Free Damage by Josephine Hart Page B

that had never been real to me. I could surely continue to give my performance, now that at last I had a real life. The one Anna had given me.

T WENTY -F OUR
    ‘A NNA’S STEPFATHER is in town for three days, at some writers’ conference. Martyn suggested we have him to dinner. I must say I rather jumped at the idea. We agreed Thursday. I checked with your office. They said that would be OK.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘Ever read any of his books?’
    ‘Yes — two, actually.’
    ‘Oh, my intellectual husband.’
    ‘Hardly!’ I lived in a country where reading two books by one of America’s best-known modern writers classed me as an intellectual.
    ‘Well, what’s he like as a writer? He’s very famous.’
    ‘He writes about alienation. Middle-class urban alienation. Twentieth-century America, divorced from its roots, with all its old values disappearing under the twin burdens of greed and fear.’
    ‘God! That doesn’t sound too thrilling.’
    ‘To be fair, that’s a rather clinical summary. He’s a brilliant writer. His female characters are particularly well drawn. Even feminists like him.’
    ‘How long has he been married to Anna’s mother?’ asked Ingrid.
    ‘I’ve no idea.’
    ‘What age is he?’
    ‘He must be in his sixties. Mid-sixties, I’d have thought.’
    ‘Well, it might give me a different viewpoint on Anna. I’m really looking forward to Thursday. I’m going to attempt one of his books. Do you think they’re in your study?’
    ‘Possibly. I’ll go and check.’
    I found them easily.
    ‘Here they are’ I said to Ingrid, who had followed me. ‘ The Glory Boy and Bartering Time. ‘
    ‘Which is easiest? No … which is shortest?’
    ‘Try The Glory Boy. ’
    ‘I won’t finish it by Thursday, but I’ll have some idea, won’t I?’
    ‘You will indeed, Ingrid. He’s got a very specific style which permeates all his books. I must go. You look lovely in that beige dress. Très chic. ‘
    ‘ Merci, chéri — au revoir. ’
    Now that my real self lived and walked and breathed as Anna’s creature, oh lucky creature, there were days when I enjoyed my role as Ingrid’s husband more than I ever had before. I felt no guilt. All would be well with Ingrid. That morning I had an extraordinary illusion that she knew, and that she understood. She smiled so happily at me as I left, I was almost giddy with relief and joy.

T WENTY -F IVE
    W ILBUR H UNTER HAD presence. Wilbur Hunter was aware that he had presence. I watched him gaze at Ingrid with solemnity mixed with intense interest.
    As he accepted a whisky, he said: ‘You know, I haven’t seen Anna for a long time. I’ve never even been invited to meet her friends before. So this is a very special occasion.’
    ‘How long is it since you last visited London?’
    ‘Oh, five, six years.’
    ‘Has it changed?’
    ‘I don’t let it change. It’s frozen in my heart as the place in which I met Anna’s mother, twelve years ago. I refuse to see any changes either in London, or in her.’
    ‘How gallant,’ said Ingrid.
    ‘Contrary to my image, I’m a romantic at heart. Are you a romantic?’
    His query was clearly directed at me. I could see something strange in his gaze.
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said Ingrid. ‘In a very subtle way, I think he’s quite romantic.’
    ‘Anna’s not a romantic. Are you, Anna?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Have you found that, Martyn? Or perhaps you disagree.’
    ‘As you said earlier, Wilbur, a romantic refuses to see changes in people he loves, or in cities which hold amorous memories for him. The meaning of “romantic” could actually be “untruthful”. Would you agree?’
    ‘And Anna,’ said Wilbur, ‘is a very truthful girl.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Martyn. ‘She is totally truthful. I find that extraordinarily moving, and more exciting than romantic.’
    ‘Indeed,’ said Ingrid, feeling the conversation take on an edge she was unused to.
    ‘It’s a cliché, of course,’ said Wilbur, ‘but I find there are so