Read A Bouquet of Barbed Wire for Free Online Page B
Authors: Andrea Newman
really necessary? I’m sure I don’t dictate as fast as that, and there aren’t
that
many letters per day.’
‘She’s no faster than I am,’ said Monica, a trifle sharply.
‘No, I’m sure she isn’t. But I’m equally sure I’ve never used your—er—speeds to the full either. Have I?’
‘Well, not very often. But it doesn’t do any harm to have them, all the same. It leaves a good safety margin.’
It sounded to him as though they were discussing dangerous machinery rather than secretarial work: he had avision of cogs and wheels and hair tied back in a net. ‘Monica,’ he said, ‘I wish you weren’t going.’ He meant that too many things in his life were changing at once. He nearly added ‘I’m used to you,’ but realised in time that this might sound unflattering so changed it into the time-honoured words ‘I shall miss you.’
Monica to his horror burst into tears.
‘Oh, Monica,’ he said aghast, ‘what’s the matter? I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Monica stood in the middle of the room, her hands over her face and sobbed. He felt impelled to greater efforts of consolation.
‘Now come on, my dear, sit down.’ He got up from his chair and began fussing round her. ‘You’re overwrought. It’s pre-wedding nerves, that’s all it is. Better have a drink.’ He managed to get her seated, still weeping, and rooted in the cupboard of drinks kept for visitors. There being no brandy, he poured her a large glass of sherry instead. ‘Now then, you drink this and you’ll soon feel better.’
Monica took a large gulp. He heard her teeth trembling on the glass. She swallowed and sniffed. Inevitably her first words were, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Now there’s nothing to be sorry for.’
A fresh wail of grief. Choking sounds interspersed with words. ‘Didn’t mean—not fair—burden—sorry—always been so kind—’
He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Monica,’ he said, ‘calm down. Take your time. Is it more than pre-wedding nerves? Do you want to tell me about it?’
Monica nodded vigorously. She produced a packet of tissues from her handbag and blew her nose and wiped her eyes on three of them in quick succession. He waited, wishing he had poured himself a drink, but it was too late now: it would break the moment if he got up.
‘It’s Harry,’ Monica eventually said.
He prompted her. ‘You had a row.’
She nodded.
‘A serious one?’
‘I don’t know.’
He waited.
‘It’s just that—well, I get so tense with all the waiting. I keep thinking, suppose something goes wrong and he doesn’t get the decree absolute and we can’t get married.’
Manson said in his most soothing voice, ‘Now, why should anything go wrong?’
‘I don’t know.’
Manson wished he didn’t feel so sure that something would indeed go wrong, only not until later, when it would be too late.
‘You haven’t moved in together or done anything that might complicate the divorce?’
She shook her head. He wondered if he had shocked her. One way and another, he thought, I don’t understand the younger generation. My own daughter, at nineteen, carries on little better than a whore, and my secretary at thirty-plus behaves like the Virgin Mary. I need a holiday.
‘Well then, there’s nothing to worry about, is there? It’s all going to go quite smoothly and you’ll get married just as planned and move into your nice new house. You’ll see.’
Monica raised a ravaged face from the tissues. ‘But suppose Harry changes his mind?’
‘After all this time? Now you’re being silly. Why should he change his mind?’
‘I’m being so moody. It’s enough to put him off. I wouldn’t blame him—’ A new howl of misery as full realisation sank in, of the horror that Harry’s change of mind would entail.
‘Well, I would. I’m sure he understands how you feel. Waiting is always the worst part of anything, particularly at the very end. It’s bound to get you down. I expect he’s
that
many letters per day.’
‘She’s no faster than I am,’ said Monica, a trifle sharply.
‘No, I’m sure she isn’t. But I’m equally sure I’ve never used your—er—speeds to the full either. Have I?’
‘Well, not very often. But it doesn’t do any harm to have them, all the same. It leaves a good safety margin.’
It sounded to him as though they were discussing dangerous machinery rather than secretarial work: he had avision of cogs and wheels and hair tied back in a net. ‘Monica,’ he said, ‘I wish you weren’t going.’ He meant that too many things in his life were changing at once. He nearly added ‘I’m used to you,’ but realised in time that this might sound unflattering so changed it into the time-honoured words ‘I shall miss you.’
Monica to his horror burst into tears.
‘Oh, Monica,’ he said aghast, ‘what’s the matter? I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Monica stood in the middle of the room, her hands over her face and sobbed. He felt impelled to greater efforts of consolation.
‘Now come on, my dear, sit down.’ He got up from his chair and began fussing round her. ‘You’re overwrought. It’s pre-wedding nerves, that’s all it is. Better have a drink.’ He managed to get her seated, still weeping, and rooted in the cupboard of drinks kept for visitors. There being no brandy, he poured her a large glass of sherry instead. ‘Now then, you drink this and you’ll soon feel better.’
Monica took a large gulp. He heard her teeth trembling on the glass. She swallowed and sniffed. Inevitably her first words were, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Now there’s nothing to be sorry for.’
A fresh wail of grief. Choking sounds interspersed with words. ‘Didn’t mean—not fair—burden—sorry—always been so kind—’
He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Monica,’ he said, ‘calm down. Take your time. Is it more than pre-wedding nerves? Do you want to tell me about it?’
Monica nodded vigorously. She produced a packet of tissues from her handbag and blew her nose and wiped her eyes on three of them in quick succession. He waited, wishing he had poured himself a drink, but it was too late now: it would break the moment if he got up.
‘It’s Harry,’ Monica eventually said.
He prompted her. ‘You had a row.’
She nodded.
‘A serious one?’
‘I don’t know.’
He waited.
‘It’s just that—well, I get so tense with all the waiting. I keep thinking, suppose something goes wrong and he doesn’t get the decree absolute and we can’t get married.’
Manson said in his most soothing voice, ‘Now, why should anything go wrong?’
‘I don’t know.’
Manson wished he didn’t feel so sure that something would indeed go wrong, only not until later, when it would be too late.
‘You haven’t moved in together or done anything that might complicate the divorce?’
She shook her head. He wondered if he had shocked her. One way and another, he thought, I don’t understand the younger generation. My own daughter, at nineteen, carries on little better than a whore, and my secretary at thirty-plus behaves like the Virgin Mary. I need a holiday.
‘Well then, there’s nothing to worry about, is there? It’s all going to go quite smoothly and you’ll get married just as planned and move into your nice new house. You’ll see.’
Monica raised a ravaged face from the tissues. ‘But suppose Harry changes his mind?’
‘After all this time? Now you’re being silly. Why should he change his mind?’
‘I’m being so moody. It’s enough to put him off. I wouldn’t blame him—’ A new howl of misery as full realisation sank in, of the horror that Harry’s change of mind would entail.
‘Well, I would. I’m sure he understands how you feel. Waiting is always the worst part of anything, particularly at the very end. It’s bound to get you down. I expect he’s