The Third Twin - Ken Follett [184]
He sighed. But it would be wrong. She was not a volunteer. Insecurity and fear had brought her to this bed, not desire. Yes, Steve, you can fuck her—and you will be exploiting a frightened immigrant who believes she has no choice. And that would be contemptible. You would despise a man who could do that.
“Do you feel better now?” he said.
“Yes.…”
“Then go back to your own bed.”
She touched his face, then kissed his mouth softly. He kept his lips firmly shut but patted her hair in a friendly way.
She stared at him in the half-dark. “You’re not him, are you,” she said.
“No,” Steve said. “I’m not him.”
A moment later she was gone.
He still had an erection.
Why am I not him? Because of the way I was brought up?
Hell, no.
I could have fucked her. I could be Harvey. I’m not him because I choose not to be. My parents didn’t make that decision just now: I did. Thanks for your help, Mom and Dad, but it was me, not you, who sent her back to her room.
Berrington didn’t create me, and you didn’t create me.
I did.
MONDAY
62
STEVE WOKE UP WITH A START.
Where am I?
Someone was shaking his shoulder, a man in striped pajamas. It was Berrington Jones. He suffered a moment of disorientation, then everything came back to him.
“Dress smart for the press conference, please,” Berrington said. “In the closet you’ll find a shirt you left here a couple of weeks ago. Marianne laundered it. Come to my room and pick out a tie to borrow.” He went out.
Berrington talked to his son as if to a difficult, disobedient child, Steve reflected as he got out of bed. The unspoken sentence “Don’t argue, just do it” was attached to every utterance. But his abrupt manner made conversation easier for Steve. He could get away with monosyllabic responses that did not risk betraying his ignorance.
It was eight A.M. Wearing his undershorts, he went along the passage to the bathroom. He took a shower, then shaved with a disposable razor he found in the bathroom cabinet. He moved slowly, postponing the moment when he would have to put himself at risk by conversing with Berrington.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he went to Berrington’s room, in accordance with his orders. Berrington was not there. Steve opened the closet. Berrington’s ties were baronial: stripes and small dots and foulards, all in shiny silk, nothing up-to-date. He picked one with broad horizontal stripes. He needed underwear, too. He looked at Berrington’s boxer shorts. Although he was much taller than Berrington, they had the same waist size. He took a plain blue pair.
When he was dressed he braced himself for another ordeal of deception. Just a few more hours and it would be all over. He had to allay Berrington’s suspicions until a few minutes after noon, when Jeannie would interrupt the press conference.
He took a deep breath and went out.
He followed the smell of frying bacon to the kitchen. Marianne was at the stove. She stared wide-eyed at Steve. Steve had a momentary panic: if Berrington noticed her expression he might ask her what was wrong—and the poor girl was so terrified that she would probably tell him. But Berrington was watching CNN on a small TV set and he was not the type to take an interest in the help.
Steve sat down and Marianne poured him coffee and juice. He gave her a reassuring smile to calm her down.
Berrington held up a hand for silence—unnecessarily, for Steve had no intention of making small talk—and the anchor read an item about the takeover of Genetico. “Michael Madigan, CEO of Landsmann North America, said last night that the disclosure phase had been satisfactorily completed, and the deal will be signed in public at a press conference in Baltimore today. Shares in Landsmann rose fifty pfennigs on the Frankfurt exchange in early trading this morning. General Motors third-quarter figures—”
There was a ring at the doorbell and Berrington hit the mute button. He looked out of the kitchen