Free London Transports by Maeve Binchy Page B

once. Marigold didn’t mind anyway, she had loads of stuff, hundreds of pounds’ worth, from Nad over the years, and she’ll always get other slaves.”
    “But Joy’s normal.”
    “She used to be, when she had a bit of a life of her own, and boyfriends, and big plates of spaghetti with the girls from work. She should have been married years ago and have three nice fat children by now, instead of trying to become a solicitor and earn more money for that Marigold.”
    “You’re very bitter about her.”
    “I’m bleeding obsessed with her, that’s what I am. She’s ruined Nadia totally, she’s turned Joy into a zombie, there was another one there, too, I can’t remember her name, but she had to go out to bloody Africa as a missionary or something to get over it all. Having left some very nice lamps and some very good old cut glass thank you.”
    Pat’s heart missed something of its regular movement. She remembered admiring the lamps, and Marigold had said they were from a dear friend who went to Africa and didn’t need them.
    It was the end of her lunch hour. She walked out without saying anything. She knew where to find him if she needed to know any more. He would take her home to meet Nadia if she wanted confirmation of it all. She was a free, grown-up woman, nobody could keep her there against her will.
    On the way back to the bank she passed an expensive flower shop. It had unusual little potted plants. One of them was very, very blue. It had a long name but Marigold would know it anyway. It would look lovely on the balcony table. It would be so peaceful there this evening after work. It was like a dream-world really. It would be such a misery trying to get everything out of the flat now that she had just got it in. Anyway, why should she? Kevin was just a silly young man. Jealous obviously because Nadia had been so happy in the flat. Anyone would be happy in that flat, it was so very, very peaceful, you didn’t need anyone else or anything else in the world.

Lancaster Gate
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    I t was funny the way things turned out. If she hadn’t made that huge scene, and cried, and nearly choked herself crying, and admitted all kinds of weaknesses, she wouldn’t be here now. She would be back in the flat, cleaning the cooker, polishing the furniture, ironing his shirts, so that he would think it was wonderful to have all these home comforts and value her more.
    She would have gone to the cinema maybe, but maybe not. Films were so full of other people’s relationships, and she kept identifying, and saying “If I behaved more like her, would he value me more?” or wondering why some screen woman could be so calm when everything was collapsing around her. Lisa could never be calm. She could pretend at calmness very successfully, but deep down it was churn, churn, churn. Sometimes she was surprised that he couldn’t hear her heart sort of hitting against her bones, she could hear it thudding as well as feel it from inside, she could actually hear the wuff wuff sound it made. But fortunately he never managed to hear it, and she could always fool him into thinking she was relaxed and at ease. Sometimes the nights that had started with her heart thudding very seriously had turned out to be their best nights, because she acted out the calm role so well. Lisa had often thought how extraordinarily easy it was to fool someone you loved and who loved you.
    Or who sort of loved you. But no, no, don’t start that, don’t start analysing, worrying, your heart will begin the booming thing again, and you’ve got nothing to boom about. Here in London, staying in a big posh hotel, signing the room-service dockets with his name, putting the Mrs. bit in casually as if you had been doing it for years and it was now second nature. She wondered how long it took married people to forget their single names. Brides were always giggling about it. She supposed it would take about three weeks, about the same time as it took you to remember