Read The Bottle Factory Outing for Free Online Page B

by the sameness and regularity of each day, the brushing of her clothes
     in the morning and the cleaning of her teeth at night. ‘There is something more,’ she murmured, her lips moving, her eyes
     fixed on the mutilated pattern of the rug. ‘I am not Brenda – I do want something.’ She had been squeezing the flannel in
     her hands, and the carpet was quite sodden with water. Shuffling backwards on her knees she dried herself on a towel. It would
     have been better if Vittorio had given her more time to prepare for his visit: she hated rushing down town and returning
     home with minutes to spare, her face all red from the hair-dryer. How should she behave when he came? There was no question
     of outright seduction – not when she was so recently bereaved. Perhaps she could be silentand rather wistful – not exactly droopy, but less aggressive than he had previously known her – so as to arouse his protective
     feelings. Come the day of the Outing she might then lay her hand on his sleeve and thank him for his understanding. Absently
     she stroked the edge of the wooden fender, thick with dust, and tilted her head backwards to avoid the heat of the fire which
     already had begun to mottle the smoothness of her pale cheeks. She stared at the ceiling and her mouth opened to emit a sound
     half-way between a sigh and a groan – ‘Aaah,’ she went, kneeling as if in supplication. ‘Aaaah, Vittorio!’ Was she right about
     his feelings for her? He must like her. Otherwise why did he spend every afternoon chatting to her? And she’d seen the way
     his eyes flickered up and down her jumper when he thought she wasn’t watching. He did fancy her, but how could she encourage
     him? God knows what Brenda had said or done to get Rossi into such a state of randy expectancy, but whatever it was it wouldn’t
     work for Vittorio. He was a man of sensibilities and everything was against her – his background, his nationality, the particular
     regard he had for women or a category of womanhood to which she did not belong. By the strength of her sloping shoulders,
     the broad curve of her throat, the dimpled vastness of her columnar thighs, she would manoeuvre him into her arms. I will
     be one of those women, she thought, painted naked on ceilings, lolling amidst rose-coloured clouds. She straightened and stared
     at a chair. She imagined how she might mesmerise him with her wide blue eyes. Wearing a see-through dressing-gown chosen
     from a Littlewoods catalogue, she would open the door to him:‘Forgive me, I have been resting – the strain you know. My mother was particularly dear to me—’ All Italians, all foreigners
     were dotty about their mothers; he would expect it of her. She would not actually have to gnash her teeth but imply that she
     did so – internally. Rumpling her newly washed hair, the black nylon sleeve of her gown sliding back to reveal one elbow,
     she would press her hand to her brow and tell him the doctor had prescribed sedatives: ‘Do sit down, we are quite alone. Brenda
     has elected to go to the cinema.’ Against her will her mind dwelt on an image of Brenda in the cellar, cobwebs lacing her
     hair, and Rossi, hands trembling, tearing her newspaper to shreds. I will rip you to pieces, she thought; and her hand flew
     to her mouth as if she had spoken aloud. Beyond the romantic dreams, the little girl waiting to be cuddled, it was power of
     a kind she was after. It is not so much that I want him, she thought, but that I would like him to want me.
    Slumped dripping upon the carpet, she gazed into the glowing mantel of the fire and rehearsed a small wistful smile.
    Brenda waited a long time on the stairs to see who would arrive first. She had read Freda’s note suggesting she go to the
     pictures – it was not so much a suggestion as a command: there was even 40p left on the mantelpiece. She must have been to
     the post office to draw out her savings. There was a bowl of salad on the landing