for a lot of criticism? Didn’t he realize the crying need right this moment to appeal for calm and goodwill? To make the public feel love for the animals, so they’ll cry out for restraint … She felt the dread and impotence well up again, and closed her eyes. Keep thinking about fonas …
She had caught Jonas’s television interview in the transit lounge in Cook’s County airport (where she could have got a drink if only she’d known about the Bible Belt lurking ahead, zapping its deadly laws up into the stratosphere). And oh, dear, Jonas meeting the press on television about this terrible thing, this insanity committed against her poor animals … He had spoken as if the reporters’ questions were a personal affront.
She sighed. And, yes, she felt sorry for herself. Because until she saw him on television she had begun to think—hope?—that something could come of it between them. For an instant she had even felt proud when she saw him striding so authoritatively into the press conference—but as soon as he began to speak with his serious-scientist authority …
She exhaled smoke. No … Jonas and she just weren’t meant for each other by dear old Mother Nature. In that instant she had glimpsed all the things about him that gave her the willies. Jonas and his half bottle of California wine. His nervous expression when she consulted the menu, in case she chose anything too expensive. Jonas opening windows when she lit a cigarette. Jonas inspecting the cutlery for stains. Jonas and his sudden bumbling ardor every time he tried to make love to her. Jonas jumping up afterward to wash his hands. Jonas and his determined dignity. Jonas and his bloody tactlessness—‘You drink too much, my dear, that’s why you’re putting on weight.’ ‘You smoke too much, my dear, you’re losing your complexion.’ Just the thing a girl likes to hear.
She smiled wearily. Dear Jonas … Good man. Good scientist. Well-off, bachelor, social standing. But she had been a fool even to try to make a go of it. She should have kept the relationship on its original level—intellectual; just somebody nice to talk music and poetry and books and films with—somebody nice and safe. But no. She had been trying pathetically to put her life back together ever since the Big Heel suddenly had kicked her out. It had been very nice, after her dismal failures in the singles bars (Oh God how dismal), after her pathetic efforts at being with-it—a shrinking violet on the meat market—to be wooed by her new prestigious boss, very nice to write home to England, so that the Big Heel would hear about it, that she was having a ball in the Big Apple of New York and having a wild affair with one of the world’s leading professors of zoology—how would his blonde Singapore dumbbell look then?
Then she sighed at herself scornfully. But bitterly all the same. Because Bernard wouldn’t care. And the sad fact was that she shouldn’t care either! A whole bloody year—she should be over it by now!
Enough! She felt the tears burn, and she got up impulsively to stop herself thinking. She hurried down the aisle to the toilet, trying to compose herself. She locked the door and slumped against it.
She sighed deeply. There were a few other hard facts to face.
And one was that she dreaded ever having to show herself to him now—to have herself compared to the blonde from Singapore. Because she was too fat now, just as Jonas said. She was a godawful mess! Look at you! And even your panties back to front still!
She unzippered her jeans, kicked off her shoes. She pulled the jeans down over her hips, wrestled them down over her thighs. So tight! Two sizes bigger than last year! She sat down on the toilet and struggled out of them. She pulled off the offending panties, then made herself look in the mirror.
God, she looked dreadful. And she wasn’t talking about her distress, her red eyes and her hair all over the place. She stood there naked from the waist down, twenty thousand feet above the Bible Belt. Plump thighs—and she used to have good legs. Look at your hips. Dimpled bottom. Even her shoulders were chubby. She had put on so much weight that her bust looked smaller, though it wasn’t. She used to have almost classic high cheekbones. Now? A year ago she was positively thin after eating her heart out for two awful months in their heartbreakingly empty house in London hoping Bernard would return to his senses and come back to her. ‘I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love,’ he had announced on the telephone from the airport, ‘I’m not coming home.’ A few stop-overs in Singapore, and he’d fallen in love—prepared to kick over five years for some peroxide blonde he’d met in the Shangri-La Hotel. And now what she had done to herself—overweight and a smoker’s cough!
She closed her eyes. This was ridiculous …
She looked ridiculous, standing there. She pulled on her panties, then her jeans. Ridiculous, bare-assed over the Bible Belt feeling sorry for herself. She jammed on her shoes. She peered into the mirror to patch herself up, then sighed. She’d left her bag on her seat; she didn’t have her makeup.
Oh, what the hell! Why should she care what she looked like, nobody else did. Except dear old Jonas Ford. She didn’t care if she was too fat, if she ate too much, and if a few whiskys and a bottle of wine every evening were making her fat, to hell with it—what else was there to look forward to in her crummy apartment at the end of a day? She did not care any more.
Then she looked at herself grimly.
Well—that was wrong. She was going to start caring again, from now on. She was going to stop feeling sorry for herself. So, her husband had jilted her. Big deal—it had happened to millions of other people. Think positively ...
She ran her fingers through her hair, bit her lips to get some color into them, then opened the door. She returned to her seat, collected her handbag and walked back to the toilet.
She brushed her hair vigorously. She powdered her nose and put on her lipstick.
There … she looked much better. Her hair was still good—wavy and shiny and a lovely chestnut. And her green eyes were still beautiful. And her mouth. In fact, she had a lovely face—you could still see that. She was going to get herself back into shape. Think positively. So she could stand comparison with the Singapore blonde.
She returned to her seat and stared out of the window.
And her heart sank again as she looked down at those mauve Appalachian Mountains. Oh, how vast. They just went on and on forever. How on earth were they going to get those animals out of there? It was going to take a massive military-style operation just to contain the animals in any given chunk of it, let alone get in there and find them, track them one by one. Then get them out … No roads and that massive, steep, rugged, timber country.
Then she thought of her dear animals loose, frightened, bewildered, lost, their beautiful eyes darting fearfully in all directions and their hearts hammering, crouched in hiding and slinking about, terrified of every rustle of leaves and snap of a twig, desperately looking for food and not finding any, getting hungrier and hungrier, not understanding what had happened to them, getting thinner and thinner and wild with fear—and not understanding. Defenseless. And her heart surged in impotent anger at David Jordan.
She did not know what good she was going to do, impulsively jumping on a plane like this and getting down here. Bernard had always accused her of impetuosity. Too easily steamed up. ‘Drama, Liz—you’re a sucker for drama.’ But she knew she just had to—she just had to try, somehow try, to get in there and do something. Be available, to help, to try to prevent. To … succor. …
A creek ran down a ravine, through thick hemlock and laurel, disappearing into tangled green and dappled shadows. The animals were invisible from the Appalachian Trail, fifty yards up on the crest. A man loses sight of another within twenty paces in those forests.
It was early afternoon. The animals clustered around the little creek, waiting for Jamba, the old zoo elephant, who was still drinking. David squatted on