It was lunchtime when he emerged, and he wandered around looking for somewhere to eat. There’d been a Chinese restaurant on Gerard Street that he and Charmaine had frequented whenever funds allowed: he returned there now. Though its facade had been modernized to accommodate a large neon sign, the interior was much the same; the food as good as he remembered. He sat in splendid isolation and ate and drank his way through the menu, happy to play the rich man to the hilt. He ordered half a dozen cigars after the meal, downed several brandies and tipped like a millionaire. Papa would be proud of me, he thought. When he was full, drunk and satisfied, he headed out into the balmy afternoon. It was time he followed the rest of Whitehead’s instructions.
He made his way through Soho, wandering for a few minutes until he found a betting office. As he entered the smoky interior, guilt assailed him, but he told his spoilsport conscience to go hang. He was obeying orders in coming here.
There were races at Newmarket, Kempton Park and Doncaster-each name evoked some bittersweet association-and he bet freely on every one on the board. Soon the old enthusiasm had killed the last smidgen of guilt. It was like living, this game, but it tasted stronger. It dramatized, with its promised gains, its too-easy losses, the sense he had had as a child of what adult life must be like. Of how, once one grew out of boredom and into the secret, bearded, erectile world of manhood, every word would be loaded with risk and promise, every breath taken won in the face of extraordinary odds.
At first, the money dribbled away from him; he didn’t bet heavily, but the frequency of the losses began to dwindle his reserves. Then, three-quarters of an hour into the session things took a turn for the better; horses he plucked from thin air romped home at ridiculous odds, one after the other. In one race he made back what he’d lost in the previous two, and more. The enthusiasm turned to euphoria. This was the very feeling he’d tried so hard to describe to Whitehead-of being in charge of chance.
Finally, the wins began to bore him. Pocketing his winnings without taking any proper account of them, he left. The money in his jacket was a thick wedge; it ached to be spent. On instinct, he sauntered through the crowds to Oxford Street, selected an expensive shop, and bought a nine-hundred-pound fur coat for Charmaine, then hailed a cab to take it to her. It was a slow journey; the wage-slaves were beginning to make their escape, and the roads were snarled. But his mood forbade irritation.
He had the taxi drop him off at the corner of the street, because he wanted to walk the length of it. Things had changed since he’d last been here, two and a half months before. Early spring was now early summer. Now, at almost six in the evening, the warmth of the day hadn’t dissipated; there was growing time in it still. Nor, he thought, was it just the season that had advanced, become riper; he had too.
He felt real. God in Heaven, that was it. At last he was able to operate in the world again, affect it, shape it.
Charmaine came to the door looking flustered. She looked more flustered still when Marty stepped in, kissed her, and put the coat box in her arms.
“Here. I bought you something.”
She frowned. “What is it, Marty?”
“Take a look. It’s for you.”
“No,” she said. “I can’t.”
The front door was still open. She was ushering him back toward it, or at least attempting to. But he wouldn’t go. There was something beneath the look of embarrassment on her face: anger, panic even. She pressed the box back at him, unopened.
“Please go,” she said.
“It’s a surprise,” he told her, determined not to be repelled.
“I don’t want any surprises. Just go. Ring me tomorrow.”
He wouldn’t take the proffered box, and it fell between them, breaking open. The sumptuous gleam of the coat spilled out; she couldn’t help but stoop to pick it up.