The Paying Guests

by Sarah Waters

‘I like the house just as it is. It’s a house with a history, isn’t it? Things—well, they oughtn’t always to be modern. There’d be no character if they were.’

But then, men never do want women to do the things they want to do themselves, have you noticed?’

He looks at a woman sitting idle and sees a knife going to rust, I think.’

‘Well, I’d like to call you a name that hardly anyone else calls you.’

It was like a cure, being with Lilian. It made one feel like a piece of wax being cradled in a soft, warm palm.

But even as she nodded, even as she murmured, even as she lit that cigarette and leaned to fit it between his lips, a part of her, like a long, long shadow running counter to the sun, was leaning to Frances; Frances was sure of it.

It was as if a thread were fixed between them, continually drawing them back together.

Once she had left it, the room became very ordinary.

‘He’s only taken a shine to me because I’ve taken a shine to you. It’s your shine, Lilian.’

If they were a man and a girl, it would be different. There would be less confusion and blur. She would seize Lilian’s hand and Lilian would know what it meant. She herself would know what it meant!

She set it down to steady herself against Frances’s embrace, and there was the muted tap of her wedding-band, a small, chill sound in the darkness.

If Len had ever done something like that, he’d have done it for himself. When you did it, you did it for me, didn’t you?

But when I’m with Lilian I feel honest. I feel like a knot that’s been unpicked. Or as if all my angles have been rubbed smooth.’

‘I shall look at this when we’re apart,’ Lilian said, ‘and it won’t matter who I’m with, whether it’s Len or anyone. He’ll think I’m here, but I won’t be here. I’ll be with you, Frances.’

He wanted his wife, that was all—she realised it with a pang. He didn’t know—how could he?—that she wanted her too.

‘What will change, if we don’t change it ourselves?’

I won’t be a coward with you. I won’t let you be a coward, either. But you’re braver than you think. If you weren’t, you would never have crossed the kitchen and kissed me, after Netta’s party. You would never have said, “Take me home.” You would never have pulled the stake from my heart. You remember that moment?’

They hung on to one another, but might have been gripping each other’s hands over some great gulf, so horribly fused yet separated were they by their terror.

She’d be a thing of aches and blisters for the rest of her days, she thought; she’d ask for nothing, trouble no one; if only they’d let her keep her freedom, if only they’d let her keep her life.

I barely knew I had a skin until I met you. Tell me you believe it. This is a place for truth, isn’t it? We’ve heard nothing in it but lies, but tell me, please tell me, that you know I love you, that you know it’s true.’

But every time, it seemed to me that the only thing I could have done differently was never to have kissed you, that night, after the party . . . And even now, after everything, I can’t wish that. You made me want to, for a while, but—I can’t. I can’t.’