Edible Woman - Margaret Atwood [57]
“Yes, I can see that.” Marian sighed. Censure was, at this point, none of her business. “I’m just wondering where I can go.”
Ainsley’s face brightened. Her main objective had been gained; the rest of the details were secondary. “Well, do you think maybe you could just phone up Peter and tell him you’re coming over? He shouldn’t mind, he’s engaged to you.”
Marian considered. Previously, in some area of time she could not at the moment remember clearly, she would have been able to; it wouldn’t have mattered if he had got peeved. But these days, and especially after their conversation in the afternoon, it would not be a good idea. No matter how unobtrusive she made herself with a book in the living room, he would silently accuse her of being overpossessive, or of being jealous and interfering about his work. Even if she explained the real situation. And she didn’t want to do that: though Peter had seen almost nothing of Len since the first evening, having exchanged the free-bachelor image for the mature-fiancé one and adjusted his responses and acquaintances accordingly, there would still be a kind of clan loyalty that might cause trouble, if not for Ainsley, at least for her. It would give him ammunition. “I don’t think I’d better,” she said. “He’s working awfully hard.” There was really no place she could go. Clara’s was out. It was getting too cold for sitting in parks or for prolonged walking. She might call one of the office virgins.… “I’ll see a movie,” she said at last.
Ainsley smiled with relief. “Fabulous,” she said, and went into her bedroom to finish dressing. She stuck her head out a few minutes later to ask, “Can I use that bottle of scotch if I need it? I’ll say it’s yours but that you won’t mind.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Marian said. The scotch was mutually owned. Ainsley, she knew, would pay her back out of the next bottle. Even if she forgot to, a half-bottle of scotch would be a small enough sacrifice to get the thing decisively over and done with. This vicariously nervewracking delay and shilly-shally had gone on far too long. She remained in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and gazing with pensive interest into the sink, which contained four glasses partly filled with opaque water, a fragment of eggshell, and a pot that had recently been used for cooking macaroni and cheese. She decided not to wash the dishes, but as a token gesture of cleanliness she picked out the eggshell and put it in the garbage. She disliked remnants.
When Ainsley reappeared, in a blouse and jumper outfit set off by earrings in the shape of tiny daisies and an extra good eye-job, Marian said to her, “That movie isn’t going to last all night, you know. I’ll have to come back around twelve-thirty.” Even if she expects me to sleep in the gutter, she thought.
“I imagine the situation will be well under control by then,” Ainsley said with determination. “If it isn’t, neither of us will be there anyway: I’ll have thrown him out of the window. And leaped out myself. But just in case, don’t go charging through any closed doors without knocking.”
Marian’s mind selected the most ominous word. Any closed doors. “Now look,” she said, “I draw the line at my own bedroom.”
“Well, it is neater,” Ainsley said reasonably, “and if I’m being overwhelmed in a moment of passion and swept off my feet I can’t very well interrupt and say ‘You’ve got the wrong bedroom,’ can I?”
“No, I guess not,” said Marian. She was beginning to feel homeless and dispossessed. “I just don’t like the thought of stumbling into my bed and finding that there are people in it already.”
“Tell you what,” said Ainsley, “if we do happen to end up in your room I’ll hang a tie on the doorknob, okay?”
“Whose tie?” Marian asked. She knew Ainsley collected things – among the objects covering the floor of her room were several photographs, some letters, and