Iris shrugged. “You know how people are. Clarissa keeps wanting to have what she calls a comfy chat about everything and I keep putting her off. Stokharin now takes it for granted that John and I sleep together, that he is the father-image to me and I the mother to him.”
It had an odd ring to it and I laughed. “Do you think that’s a sound post-Jungian analysis?”
Iris smiled faintly. “Whatever it is, the feeling, such as it is, is all on my side.”
“And he shows no sign of returning your affection?”
“None at all. He’s devoted to me, I think. He relies on my judgment. He trusts me, which is more than he does anyone else I know of....”
“Even me?” Always the “I” coming between me and what I wished to know: that insatiable, distressing “I.”
“Yes, even you, dear, and Paul too. He’s on guard against everyone, but not in a nasty or suspicious way. He ... what is the phrase? he keeps his own counsel.”
“And you are the counsel?”
“In a sense, and nothing more.”
“Perhaps you should give up. It would seem that ... love was not possible for him. If so, it’s unwise for you to put yourself in such a position ... harmful, too.”