Hemingway’s Chair

shopping.’ He tried
to make the best of it. ‘She doesn’t mind so long as I give her the money!’ But
Elaine was indignant now, and wasn’t going to let the matter drop. ‘All we need
to do is to have the training session another time,’ she said. ‘I mean why not
Monday?’
    Marshall
held up his hand and looked from Elaine to Arthur. The side of his mouth had
gone into mild spasm.
    ‘There’s
no need to worry. You both need your Saturday. I’ll get a part-timer in. Okay?’
    ‘Another
one?’ asked Elaine suspiciously. ‘Where from?’
    He
tensed his jaw and flicked quickly at his hair. ‘Leave it to me.’
     
    Later
that day, Martin and Elaine were alone together in the small, cluttered sitting
room of the Rudge’s two-storey terrace house. It was one of a modest,
attractive row of Victorian fisherman’s cottages set in a cul-de-sac between
the sea front and the main street, close by the handsome fourteenth-century
church. Frank and Joan Rudge were both out, Frank at an extraordinary session
of the Town Council and Joan over at Marsh Cottage collecting some chair-covers
from Kathleen Sproale.
    Martin
and Elaine were eating TV dinners and watching Inspector Morse. Martin
was glad they made programmes as good as that because it meant they could be in
each other’s company without the need to talk. Talking wasn’t comfortable
between them any more. Elaine wouldn’t let Nick Marshall be mentioned, indeed
any talk of work produced a bitter response.
    Martin
looked over at her. Elaine’s attention was rapt. She was leaning forward,
frowning at the television. He found her concentration appealing. She clutched
herself at the elbows and her back was now so straight and long that it would
not have taken much for him to free her sweater from the trouser band and feel
the smooth soft skin and run his fingers round the line of her waist.
    Then
the music came and the commercials began and she stood up, holding the remains
of a sticky lasagne. ‘I can’t eat all this, d’you want it?’
    ‘No
thanks. I think I’d better be getting back.’
    Martin
got up. In the kitchen Elaine scraped the contents of the foil container on to
a saucer and dropped the container into the waste bin. ‘Back to your Mr
Hemingway,’ she said.
    Martin
said nothing. He picked up his tray and carried it through.
    ‘What’s
it like having a rival for his affections?’ she said as he came into the
kitchen.
    ‘What
d’you mean?’
    ‘That
Ruth woman. She was all over you at the fair.’
    Martin
stamped the waste bin open with his foot and dropped his cartons in. He
shrugged. ‘She’s too high-powered for me. She’s one of those scholars. Probably
writing a five-volume thesis on his left toenail.’
    ‘She’s
writing about his women isn’t she? That’s what she told Dad.’ Elaine lifted the
kettle, found it empty and ran some water into it.
    ‘Did
he have a lot of women?’ she asked.
    ‘Papa?’
    ‘No,
clever Dick, Hemingway.’
    Martin
laughed. ‘I meant Hemingway. That’s what he liked to be called. Papa. He
hated his name. Hated Ernest.’
    Elaine
wasn’t amused. ‘Well, did he?’
    ‘Did
he what?’
    ‘Have
all these women?’ She looked up challengingly.
    ‘Oh
yes. No shortage. They used to fall at his feet. Ingrid Bergman, Marlene
Dietrich, Ava Gardner. He was married four times. Mind you, a lot of it was
talk. He used to say he’d slept with Mata Hari the first time he came to
Europe. Then someone pointed out that she’d already have been dead a year.’
Martin smiled affectionately at the thought. ‘He did like to exaggerate.’
    Elaine
unhooked a mug which she’d bought on last year’s holiday. It demonstrated the
difficulties of capturing Ventnor on a small curved piece of china. ‘You know a
lot about him.’
    Martin
nodded. ‘That’s true.’
    Elaine
unscrewed the top from a jar of coffee and dug a spoon in. ‘That American could
use your help to write her book.’
    Martin
shook his head. ‘She won’t need me.’
    Elaine
snapped the lid back on. ‘Why not? You know all there is to know about him.
Excuse me.’ She squeezed past him to switch on the kettle. He felt the brush of
her breasts against his back. ‘Maybe it’s what you need. Someone with a shared
interest. Someone who isn’t always moaning at you.’
    The
kettle began to hiss and rumble.
    ‘I
don’t want anyone else.’
    Elaine
turned her large, bright hazel eyes on him. ‘Then prove