The End of the Affair Read Online Free PDF Page A

to feel when I heard the front door close and her step in the hall. I had a wild hope that the sight of me a few days before had woken not love, of course, but a sentiment, a memory which I might work on. At the time it seemed to me that if I could have her once more -however quickly and crudely and unsatisfactorily - I would be at peace again: I would have washed her out of my system, and afterwards I would leave her, not she me.
    It was odd after eighteen months’ silence dialling that number: Macaulay 7753, and odder still that I had to look it up in my address book because I was uncertain of the last digit. I sat listening to the ringing tone, and I wondered whether Henry was back yet from the Ministry and what I should say if he answered. Then I realized that there was nothing wrong any more with the truth. Lies had deserted me, and I felt as lonely as though they had been my only friends.
    The voice of a highly-trained maid repeated the number into my ear-drum. I said, ‘Is Mrs Miles in?’
    ‘Mrs Miles?’
    ‘Isn’t that Macaulay 7753’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I want to speak to Mrs Miles.’
    ‘You’ve got the wrong number,’ and she rang off. It had never occurred to me that the small things alter too with time.
    I looked Miles up in the directory, but the old number was still there: the directory was more than a year out of date. I was just going to dial Inquiries when the telephone rang again, and it was Sarah herself. She said with some embarrassment, ‘Is that you?’ She had never called me by any name, and now without her old terms of affection she was at a loss. I said, ‘Bendrix speaking.’
    ‘This is Sarah. Didn’t you get my message?’
    ‘Oh, I was going to ring you, but I had to finish an article. By the way, I don’t think I’ve got your number now. It’s in the book, I suppose?’
    ‘No. Not yet. We’ve changed. It’s Macaulay 6204. I wanted to ask you something.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Nothing very dreadful. I wanted to have lunch with you, that’s all.’
    ‘Of course. I’d be delighted. When?’
    ‘You couldn’t manage tomorrow?’
    ‘No. Not tomorrow. You see, I’ve simply got to get this article… ‘
    ‘Wednesday?’
    ‘Would Thursday do?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, and I could almost imagine disappointment in a monosyllable - so our pride deceives us.
    ‘Then I’ll meet you at the Cafe Royal at one.’
    ‘It’s good of you,’ she said, and I could tell from her voice that she meant it.’ Until Thursday.’
    ‘Until Thursday.’
    I sat with the telephone receiver in my hand and I looked at hate like an ugly and foolish man whom one did not want to know. I dialled her number, I must have caught her before she had time to leave the telephone, and said, ‘Sarah. Tomorrow’s all right. I’d forgotten something. Same place. Same time,’ and sitting there, my fingers on the quiet instrument, with something to look forward to, I thought to myself: I remember. This is what hope feels like.

5
    I laid the newspaper flat on the table and read the same page over and over again because I wouldn’t look at the doorway. People were continually coming in, and I wouldn’t be one of those who by moving their heads up and down betray a foolish expectation. What have we all got to expect that we allow ourselves to be so lined with disappointment? There was the usual murder in the evening paper and a Parliamentary squabble about sweet-rationing, and she was now five minutes late. It was my bad luck that she caught me looking at my watch. I heard her voice say, ‘I’m sorry. I came by bus and the traffic was bad.’
    I said, ‘The tube’s quicker.’
    ‘I know, but I didn’t want to be quick.’
    She had often disconcerted me by the truth. In the days when we were in love, I would try to get her, to say more than the truth - that our affair would never end, that one day we should marry. I wouldn’t have believed her, but I would have liked to hear the words on her tongue, perhaps only