The Collector

 Watching Piers throw stones out to sea -- where was it? -- somewhere near Valencia. So beautiful, like a young god, all golden-brown, with his dark hair. His swimming-slip. And Minny said (she was lying beside me, oh, it's so clear) she said, wouldn't it be wonderful if Piers was dumb.

 And then she said, could you go to bed with him?

 I said, no. Then, I don't know.

 Piers came up then and wanted to know what she was smiling about.

 Nanda's just told me a secret, she said. About you.

 Piers made some feeble joke and went off to get the lunch from the car with Peter.

 What's the secret, I wanted to know.

 Bodies beat minds, she said.

 Clever Carmen Grey always knows what to say.

 I knew you'd say that, she said. She was doodling in the sand and I was on my tummy watching her. She said, what I mean is he's so terribly good-looking, one could forget he's so stupid. You might think, I could marry him and teach him. Couldn't you? And you know you couldn't. Or you could go to bed with him just for fun and one day you'd suddenly find you were in love with his body and you couldn't live without it and you'd be stuck with his rotten mind for ever and ever.

 Then she said, doesn't it terrify you?

 Not more than so many other things.

 I'm serious. If you married him I'd never speak to you again.

 And she was serious. That very quick grey shy look she puts on, like a little lance. I got up and kissed her on the way up and went to meet the boys. And she sat there, still looking down at the sand.

 We're both terrible lookers-through. We can't help it. But she's always said, I believe this, I shall act like this. It's got to be someone you at least feel is your equal, who can look through as well as you. And the body thing's always got to be second. And I've always secretly thought, Carmen will be another spinster. It's too complicated for set ideas.

 But now I think of G.P. and I compare him to Piers. And Piers has got nothing on his side. Just a golden body throwing stones aimlessly into the sea.

    _November 5th_

 I gave him hell tonight.

 I started throwing things around upstairs. First cushions and then plates. I've been longing to break them.

 But I was beastly, really. Spoilt. He suffered it all. He's so weak. He ought to have slapped me across the face.

 He did catch hold of me, to stop me breaking another of his wretched plates. We so rarely touch. I hated it. It was like icy water.

 I lectured him. I told him all about himself and what he ought to do in life. But he doesn't listen. He likes me to talk about him. It doesn't matter what I say.

 I won't write any more. I'm reading _Sense and Sensibility_ and I must find out what happens to Marianne. Marianne is me; Eleanor is me as I ought to be.

 What happens if he has a crash? A stroke. Anything.

 I die.

 I couldn't get out. All I did the day before yesterday was to prove it.

    _November 6th_

 It's afternoon. No lunch.

 Another escape. So nearly, it seemed at one point. But it never was. He's a devil.

 I tried the appendicitis trick. I thought of it weeks ago. I've always thought of it as a sort of last resort. Something I must not bungle through unpreparedness. I didn't write about it here, in case he found this.

 I rubbed talc into my face. Then when he knocked on the door this morning I swallowed a whole lot of saved-up salt and water and pressed my tongue and the timing was perfect, he came in and saw me being sick. I put on a tremendous act. Lying on the bed with my hair in a mess and holding my tummy. Still in my pyjamas and dressing-gown. Groaning a little, as if I was being terribly brave. All the time he stood and said, what's wrong, what's wrong? And we had a sort of desperate broken conversation, Caliban trying to get out of taking me to hospital, I insisting that he must. And then suddenly he seemed to give way. He muttered something about it being "the end" and rushed out.

 I heard the iron door go (I was still staring at the wall) but no bolts. Then the outer door. And there was silence. It was weird. So sudden, so complete. It had worked. I pulled on some socks and shoes and ran to the iron door. It had sprung back an inch or two -- was open. I thought it might be all a trap. So I kept up the act, I opened the door and said his name in a quiet voice and hobbled weakly across the cellar and up the steps. I could see the light, he hadn't locked the outer door, either. It flashed across my mind that it was just what he would do, he wouldn't go to the doctor. He'd run away. Crack up completely. But he'd take the van. So I would hear the engine. But I couldn't. I must have waited several minutes, I should have known but I couldn't bear the suspense. I pulled the door open and rushed out. And he was there. At once. In all the daylight.

 Waiting.