The Backward Shadow Read Online Free PDF

wanted me to go—not only to keep an eye on her book (to see it, as it were, for her, in its shiny cover, displayed in New York bookshops and perhaps reviewed in New York papers), but to ‘do something exciting’ with the £400. How could I explain that I wanted to get away—far away from London, even from England, in an effort to escape my need for Toby? If I stayed within earshot, so to speak, one day, when I was low and my need great, I would call, and he would come, and then I would be a millstone round his neck forever. I had to get out of calling-distance. I had to learn to do without him.
    Billie Lee also thought I was crazy, though I hadn’t told Father this, naturally.
    My resolution was becoming impossible to keep up in the face of so much discouragement. I decided there was only one thing to do—go and see Dottie.
    I went to see her while I was up in London, or rather, she invited me out for the evening. I left David with Father, tarted myself up for the first time in months, and presented myself at her lovely new flat, feeling like a child going to its first party.
    She flung open the door and swept me in, kissing me soundly on the way. The flat was beautiful, and I had no doubt she had done the whole thing herself, but she denied it.
    â€˜No, love, not a bit of it,’ she declared, sitting me down on a luscious cinnamon velvet button-back sofa amid an array of wallflower-coloured cushions. ‘It was quite marvellous what happened, actually. I had this gentleman-friend, who by a happy coincidence happened to be an interior decorator. He rather resented the fact that I wanted to do all the choosing and designing, but after several hideous rows he saw I had taste and gave in, and just did what I told him.’ She sighed. ‘I think he had ideas about living here himself. But unfortunately the relationship didn’t survive the business partnership.Very few do, I find. What finally tore it, was that picture above the fireplace.’ She pointed to a large square canvas, thickly encrusted with lime, gold, white and terracotta oilpaint. It didn’t mean anything at all, but it was nonetheless very decorative and suitable to the room, which was all whites and browns and yellows, with an olive carpet and lots of copper.
    â€˜I like it,’ I said.
    â€˜So do I,’ she said promptly. ‘I liked it the moment I set eyes on it, and so, I still believe, did he; but when he found out I’d bought it for a mere thirteen guineas at Catesby’s sale, he lost all respect for it and me. I think what chiefly enraged him was that he’d been fooled into thinking it was something “good”. When he used that word, I realised then, quite suddenly, he always referred to where a thing had come from. So when he found out I hadn’t bought that picture at an art gallery, he flew into a furious rage and said it was a cheap piece of background decoration for mass-produced furniture and told me to take it back. I refused. And that, I fear, was that.’
    â€˜Oh Dottie, I’m sorry! Was it really serious?’
    â€˜I don’t suppose it can have been—I hardly cried at all, except from temper, and when I really care I cry for weeks. Anyway, there are really only two important points arising from him—first, he did the whole flat for “cost” before his walk-out, and second, no one has come along to take his place in my life. The latter is really becoming a matter for concern, since I am not given to the solitary life, as you know.’ Dottie was my age, and very like me in many ways; she had always been flamboyant and gay on the surface (one of the things I loved about her) but somehow, lately, this surface had begun to develop a steely gloss which worried me. It was too bright, too shining, too devil-may-care. Dottie cared; she had always cared. She loathed being alone, and looking round at this splendid milieu she had created for herself