Make Death Love Me by Ruth Rendell

Author:Ruth Rendell [Ruth Rendell]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Random House
Published: 1986-02-26T16:00:00+00:00

14

At the theatre Alan had chosen was a much-praised production of one of Shaw’s comedies. He had picked it because there wouldn’t be any bedroom scenes or sexy dialogue or four-letter words which would have embarrassed him in Rose’s company. But when he was at the box office he found that they only had upper circle seats left, and he couldn’t take a girl like Rose in the upper circle. All the other theatres round about seemed to be showing the kind of plays he had avoided in choosing You Never Can Tell, or Shakespeare which was too heavy or musicals which she might not like.

And then, suddenly, he knew he couldn’t face it at all. His cold feet were turning to ice. He couldn’t be alone with her in a restaurant, not knowing what to order or how to order or what wine to choose. He couldn’t bring her home in the dark, be alone with her in the back of a taxi, after they had seen a play in which people were naked or talked about, or even acted, sex. In the midst of his doubts, a happy thought came to him. When he had gone upstairs to ask Una Engstrand about the water-heater, he had considered inviting her and Caesar Locksley in for drinks on Saturday night. Why not do that? Why not ask her and Caesar and this Annie of his for drinks in his room and ask Rose too? It was a much better idea. Rose would see the home her kindness had secured for him, he wouldn’t have to be alone with her until he took her home – perhaps she had a car – and he would have the pleasure of creating an evening so different from those encounters with the Kitsons and the Heyshams, what a party should be with real conversation between people who liked each other and wanted to be together. And it would break the ice between him and Rose, it would make their next meeting easier for him.

Would drinks be enough or ought he to get food? He couldn’t cook. He thought of lettuce and sardines and madeira cake, of liver and bacon and sausages. It was hopeless. Drinks alone it would have to be, with some peanuts. Next to the wineshop where he bought Bristol Cream and some vermouth was a newsagent’s. The evening paper told him – it preceded Nigel’s by twenty-four hours – that the Sabena jet had come down in Cairo, the pay claim negotiations had reached deadlock, and Joyce Culver’s mother had been rushed to hospital in a coma. A cloud seemed to pass across him, dulling his happiness and the pale wintry sun. If Mrs Culver died, could anyone say it was his fault? No. If he had given the alarm and the police had chased Joyce’s kidnappers, who could tell what would have happened to her? They would have crashed the car or shot her. Everything went to prove that it was better to take no violent action with people like that.

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