Free Life Class by Pat Barker

but didn’t immediately pour the tea. He noticed there were three cups.
    ‘I got a note from Teresa saying her husband was prowling round.’
    ‘Ye-es.’
    ‘Poor Teresa. She must be terrified.’
    Her eyes had gone black with anger. Her sympathy reminded him how very much he liked her, and he was reaching out to touch her hand, when –
    ‘Elinor.’
    Neville, gasping for breath after the long walk upstairs. He stopped in the doorway, registering the scene, and his face changed colour – not a flush, but the most extraordinary darkening, like a male fish that finds itself unexpectedly confronted by a rival. ‘Oh, hello, Tarrant.’
    Why does she do it? Paul wondered. Obviously she’d invited them both to tea, at slightly staggered times, implying, though not promising – for when did Elinor ever promise anything? – that each was to enjoy a tête-à-tête. Now she avoided looking at either of them.
    After an awkward pause, Neville produced a bottle of wine from the green bag he was carrying. ‘I thought you might like to celebrate the scholarship.’ He glanced at Paul. ‘You know about this?’
    ‘I’ve just been admiring the painting.’
    ‘Oh, you’ve got it back?’
    ‘Yes, this morning. Come through, I’ll show you.’ Paul listened to the murmur of voices from the bedroom. Neville loved her. It was unmistakable. He always spoke to her with a kind of clumsy, affable superiority, making the most of his extra years and his fame, but increasingly the mask of confidence slipped to reveal lust and pain and fear.
    ‘I couldn’t have done it without Teresa,’ Elinor was saying, asthey came back into the room. ‘A model makes all the difference.’
    ‘Yes, and she’s a good model too, isn’t she?’ Neville sat down next to Paul. Are you painting her?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I’ll get some glasses,’ Elinor said.
    The two men were left alone. After a pause, Neville asked, ‘How’s the life class going?’
    ‘Oh, you know. I’ve more or less given up.’
    Elinor came back with three glasses and a bottle opener. Neville uncorked the bottle and poured. After they’d toasted Elinor’s success, there was silence. Then Neville said, ‘Oh. I’ve got something to celebrate too. I’ve bought a motorbike.’
    He looked so pink and glowing, so insufferably pleased with himself, that of course they had to troop downstairs and admire the gleaming monster. Another craze, Paul thought, dismissively, another fad. That was the kind of reaction Neville provoked. Not contempt, exactly, but something close to it. The vanity of the man. The wealth. And yet you had to share his delight in his new toy. He was such a child.
    ‘I don’t suppose I can tempt either of you to have a ride?’
    ‘No,’ Elinor said.
    Paul raised his glass. ‘Not at the moment.’
    Back upstairs, flushed with wine and triumph, Neville became more expansive, reverting to the subject of Teresa’s husband. He seemed to have forgotten Elinor was there. ‘Why does she live in that wretched little basement? There’s no need. She’s not that poor. And even if she was, some man or other would always fork out. If she was half as frightened as she says she is, she’d be only too glad to move. Look at it. No proper locks on the windows. Anybody could hide in that coal-hole, the bolt on the back door doesn’t work … One screw –’
    Too late, he stopped, stared into his glass and emptied it in one gulp.
    ‘She seems very happy there,’ Elinor said.
    Nobody replied. Paul smiled and stood up. ‘I think I ought to be going.’
    Elinor was looking up at him with some concern. He shrugged, then bent and kissed her, rather enjoying the expression of pain that flickered across Neville’s face. ‘Shall I see you in Lockhart’s tomorrow?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘One o’clock?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Right, then.’
    ‘No, wait, I’ll see you out.’
    They walked downstairs together. ‘Are you and Teresa coming to the Café Royale tonight?’ she asked, as