty of photos of Otto—and he was no oil painting either, believe me.
Yes—I stand by my claim. Despite the discrepancy in our appearances and our bank balances, Lana and I made a great couple. Not sexy or glamorous, perhaps, like her and Jason. But less self-conscious, and more content.
Like two kids, happy as clams.
* * *
I decided to proceed formally—as you might in an old-fashioned movie. I felt some kind of romantic declaration would be appropriate: a confession of my feelings; the story of a friendship turned to love, that kind of thing. I practiced a little speech—concluding in a marriage proposal.
I even bought a ring—a cheap thing, admittedly; a plain silver band. It was the best I could afford. My intention was to replace it with something more valuable, one day, when my ship came in. But even though it was just a prop, as a symbol of my affection, that ring was as meaningful or significant as any island Otto might buy her.
One Friday evening, with the engagement ring in my pocket, I went to meet Lana at a gallery opening on the South Bank.
My plan was to sneak her onto the roof, under the stars, and propose above the Thames. What could be a more appropriate backdrop, given all our walks along the river?
But when I arrived at the gallery, Lana wasn’t there. Kate was, though, holding court at the bar.
“Hello,” she said, giving me a funny look. “I didn’t know you were coming. Where’s Lana?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.”
“She’s late, as usual.” Kate gestured at the tall man standing next to her. “Meet my new fella. Isn’t he devilishly handsome? Jason, this is Elliot.”
Just then, Lana arrived. She came over and was introduced to Jason. And then—well, you know the rest.
Lana acted completely out of character that night. She was all over Jason, flirting shamelessly with him. She threw herself at him. And she was being so weird with me, so cold, and dismissive. She rebuffed all my attempts to talk to her—as if I didn’t exist.
I left the gallery feeling confused and dejected. The cold hard ring was in my pocket, and I turned it over and over in my fingers. I found myself giving in to a familiar feeling of despair, a feeling of inevitability.
I could hear the kid sobbing in my head: Of course, of course she didn’t want you. She’s embarrassed by you. You’re not good enough for her, can’t you see that? She regretted kissing you. And tonight was her way of putting you in your place.
Fair enough, I thought. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps I never stood a chance with Lana. Unlike Jason, I was no practiced seducer. Except of old women, apparently.
My jailer was waiting for me when I got back to the house. She had been writing all evening and was now relaxing with a large Scotch in the living room.
“Well, how was it?” Barbara poured herself another drink. “Fill me in on all the gossip. I want a full report.”
“No gossip. Very dull.”
“Oh, come on. Something must have happened. I’ve been working hard all day, earning our daily bread. At least you can entertain me a little before bed.”
I was in no mood to indulge her and remained monosyllabic. Barbara could sense my unhappiness. And, like a true predator, couldn’t resist going in for the kill.
“What’s the matter, dear?” She peered at me.
“Nothing.”
“You’re being very quiet. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure? Tell me about it. What is it?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, I bet I can guess.” Suddenly, Barbara laughed, full of glee—like an impish child delighting in a mean prank.
I felt unaccountably nervous. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s a private joke. You wouldn’t understand.”
I knew better than to react. She was trying to provoke me, but there was no point in getting into a fight with Barbara. I have learned from bitter experience that you never win an argument with a narcissist. It doesn’t work like that. Your only victory is to leave.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Wait.” She downed her drink. “Help me upstairs.”
Barbara walked with a stick by then, which made climbing stairs difficult. I supported her with one arm. She held on to the banister with her other hand. We slowly made our way upstairs.