Free A Stairway to Paradise by Madeleine St John

started slightly, unsure of her meaning; she saw his confusion. ‘I mean,’ she amended, ‘to England? I mean, if you hadn’t even known the Thames’d been cleaned up, then—the place has such a bad reputation these days, after all. I wondered why you’d come back.’
    ‘Ah.’ He ought to have understood. ‘Yes. Well, there was this job. I’d always meant to come back if the right thing came up, and it did. So—’
    ‘That was lucky.’
    ‘Yes, it was. At least, I thought so. But then—well, then, when I’d got it, Janet—my wife—came along and told me she wouldn’t be coming with me. So then I didn’t feel quite so lucky. Especially when I realised that, of course, Mimi—that’s my daughter—silly name, it’s a nickname really—would be staying behind too. Sorry, I’m sounding awfully pathetic, aren’t I. Shall we go out and have some dinner? And talk about something entirely different?’
    ‘No, yes, all in good time. You see, you don’t sound at all pathetic. It’s just very very sad.’
    ‘Yes, it has been. It was.’ He paused for a moment, as if deliberating, and shifted slightly in the wicker chair. ‘But actually— after I met you—it’s the strangest thing, but suddenly it seems like something which happened long, long ago. I—I think—well, I—’
    ‘Andrew.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Andrew, I must tell you something. That is, I must say something.’
    He looked at her doubtfully. ‘Must you really?’
    He looked so sweet saying that; she almost wished she could say, no. ‘Yes, truly. You see—about the other night—’
    He was looking down at the floor: it was dreadful to be saying what she was now saying, but it had to be done.
    ‘You see—I’ve been just a little loopy this past week.’
    ‘Loopy?’
    ‘Yes, loopy. Something happened, it’s quite unimportant, but I haven’t been quite myself. I’m not usually so—well, what’s the word. Let’s just say that what I did was an acte gratuit .’
    ‘Yes, all right. But actually I don’t believe there’s any such thing.’
    ‘Don’t you?’
    ‘No, it’s a behavioural impossibility.’
    ‘Yes, well, I think that’s just my point, really. I mean, having performed one, I think I can agree with you, it’s a behavioural impossibility. Which I can have no intention of repeating.’
    ‘I see. Well—I—you wouldn’t rather I went, would you?’
    She had begun to realise, dimly, and now saw more clearly that he was a treasure.
    ‘No, I wouldn’t. I mean, if you can bear to be with me—if you can bear with me—please forgive me.’
    ‘ Forgive you?’
    ‘You know what I mean.’
    ‘All right: for the sake of the argument, I forgive you.’
    ‘That aside—if you’d like to stay, and talk, or have some dinner, or both—there is some food here if you don’t feel like going out, if you’re hungry—I don’t know what you feel like doing—’
    ‘We’ll go out, don’t you think? I like being seen in a restaurant with a beautiful woman, it makes me feel rich and successful.’
    He’d never seen her really smile before—not that smile, that very wide, enchanted smile, which made his description of her unexceptionably exact.
    She looked at him, the smile fading; there was a faint note of melancholy in her voice. ‘You’re awfully nice, Andrew,’ she said. ‘Really you are.’
    ‘Yes, that’s true,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you noticed. But I was sure you would, sooner or later—I knew you weren’t completely stupid.’
    ‘I’m just going to have a shower and change,’ she said. ‘I’m rather sticky, I only got back here just before you came. I won’t be a moment. Then we can go. Have another drink if you like.’ And she left the room.

27
    When she came back, all dressed up and smelling nice, he was looking at a framed photograph on the wall. ‘Who is this?’ he said.
    She went and stood beside him. Andrew had masses of self-control.
    ‘That’s my mother at the age of five,’ she said,