CHAPTER XIX : SWEET & BITTER PREOCCUPATIONS
I was trying to think of a play that would appeal to Diana. We had not been on a theatre date for over two weeks. Omar’s attempts to disaffect me from her had fallen on deaf ears. The clearly delineated beliefs and dogmas he expressed were arrogant and showed a lack of sensitivity and consideration for the details of any situation. She will not give up her boyfriend, throw her out, harden your heart, the skinny bitch. They were the makings and tenets of a womanizer. I was not one and never could be. True he never maltreated his women but I don’t think he ever loved them and if he fell for Annie, the extent of which I did not know, it was because she was cool with him, she did not ask, she did not beg, she did not demand exclusivity or, I am sure, ever told him she was in love with him. On the contrary, he saw he was expendable and this new experience shook him and drew him closer to her. Thinking of womanizers, I remembered a review I read on What’s On about the story of Henry II and Thomas Becket both of whom were friends and womanizers on a grand feudal scale before fate, interests and Becket’s newfound loyalty to the Church caused them to become enemies. Coming back to Diana, I decided on Jean Anouilh’s Becket. It was playing at the Aldwych Theatre with a top notch cast.
I met her Tuesday at the station as usual. I was more or less over my Sunday depression, The Monday and Tuesday college attendance put me back in the everyday routine of the relatively carefree student life where depressions are rare and short-lived. When I saw her I wondered if love was an abyss of different levels for different people. People like Omar trip and fall into it hardly injuring themselves. They pick themselves up, dust off their feelings and turn the page. Others might fall a little deeper and recover. With Diana I had the feeling I was in a free fall that went on and on. She looked lovely as she came out of the elevator. I thought, in my free fall, my brain was adding increments of beauty to my imagination which were not really there. How else to explain the agony to feast my eyes on her face, to hold her in my arms? The happiness I felt at her reciprocation, her thin strong arms pulling me to her body. The erotic kiss that ignored the crowd. We looked at each other and smiled. And kissed again. She said, forget the coffee? Yes, I said, I have some Darjeeling tea at home, for afterwards. We laughed, held hands and hurried on Old Brompton Road towards 95 Queensgate.
On the way she told me about her trip to Brighton. Father and uncle had not seem each other for some years and Uncle Robin had lung cancer and unlikely to survive for long. He was a two-pack-a-day cigarette smoker, a newspaper editor, a few years older than her father, now retired. They visited him in hospital. Her father had come expressly for that visit because his condition was deteriorating. Diana continued, he was happy to see me after more than a decade and said what a beautiful girl I am. I am not, of course, but it’s always nice to hear a compliment. He is a widower and has no children and will bequeath his cottage, which is just outside Hove next to Brighton, to me. Daddy promised to visit him again in two months’ time. If I’m alive, Uncle Robin said, I’ll be delighted to see you. But please bring my beautiful inheritress along. Daddy left yesterday. He asked me if I had any good news for now or the near future to announce. I told him, not yet. Mother told him there was a nice young student who was not much of a prospect and a ruffian who was not worth considering. I said the ruffian is not really a ruffian, daddy, he is just worthless. That’s even worse, he said. One Reginald in one’s life is quite enough. Open your eyes old girl, the years are racing by much faster than you think. I told him the world was also changing faster than he thought, marriage is no longer a priority. It will always be that, Diana, if you want children and a settled life. However much our sexual morals loosen, the family, which has evolved even before the pithecanthropus, will be central to mankind. Such was my father’s solemn advice, she said laughing. So I must keep my eyes skinned. For what? I asked. Obviously a good marriage prospect, she said. This talk depresses me, Diana, I said. It makes me feel irrelevant and vulnerable. She stopped in her tracks, hugged me and kissed me tenderly. Don’t be silly, she said. You are all I want, George.
In my room we kissed for a while on the bed. The kiss erased my doubts. I could look at her face and her radiant blue eyes when they opened to look at me between one long languorous kiss and the next. One exploration of her tongue and the next. In my mouth and my ears, my cheeks and throat. They were my refuge her expressions of utter helplessness, of a surrender to sensuality, to her feelings of love for me. Could she be the same with Edgar? Could there be affection between slaps on his face and lashings or worse on his backside? For him, perhaps. But for her? Was being fond of him compatible with his evident promiscuity at the parties he frequented and expected her to join? She claimed repulsion but was it true? What’s wrong? she asked. Nothing my darling, I was just thinking. She smiled. About what? About the mystery of love and how much I love you. Let’s undress, she said, or else my clothing will get creased. We undressed and made love and my thoughts and doubts were annihilated by a surging incoming wave of mutual sensuality that was opening segment by segment like a vast Chinese fan of delicate erotic etchings. The artist, the tantalizing performer and initiator of this erotica was a slight blue-eyed girl, the Goddess Diana. The window was open and the curtain fluttered with the fresh wind that came in to refresh our steaming bodies. The summer evening daylight kept us visible and absorbed by enabling us to look at each other’s face, by smiling, nattering, and unashamedly examining and kissing the secrets of our bodies.
After our swoon, and a ten minute-rest, Diana stirred. I caressed her blond disheveled hair and searched her bare back to see if she had wings. With those blue eyes, milky skin and delicate limbs she looked like a fairy. But her question was earthy. Where’s that Darjeeling you promised? she asked. My throat is parched. You sucked all the saliva out of my mouth. I got up and put the small pot with water on the gas ring. I told her I intended to get tickets for Anouilh’s Becket. Would you like that? I asked her. Yes, my darling, couldn’t be a better choice. If I can’t manage it for this Friday, it will be the next, I said. I’ll phone you home and if you’re out with Edgar, I’ll leave a message with your mum. Diana looked at me exasperated. Won’t you ever forget Edgar? He’s nothing to me. You are everything. The funny thing, I said, is that I believe you but I cannot put him out of my mind. Not as long as you keep seeing him. I busied myself to dispel this recurring theme which was like a thorn in my side, and made a nice strong tea by pouring the boiling water straight into the two large cups I had, with a spoonful of Darjeeling leaves and sugar in each. A little milk as well from the half-pint bottle that came to me every day for my tea and most of it ended in the sink. By the time we drank our tea and got dressed it was past eight. There was still daylight outside as we walked to her bus stop near South Ken. Station. We held hands quite comfortably on the wide pavement of Old Brompton Road and the tenderness and happiness I felt were reflected in Diana’s blue eyes and her smile. And yet I began to understand that there is no perfection in this world. No perfect, unblemished happiness. A flaw is always there to reduce it, to mar it. However small and inconsequential, it is perceptible and upsetting. That is why the secret of a happy life is adjustment to the shortcomings of life and the ability to compromise.
Next day before college I made the rounds of the West End theatre agents but was unable to secure seats for Friday. I bought two tickets for the following Friday which was the last one before my departure for Egypt. I called Diana’s home in the evening and spoke to her mother because Diana was not there. I told her about the theatre but that our Friday appointment stands. I just called, I said, so she would not need to be too smartly dressed with necklace and earrings and all. Mrs. Fremantle laughed. That was my idea, she said. Diana has no taste for jewelry and to tell the truth neither do I, but sometimes I urge her to wear them so she won’t look too much like a baby. I laughed. Hardly a baby, I thought. I wondered if Mrs. Fremantle was aware of the full extent of Diana’s sexual accomplishments. That starting with Reggie’s deflowering, the unfortunate Diana fell onto the sissy George, who sent her reeling into the arms of the talented artist Edgar. Talented, I must clarify, not in his artistic endeavors in modern painting but mainly in his search and attendance of sleazy, alcohol-soaked parties and initiation of sado-masochistic practices, which my darling Diana engaged in with alacrity, possibly enjoyed, and was, so far, reluctant to part with her mentor, notwithstanding her love affair with an improved but far from perfect George. Would Mrs. Fremantle be surprised or horrified or simply unperturbed, admonishing her one more time, never without a condom? I was dying to ask Mrs. Fremantle where Diana might be at this hour but even my jealous curiosity did not overcome my sense of propriety and self-respect. Anyway, she did not volunteer the information, avoiding perhaps the truth or the need to lie. We exchanged a few conventional sentences and signed off. None of the above mattered. They were a thorn in my side but only Diana could pick it out and she was either unable to do so or unwilling.
College ended the first week of June. I was free and felt no need to do any revising which would have been useful for next year. I was not a born swot. All in all, I thought I had managed to apply myself well enough to the increased need for study after the last two disastrous years at the English School and the less than mediocre two others at the tutorial college. I began seeing much more of Omar who was in a similar situation and together we would roam in Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens especially when the much coveted London sun showed its coquettish face. For me it was a love of nature especially the tame, well-tended trees, flower beds, grass and lakes. For Omar it was a hunting ground where he pursued his prey not on horseback and hounds but on his nifty legs. I followed him like a slightly befuddled Sancho Panza when Don Quixote pursued his Dulcineas. Please note the plural. I admired his boldness and cheek in approaching without preliminaries, single girls, pairs or even groups and engaging in conversation, jokes and trivialities. And it was a rare occasion when there was no response. I discovered that girls were usually as much interested in being picked up as Omar was in doing the picking. Often with a pair or a group of pretty young women he urged me in Arabic to choose one so we could date them together. Contrary to the macho male legend I felt not the slightest inclination to do so, much to his disappointment and disgust.
I could have left for Cairo immediately but needed two extra weeks of Diana. The throes of love were enslaving and were it not for Annie’s marriage I would have spent my summer in London. Most of my free time was taken by my pocketbooks and Omar and daydreams of Diana. I was in a bad way. The indolence of doing nothing obviously increased my sex drive. It was late in coming but it came with a vengeance. On Friday when I met a prettily dressed, well combed and alluring Diana, we headed for home with a detour at the pub for a glass of wine. Wine, in those days, always seemed to enhance my desire and prolong my endurance during sex. Diana, manifestly, had no need for stimulants but wine always put her in a merry mood. The day had been cloudy but it was still early and it felt like a prolonged dusk. We found a seat inside the pub, which was not yet crowded but diffused the usual stale, beery smell and sipped our wine and chatted. Diana asked me if I knew the equivalent of the saying, an apple a day keeps the doctor away. What do you mean by equivalent? I asked. Well, an apple a day, is for the well-being of the body. I want the equivalent for the soul. I haven’t the faintest, I said. She smiled. It’s, a lay a day keeps you happy, healthy and gay. A man who was standing close to us, heard the comment, turned around, looked at us and smiled. Ah, the cousins, he said. He was the parasite of our previous visit to this pub. He looked at Diana and said, do you know my beautiful young lady that in my youth holding hands with a girl was as good as an orgasm. It’s the same with us, I said defensively. But it’s not the young lady’s opinion if I am to judge from her maxim. Diana looked at him and smiled. You see, sir, she said, morality is not an absolute or stagnant mode of a society’s behavior. It is dynamic and evolves. Backwards and forward, I should add. Forward in a fading Christianity and backward in a resurgent Islam. That is a fact of human history. I don’t know if you regret the days of hand-holding orgasms but I am sure others of your generation regret they did not live their youth in our days of sexual freedom. Quite correct, my dear, he said. I was just trying to convey the inadvertent loss of romanticism. He turned to me with a smile, your future wife is wise beyond her years. I smiled back, she’s older than she looks, I said. That does not alter the fact. Are you going to be married? I hope so, I answered. Good man, he said. Don’t lose her, and good luck. He turned around and headed for the bar to get another drink. We finished our wine and left he pub which was beginning to get crowded and suffocating.
We made love, of course, in my room, with the window open, the curtain fluttering with the gentle breeze and the extended dusky daylight revealing our bodies and our facial expressions, alternately melting with the enchantment of prolonged kissing, and tortured with the excesses of voluptuousness. Diana transformed this primitive act of reproduction to high art of a thousand variations sometimes subtle and sometimes bold and unashamed. Despite the passion which often catapulted to levels where we had difficulty keeping our moans and voices hushed, our intercourse was largely gay with a smattering of conversation, giggles and laughter. And after a wonderful conclusion for both of us, after a short period to unwind, to feel our sanity return, to take stock of what we had been through, we remained enlaced, temporarily immune to arousal, suffused with a vast tenderness where kisses, love words, and simply looking into each other’s eyes was a cliché that was exact.
I was moved when you answered to the man in the pub that you hoped to marry me, Diana said. I suppose you said it as part of the conversation we had and as an answer to his question. But I was moved anyway by your unhesitating answer. It is unrealistic, well, because of our situation but it is a thought that buzzes constantly in my mind. I did not ask her if the buzzing included a third person and a cuckolded husband. I did not want to spoil our mood. I did not want to highlight once again my weakness and helplessness and the puzzle of her excuses to keep that supposedly faltering relationship alive. At such moments I felt my heart stiffening a little. Not often, but sometimes, I felt despondent at the thought of her making love to Edgar, whipping him, torturing him to start with but eventually kissing him, perhaps telling him she loved him and allowing him to enter her. What a strange girl she seemed to me at times. And yet when I was with her, when I looked at her girly face, her blue eyes, when I had her warm, naked body in my arms I dismissed my most distressing thoughts. I said, don’t trouble your mind, Diana, and remember Doris Day’s song, which is a valid existential philosophy. Que sera, sera, whatever will be will be, the future’s not ours to see.…etc….etc. It solves nothing but puts our problems out of mind. She smiled. Yes, it’s quite so, she said. Sorry I mentioned marriage. It is a taboo subject for a woman to bring up because it frightens men. Well, I said, it doesn’t frighten me. I have often thought about it but I see it as a wall I cannot scale at the moment. Now let’s get dressed and go down for a meal at the Chanterelle. It’s only ten o’clock and we have a long night in front of us.
Going down the stairs we bumped into Omar who was climbing to his room accompanied by a girl. Nice looking, average height, well-built and obviously an au-paire. One could guess that from her clothes. Neat and clean but slightly parochial. Who knows from what northern European village she hailed? Working in London as a domestic for a spell to learn the language. Hi, Omar said cheerfully, we’re going upstairs for a coffee. Care to join us? I’d like you to meet Ursula. Ursula, this is George and Diana. Smiles and nods all around. I told him we were going out for dinner. He’s at it again, Diana remarked on the street. Of course he is, I said. Didn’t I tell you? Annie’s a distant memory. I wonder if he’s a distant memory for Annie as well, mused Diana. We entered the Chanterelle which was buzzing with animation, most of the tables being occupied with the loud upper-class clientele. Waiters were coming and going with steaming dishes and bottles of wine. A young woman guided us to a table for two and we gave our order immediately because our minds were made up. Fortifying steaks, a salad and a bottle of Beaujolais.
Our conversation returned to Omar. He’s very good looking, Diana commented, but he is not seductive, to me at least, because of a hardness that is off-putting. Strange that Annie, a level-headed person, went along with it. Perhaps that’s the reason she didn’t fall in love with him. I shrugged my shoulders neutrally. One man’s meat is another man’s poison, I said. I mean you cannot generalize. I suppose so, she replied. I started reading The Female Eunuch and there’s something that fits Omar like glove. It said, you’re young only once but you can be immature forever. That’s a good one, I said, but you never know, he might change. The arrogance of his looks must be more obvious to us women than to you who’s his friend. It’s funny, I said, it’s practically a rule that a girl is wary of her boyfriend’s womanizing friends and usually attempts to undermine the friendship. I suppose she fears that he will lead the boyfriend astray from her. Omar has tried it with me for different reasons but without success. I know it’s naive of me to constantly reassure you because a little uncertainty in a relationship sometimes acts as a stimulant to strengthen it. That I have been living in this uncertainty since I became the other half of your love life is another matter. It has been a thorn in my side and only you can pull it out. Diana did not answer. She just stared at me, and her blue eyes seemed to ask, why after such passionate lovemaking do we revert to the same old stories? But really, was it so hard to understand?
The food arrived with the wine just in time to derail the usual bad vibes that intruded every so often into our conversation. We clinked glasses, said cheers, which we both needed, and started sipping our sexually fortifying but inebriating drink and slowly probing our steaks. We were silent for a while looking at each other warily with cautious half-smiles. Neither of us wanted a flare up. It would never be that but another uttered grievance might spoil our humor, which was already on edge, and bring back the usual emotional impasse that seemed to hound us. She asked me out of the blue, George, when are you leaving? Are you impatient? I asked smiling. No, silly, she said. I suddenly realized it is quite soon. In ten days’ time, I said. Next Friday we have Becket and the following Wednesday I’m off. Better not ask who’ll miss whom because it’s a touchy issue. Diana laughed. That’s it, I said, drink up my darling. Your face is not made for scowls. And for how long? she asked. For two months. Two months of freedom to enjoy you know whose company. She started crying silently and I felt terrible. I lowered my eyes. I don’t think any of the loud la-di-dah’s noticed. She stopped after a minute and wiped her eyes with the table napkin. I’m sorry, my darling, I’m really a cad, I told her. Please take my unpleasantness as a declaration of love. She smiled, eyes still glistening. Funny sort of declaration, she said. I wish you’d stop. I filled her wine glass. Drink up, Diana. We have work to do. She smiled. We clinked glasses, said cheers again and swallowed a good draft of Beaujolais. Drink up, drink up, I urged her. She swallowed some more. A mouthful of steak followed. She had something to tell me, I could see it in her eyes, in her rapid chewing. What is it? I asked. I’ll never tell you I love you again, she said, because it falls on deaf ears. You just don’t believe me. In your eyes I’m a liar, a sex fiend, a trollop and a pervert. Good thing you are not rich or you would have thought I was after your money. Listen Diana, I said, perhaps you are all those things. I really don’t know. Apart from the word liar, which I’m sure you are not, I don’t know what these other words entail. They are psychological states and they really don’t matter to me because for the millionth time, I swear I am in love with you; you are my world, my life. But I think my avowals also fall on deaf ears. She laughed. Conclusion, she said, fewer declarations, greater tolerance. Yes, I said, for the time being. I always kept a bullet in reserve. I could not surrender unconditionally. Grievances annulled, steak consumed, wine bottle drained, sweets and coffee scorned, we left hurriedly, dizzily, bumping on empty chairs, for my room. The lovemaking that followed was heroic. It always is after a lovers’ spat.
We woke up early. The curtain was drawn and cloudy daylight pressed moodily into the room. I lay stretched on my back in that heavenly state between slumber and wakefulness, which one wants to prolong forever. I felt a bite on my right arm and pushed away a head of blond hair. Cut it out, Diana, I said. I’m still asleep. Two smiling blue eyes entered my blurry field of vision, of squinting, half-opened eyes, and a mouth gently covered my lips. Please, let me sleep a few minutes more, love. The mouth deposited a series of perky kisses and a tongue licked my lips and sought entry to my mouth. Oh, for heaven’s sake stop, Diana. What are you? A sex fiend? I felt her lips widen into a smile. She clambered and stretched on my body. The unwanted pecks on my lips continued. I resisted opening my mouth. She turned my head sideways and squeezed a pointed tongue in my ear. It was pleasant and warm. Turned it on the other side and licked my other ear. I love you, she whispered. Don’t wake up. I want to make love to you while you’re asleep. I had to smile at that. She noticed, and caressed my hair. Lifted my arm and licked my armpit. First one then the other. A strange exciting sensation because it was new and tinged with love and sensuality and invention. What a lovely man you are, she whispered. I wouldn’t change you for ten Omars. What about one Edgar, I thought. My mind was emerging from sleep’s torpor. I turned my head and when her tongue dipped in my mouth, I responded. My arms stretched downwards and fondled her wonderful, firm backside, strayed between her legs and we were off gently, tenderly, each lovemaking session has its own mood.
Unfortunately, I said later looking out of the window, it looks like rain. We’ll have to forego our walk. Surprise, surprise, Diana cried, mother’s expecting us for breakfast. She wants to see you before you leave. I think she’s in love with you. C’mon let’s get dressed. I smiled. Okay, I said, so long as she won’t try to seduce me. What an obnoxious thought, she said laughing. But are you game? You perverted little thing, I said, stop putting ideas in my head. In other words, you might, she insisted. Oh cut it out, Diana, I never even considered it. The funny thing is that when I saw your mum I thought this is how Diana will look like in her fifties. So would I be palatable? she asked coquettishly. Yes, my darling. In any case more palatable than I would be at the same age. Probably fleshy with a belly, a little bald, slightly stooping and with a vanishing virility. Diana shuddered playfully. What a disheartening thought, she said. Yes, so is the march of time, my love, which we never think about because it’s still far away but one day, if we are still alive, we shall go through this physical decline. I kissed her tenderly. You are wonderful, my darling, now, and shall be just as wonderful at your mother’s age. Shall I make you a cup of tea before we go? No, no, mother will be waiting. Just let me drink my two glasses of water. You, too. Have you made a habit of it? We left in a hurry although it was not too late, walked to the bus stop at South Kensington, bought on the way six croissants, and were at 73 Fulham Road in good time.
It was obvious Mrs. Fremantle was happy to see me. She looked very smart in a beige summer dress, well combed, her thin arms and legs and slender waist another gift to Diana together with the blue eyes. We kissed and she also kissed Diana telling her, how are you, darling? One could see it was a warm relationship. Two women, mother and daughter living in harmony and understanding and a mother’s tolerance for the modern parameters of life. How nice to see you again, she said to me. Oh what lovely croissants. You really shouldn’t. Diana tells me of the lovely breakfasts you have every Saturday. She comes home and skips lunch because she cannot take another bite. I hope mine will be on a par with them. We sat in the hall and she asked Diana to bring the orange juice from the kitchen. A smell of fried bacon wafted in as Diana opened the kitchen door and brought the three glasses of juice. Mrs. Fremantle handed me a glass and said, Cheers, George, thank you for coming. Thank you for your invitation, I responded. I owe you a lot for Diana’s happiness, she continued, and I really felt like seeing you before you left for Annie’s wedding. Unfortunately, I did not have the opportunity to meet Annie. I did want to so much because Diana thinks the world of her. I think we’d better go to the dining room though before the eggs get cold. We sat down around the table of the dining room. The plates and food were set on a tablecloth of a colorful abstract pattern and Mrs. Fremantle served us the eggs and bacon and placed a croissant and a piece of toasted bread on a small plate in front of us. Diana was silent. She sent me glances and smiles but left the conversation to her mother. She knew the loneliness that an English housewife went through in a city like London with no friends. Their constant wanderings due to the father’s posts abroad left her with practically no friends in London and Diana was her only preoccupation. Diana, the daily shopping which had almost become her morning recreation, the telly in the evening, and the luxury of a good film now and then was the trudge to old age. No different I supposed to a good many genteel middle class people in England.
She thanked me for taking Diana to see all these wonderful plays with the world famous actors. I said I considered it almost a sin to be living in London without profiting from this great cultural heritage which is the English theatre. Because I led a sheltered life, Mrs. Fremantle said, and because I married at twenty a man who was more than fifteen years older than I was, I feel I missed out much in my life. Charles was preoccupied in a career that absorbed him and I was left to take care of the home and cooking. In a way it’s good we wandered so much around the globe and I got to know so many countries and cultures. They do broaden one’s mind and that was something of a recompense. I don’t want Diana to get old feeling she missed anything in life. The years that go by are gone forever and regrets are akin to minor heartbreaks. I do not wish Diana to feel that way. I want her to be happy and again I thank you for making it possible. And I shall tell you something you might find difficult to believe. I am glad that marriage for the moment is out of the question between you two. It would not have been a good idea even if it were feasible. No, enjoy yourselves as you are, while you can. You have plenty of time to think about getting tied down in the future. And if it doesn’t happen, this happiness is not wasted. There comes a time when we live with memories, as I am doing at present in this last segment of my life, and you will find that these memories are a very precious part of getting old even if it hurts that they are over. The main thing is that there shall be no regrets.
Talking in this vein we finished our breakfast and moved to the hall again. I congratulated Mrs. Fremantle on her broad-minded attitude to life in general and towards Diana in particular. I told her how dissimilar and narrow minded our societies in the Middle East were and that I considered her views a blueprint for the future civilized attitudes, at least for the West. Many of my opinions, I said, I derived from a book I also gave Diana by the feminist Germaine Greer, a wonderfully intelligent and original thinker. And I find a similarity of perception in your thinking. For instance the main requirement for a woman in marriage in our societies is security and Germaine Greer comes up and loudly proclaims that security is the denial of life. Mrs. Fremantle smiled. I tend to agree, she said. It is important but it is not the be all and end all of life. A year ago, after Diana was back from France a wealthy distant relative and friend of the family asked for Diana’s hand in marriage. He was also about fifteen years older than Diana and if security was the requirement it would have been the perfect match. Diana was not interested and we told the man that she was too young and not quite ready for marriage. And another thing to make you laugh. When you broke up that time with Diana, she was besieged, literally besieged by a lout called Edgar. I don’t like to interfere in these matters but I told Diana to keep clear of him. Unfortunately she was terribly depressed and let herself go with this man. I saw Diana’s apprehensive look at the mention of the name Edgar. Since you made up again, Mrs. Fremantle continued, she has tried to distance herself from him and it seems he is getting desperate. I don’t know what they have been saying to each other but last week he knocked at my door and I had to let him in. Mother, please, let go of this story. Diana was almost trembling with agitation. Darling, Mrs. Fremantle said, I trust George and I don’t think there’s any harm in telling the story. Anyway, this Edgar had the cheek to ask to marry Diana. Apart from a hundred other questions that came to my mind, I brought up the main one. I inquired if he had asked Diana and if Diana was willing, and he said she didn’t want to get married. So, I asked, am I supposed to put pressure on her to marry you? I love her, he blurted. I love her, too, I retorted and since she isn’t interested I would suggest you leave her alone. He glared at me, got up, left without saying goodbye and slammed the door. That’s all my darling, she said turning to Diana. No need to get so flustered. I did not utter a word. I looked at her neutrally and changed the conversation.
Next Friday we shall be seeing Becket, Mrs. Fremantle. There’s a whole troupe of wonderful actors in it. It’s quite a hassle getting tickets but it’s worth it. A