Free Kiss Kiss by Roald Dahl Page A

few seconds she remained
in that position, head up, ear to door, hand on key,
about to enter but not entering, trying instead, or so it seemed,
to hear and to analyse these sounds that were coming faintly
from this place deep within the house.
      
Then, all at once, she sprang to life again. She withdrew
the key from the door and came running back down the steps.
      
“It’s too late!” she cried to the chauffeur. “I can’t wait for
him, I simply can’t. I’ll miss the plane. Hurry now, driver,
hurry! To the airport!”
      
The chauffeur, had he been watching her closely, might
have noticed that her face had turned absolutely white and
that the whole expression had suddenly altered. There was no
longer that rather soft and silly look. A peculiar hardness had
settled itself upon the features. The little mouth, usually so
flabby, was now tight and thin, the eyes were bright, and the
voice, when she spoke, carried a new note of authority.
      
“Hurry, driver, hurry!”
      
“Isn’t your husband travelling with you?” the man asked,
astonished.
      
“Certainly not! I was only going to drop him at the club.
It won’t matter. He’ll understand. He’ll get a cab. Don’t sit
there talking, man. Get going! I’ve got a plane to catch for
Paris!”
      
With Mrs Foster urging him from the back seat, the man
drove fast all the way, and she caught her plane with a few
minutes to spare. Soon she was high up over the Atlantic,
reclining comfortably in her aeroplane chair, listening to the
hum of the motors, heading for Paris at last. The new mood
was still with her. She felt remarkably strong and, in a queer
sort of way, wonderful. She was a trifle breathless with it all,
but this was more from pure astonishment at what she had
done than anything else, and as the plane flew farther and
farther away from New York and East Sixty-second Street,
a great sense of calmness began to settle upon her. By the time
she reached Paris, she was just as strong and cool and calm as
she could wish.
      
She met her grandchildren, and they were even more
beautiful in the flesh than in their photographs. They were
like angels, she told herself, so beautiful they were. And every

day she took them for walks, and fed them cakes, and bought
them presents, and told them charming stories.
      
Once a week, on Tuesdays, she wrote a letter to her
husband—a nice, chatty letter—full of news and gossip, which
always ended with the words “Now be sure to take your meals
regularly, dear, although this is something I’m afraid you may
not be doing when I’m not with you.”
      
When the six weeks were up, everybody was sad that she
had to return to America, to her husband. Everybody, that
is, except her. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem to mind as much
as one might have expected, and when she kissed them all
good-bye, there was something in her manner and in the
things she said that appeared to hint at the possibility of a
return in the not too distant future.
      
However, like the faithful wife she was, she did not overstay
her time. Exactly six weeks after she had arrived, she sent
a cable to her husband and caught the plane back to New
York.
      
Arriving at Idlewild, Mrs Foster was interested to observe
that there was no car to meet her. It is possible that she might
even have been a little amused. But she was extremely calm
and did not overtip the porter who helped her into a taxi
with her baggage.
      
New York was colder than Paris, and there were lumps of
dirty snow lying in the gutters of the streets. The taxi drew
up before the house on Sixty-second Street, and Mrs Foster
persuaded the driver to carry her two large cases to the top
of the steps. Then she paid him off and rang the bell. She
waited, but there was no answer. Just to make sure, she rang
again, and she could hear it tinkling shrilly far away in the
pantry, at the back