Free The Comfort of Strangers by Ian McEwan

‘And what do you do, for a living I mean.’
    ‘I used to work in the theatre.’
    ‘An actress!’ This idea stirred Caroline. She bent awkwardly in her chair, as though it pained her to keep her back straight, or to relax it.
    Mary was shaking her head. ‘I was working for a women’s theatre group. We did quite well for three years, and now we’ve broken up. Too many arguments.’
    Caroline was frowning, ‘Women’s theatre? … Only actresses?’
    ‘Some of us wanted to bring in men, at least from time to time. The others wanted to keep it the way it was, pure. That’s what broke us up in the end.’
    ‘A play with only women? I don’t understand how that could work. I mean, what could happen ?’
    Mary laughed. ‘Happen?’ she repeated. ‘Happen?’
    Caroline was waiting for an explanation. Mary lowered her voice, and spoke with her hand partly covering her mouth as though to erase a smile. ‘Well, you could have a play about two women who have only just met sitting on a balcony talking.’
    Caroline brightened. ‘Oh yes. But they’re probably waiting for a man.’ She glanced at her wrist-watch. ‘When he arrives they’ll stop talking and go indoors. Something will happen …’ Caroline was suddenly convulsed by giggles; it would have been laughter if she had not suppressed it so firmly; she steadied herself against the chair, and attempted to keep her mouth closed. Mary nodded seriously and averted her eyes. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, Caroline was still again.
    ‘Well anyway,’ Mary said, ‘I’m out of a job.’
    Caroline was twisting her spine this way and that; all positions seemed to pain her. Mary asked if she could fetch a cushion, but Caroline shook her head curtly, and said, ‘It hurts when I laugh.’ When Mary asked the cause of the trouble, Caroline shook her head and closed her eyes.
    Mary returned to her former position, and looked at the stars and the lights of the fishing boats. Caroline inhaled noisily and rapidly through her nose. Then, after several minutes, when she was breathing more easily, Mary said, ‘You’re right in a way, of course. Most of the best parts are written for men, on stage and off. We played men when we needed to. It worked best in cabaret, when we were sending them up. We even did an all-woman Hamlet once. It was quite a success.’
    ‘Hamlet?’ Caroline said the word as if it were new to her. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I never read it. I haven’t seen a play since I was at school.’ As she spoke more lights came on in the gallery behind them, and the balcony was suddenly illuminated through the glass doors, and divided by lines of deep shadow. ‘Isn’t it the one with the ghost?’ Mary nodded. She was listening to footsteps which had passed the length of the gallery, and which now stopped abruptly. She did not turn round to look. Caroline was watching her. ‘And someone locked up in a convent?’
    Mary shook her head. The footsteps started, and stopped immediately. A chair scraped and there was a succession of metallic sounds such as cutlery makes. ‘There is a ghost,’ she said vaguely. ‘And a convent, but we never see it.’
    Caroline was struggling out of her chair. She was just onher feet as Robert stepped neatly before them and made a little bow. Caroline gathered up the tray and edged past him. They exchanged no greetings, and Robert did not step aside for her. He was smiling at Mary, and they both listened to the irregular steps recede across the gallery floor. A door opened and closed and all was silent.
    Robert was wearing the clothes they had seen him in the night before, and the same piercing aftershave. A trick of shadow made him seem even squatter. He put his hands behind his back and, taking a couple of paces towards Mary, inquired politely whether she and Colin had slept well. There followed a succession of pleasantries: Mary admired the flat, and the view from the balcony; Robert explained that the whole house