ACROSS THE VALLEY FROM the manor, the thin young man with the lurcher, whom Charlotte had glimpsed earlier, continued his walk. He turned off the river road onto a track, and headed uphill to the beech trees. He walked at a leisurely pace, scenting the evening air: he could smell damp grass, woodsmoke, the residue of exhaust fumes, and—nearing the wood—the stink of fox.
He paused to look back across the alley to the curve of the river, and the village beyond. He noted the church tower, the graceful façade of the manor, the lights in the cottage windows. It was a famous view, one that had changed little in four hundred years, and—the epitome of a certain Englishness—one much featured in Cotswolds guidebooks. The young man looked at it with loathing: safe, smug, complacent, rich. Star hated the English countryside; he preferred the textures, smells, and dangers of city streets.
Star—it was not his real name, but it was now the only tag he answered to—rolled saliva in his mouth, then spat. His dog cowered at his heels. Star jerked the length of string that served as a leash, and walked on. He entered a clearing on the edge of the beech wood. There, parked discreetly behind a wall, its lights cut, was a brand-new 5 series silver BMW.
“Yours?” said Star to the plump, smartly dressed young man who was standing next to it, blowing on his fingers and stamping his feet.
“Christ. You made me jump.” The young man swung around. “Why do you have to creep up on people like that? This place gives me the willies. You’re late.”
“Your car?” Star repeated. The young man recovered himself. He gave a tight grin, and made a seesawing gesture of the hand.
“In a manner of speaking. Classy, isn’t it?”
Star gave him a look of bilious contempt. He did not like the man, whose name was Mitchell, and who worked in the City money markets; he did not like his car. He shrugged.
“German shit. If you’re going to buy German, get a Mercedes, they’re best.”
“Who said anything about buying?” Mitchell grinned again. He edged away from Star, who had not washed recently, and who smelled richly of sweat.
“All fixed for tonight?” he went on, again stamping his feet. “Christ, it’s cold. I’ve driven all the way from London. I’ve got the usual friends joining me, so I damn well hope it’s fixed.”
Star was wearing a huge, torn, tweed overcoat. From one of its pockets he produced a small and very expensive mobile telephone. Mitchell regarded this object without surprise, though it was greatly at odds with Star’s gypsyish dress. Star punched in a number.
“One more call,” he said. “And, yes, it’s fixed.”
“Sweet?” Mitchell said on an interrogative note. Mitchell’s taste was for speed and teenage girls, if possible in combination. Star’s task was to provide both, so he understood the question at once. He pushed back his long black hair, let the number ring, and smiled. Star was blessed—or cursed—with startling good looks, and the smile, practiced before many mirrors, was intended to disarm. Mitchell, who knew Star of old, was not disarmed. He noticed now, as he had noticed on occasions before, that Star’s blue-black eyes had a nasty glint in them, a not-quite-sane might-do-anything worship-me-Charles-Manson sort of glint. In the fading light Star’s eyes and teeth gleamed. Mitchell took one step farther back.
Star spoke briefly into the mobile phone, then disconnected, and snapped it shut.
He finally answered Mitchell’s question.
“Sweet?” he said. “There’ll be three hundred people. Three hundred minimum. And the pigs don’t have a sniff of it. Feel the power in the airwaves, man—that’s sweet if you like. The tribes are gathering. I’ve got music, fire eaters, jugglers, lots of gullible little rich kids.” He laughed. “One big fucking stairway to heaven, man—I can promise you that. Trust in Star. Have I ever let you down?”
“Yes,” said Mitchell, recovering his nerve. “You have.”
“Example?”
“Last summer, for example. Ground-up fucking aspirin. Ground-up fucking dogs’ worming tablets. Twenty quid a tab for crap. My friends weren’t pleased. I wasn’t pleased. More like a grave than a rave that was—I was throwing up for two days afterward. That little Dutch bitch you fixed me up with gave me the clap—” He paused. Star was not listening.
“What happened to that little bitch, by the way?”
“She’s dead.”
“My condolences. The fact remains. You let me down. As such occasions go, that one was shit.”
“It rained.”
“It was amateurs-ville.”
“It was a tryout. Tonight will be different. You wait. This time, my friends came through. I’ve got some serious stuff.”
Mitchell began to look more interested. “Samples?”
“No free samples.”
“Look, I have to be sure this time, all right? I’ve come a fucking long way. I’ve got friends coming from Birmingham—I waste their time, I look like a schmuck…”
Star shrugged and did not move. There was a silence, a tussle of wills. Eventually, Mitchell produced a fat wallet. He peeled off a twenty-pound note and handed it across. Star ignored it.
“You’ve got to be fucking joking.”
“I never joke.”
There was another pause, then Mitchell peeled off another note. Star took the money and handed him a small packet. Mitchell opened it, examined the pill inside, then swallowed it. He waited, paced a bit, lit a cigarette. Some time passed. Star watched, arms folded. Mitchell talked on. Then, abruptly, he threw the cigarette down. He closed his eyes, swayed against his car, and clutched his chest. Several more minutes passed. Star continued to watch him in silence. Eventually, Mitchell opened his eyes again.
“Christ,” he said. “Jesus Christ.”
“Some rush, huh?”
“Express—and I’m still traveling. Wow. This time you’ve really come through. Where in hell did you get that stuff?”
“Amsterdam.”
“God bless the Dutch. What’s it called?”
“It’s a White Dove.”
Mitchell closed his eyes once more.
Star turned. “See you later tonight, then,” he said. “With your friends—oh, and, by the way. You got a discount. For them the price goes up.”
Mitchell sighed. “Start time?” he said.
“Eight. Nine. Ten. Time has no meaning to free men.”
“Don’t give me that hippie shit.” Mitchell opened his eyes. “You like money the same way I do. Also girls. This is Mitchell you’re talking to, remember? I saw you, last summer, with that Dutch kid. And that French girl the year before. One word from me in the right quarter—”
He broke off and caught his breath. Some new chemical reaction was fizzing inside his skull. He paled, then trembled, then swore. When his vision cleared again, he saw that Star was now very close to him, the blue-black eyes just inches from his own. He flinched.
“You saw?” Star said. “Tell me what you saw.”
“Nothing. I saw nothing. I was just—Jesus, Star, it’s this stuff. I can’t think straight. Come on, we know each other, right? No hassle, we’re…”
“Oh, sure, we know each other.” Star moved closer and gripped Mitchell’s lapels. “You know me really well. Like, inside out. You know what makes me tick. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. What does make me tick, exactly, Mitchell? Is it money, pills, little girls, like you? Or is it more?”
Mitchell began to struggle violently. “Let go of me,” he began, his voice rising. “Let fucking go of me, okay?”
“I think it’s more, Mitchell. I think it’s this—appetite—I have for more. More of everything. More sex, more money, more pills, more thrills, more excess. What should I do with you, Mitchell, now that you know me so well? Should I kiss you? Should I kill you?”
Mitchell gave a moan. Star was strong, and he was lifting him up now so his feet dangled above the ground. His wide mouth and even, white teeth were now half an inch from Mitchell’s own.
“Sweet…” Star said, dragging the word out so it sounded like an incantation. He bent forward, then he bit Mitchell’s nose.
Mitchell gave a howl of pain. Star laughed, and dropped him.
“Just a love bite,” he said.
Mitchell rumbled for a handkerchief and mopped his face. His nose was bleeding, and his hands were shaking; the tides of chemicals were still ebbing back and forth in his brain. “You fucking maniac…” He stared at the bloody handkerchief. He looked around him blankly. In the gathering dusk, Star had disappeared. He shook his head, breathed deeply, closed his eyes, then opened them. This time he could see Star. He was standing right in front of him, unaffected by these events, looking much as before. A down-and-out with diabolic eyes. Mitchell shivered, then swore.
“Who the fuck are you?” he began. “What are you? Why in hell…”
Star ignored the question; he gave a sweet, wolfish smile. “You know the place? See you tonight, then.”
He did not wait for any reply from his client. Mitchell’s gaze was now glazed, his eyes closing again. Star watched him for a few moments more, coolly and dispassionately, the way a scientist might watch the result of laboratory tests on mice or rats. Then he gave his thin dog a caress and turned.
Mitchell, coming to his senses a short while afterward, searched the clearing, then checked the track. Star’s capacity to materialize and dematerialize alarmed him. Mitchell felt a bit twitchy, a bit paranoid; no more than a minute or two had passed—Star had to be in sight.
He stared down the straight track to the road below. Shadows and shapes moved in his brain; the track undulated like a switchback, it had a life of its own. Mitchell watched it snake and coil. Slowly he began to understand: the track was deserted; the road was deserted. Star should have been visible, but was not; the air had assimilated him. Star was gone.
Charlotte, a wonderful cook, always provided magnificent teas. Faced with an array of little sandwiches, with toast and honey, with gingerbread and Danny’s iced cakes, Lindsay always vowed to show restraint—and never did. Guiltily aware that Tom had rarely if ever been provided with such a tea as this, and that his custom on returning home from school was to graze on chocolate bars or potato chips, reminding herself that each of Danny’s delicious little cakes contained five hundred calories at least, but feeling that she had to make up for Gini, who scarcely touched the food, Lindsay consumed an inordinate quantity. To please Danny, who was watching her with the solemnity of a three-star Michelin chef, she compounded her own felony by eating two of his cakes—the one made in her honor, with an “L” in silver balls on the top, and also the one with a “G,” destined for Gini, which Gini had quietly refused. Lindsay was peeved at her for this. It was then she noticed that of the cakes remaining, one was iced with the initial “D” for Daddy, and was clearly intended for Max, and the other bore the initial “R.” No one in this household had a name beginning with that letter.
“Who’s this one for, Danny?” Lindsay asked.
To her surprise, Danny instantly blushed a deep and fiery red. He looked at the floor, then he looked at his mother. He looked at his three older brothers, as if desperate for their help, but Alex, Ben, and Colin were leaning over the fire, making toast.
“Maybe it’s a ‘B,’” Lindsay said. “‘B’ for Ben, is that it, Danny? How silly of me—I can’t see too well from here.”
“It’s an ‘R,’” Danny said on a sudden fierce note. “It is an ‘R.’ It doesn’t look like a ‘B’ at all. It’s an ‘R’ for—”
“For Ripper!” Charlotte cried quickly, hauling herself to her feet and pouring tea. “You know, Lindsay. Ripper, the Jack Russell. Jack the Ripper—one of Max’s ghastly jokes. The one who ate your slippers the last time you came. The one who eats everything in sight.”
Lindsay looked down at the dog in question, who, for once, was quiet, lying snoring at her feet. She wondered why he was the only one of four dogs to be awarded this treat, and why—if that were the case—it had not already been given to him. To her certain knowledge, this tiny and malevolent animal had already consumed three shortbread cookies, the braid from a cushion, one piece of Lego, and four pieces of toast. She was about to remark on this, then thought better of it. Danny, darting small, surreptitious glances at his mother, was still round-eyed with some inexplicable distress.
Still, small children could be like that, Lindsay thought, sinking back in her chair. Perhaps it was some specific ritual Danny had. Perhaps Ripper received his cake when, and only when, his master returned from London—which would be soon, she realized, glancing at her watch. Heavens, it was past five-thirty; they’d been sitting there for ages; Max ought to arrive at about six o’clock.
The rich food and the warmth of the wood fire were making her sleepy. She settled still deeper in her chair. How she loved this house, she thought, and this room. How unlike London, how nice this was!
Across from her, Charlotte and Gini sat side by side on a huge battered sofa. The older boys, bored with toastmaking, were departing upstairs to play; Danny had picked up a picture book. Charlotte was persevering with Gini. She was coaxing her beyond monosyllables, and had begun to succeed, it seemed, in persuading Gini to talk.
Not about Bosnia—Charlotte was too intelligent to risk that subject—but first about neutral things, then Gini and Pascal’s apartment—Charlotte longed to see it, begged Gini to describe it—and then, finally, Pascal himself.
“I miss him,” Charlotte said with her customary warmth. “Do you remember that dinner we all had to celebrate your joining the paper? In that tiny French restaurant Pascal found? I still dream about the food—it was just so good. When he gets back we must all go there again. And I want you to bring him here, of course. Would he be bored in the country? No, I don’t think he would.”
“No. He’s never bored. He—I’m sure he’d like that very much. And he likes the country. He grew up in the country. In a village in Provence.”
“Provence? I never realized that. I think of him as so—high-powered, I suppose. International. Always catching planes, speeding off to the next job, taking those extraordinary photographs. They’ve broken my heart, some of his photographs. It must cost him so much to do that, year after year—and yet, when you meet him—I expected him to be somber, haunted by what he’s seen. Yet he seems so”—Charlotte frowned as she sought the right word—“so filled with energy and ideas. And so happy too. But then, I first met him with you. And everyone’s happy when they’re that much in love.”
It was a compliment, and an overture, Lindsay thought, listening. She watched as painful color washed into Gini’s cheeks. For an instant, gratitude and reassurance flooded her face, then she tensed and looked away, as if afraid that Charlotte, having made her overture, would follow it with questions.
Charlotte, who could be subtle, did not do so immediately. She talked on for a while, and Lindsay felt her thoughts begin to drift. She closed her eyes. Charlotte, living in the country, had met Pascal on only a few occasions, and knew him less well than Lindsay. She knew none of the background to this romance, was not aware, as Lindsay was, of the strange circumstances of Pascal’s original meeting with Gini. Charlotte had not witnessed, as Lindsay had, the force of Gini’s reaction when they met again after years apart. It might be difficult to imagine now, while Gini was such a ghost of her former self, but Gini was a passionate woman, and Pascal—as Charlotte had been attempting to convey—was a passionate man. Passion alarmed Lindsay, and occasionally embarrassed her; she shrank from its manifestations, and she shrank from the word. Yet a passion that went far deeper than the electrically obvious sexual attraction between them could be felt whenever Pascal and Gini were together. It sparked across a room; it charged the air around a dinner table—and it had, on occasion, made Lindsay deeply envious. Pascal Lamartine had a beautiful, fiercely expressive face: to watch him watching Gini, to observe his unwavering loyalty, and concern, his constant attunement to her, and hers to him, had been, for Lindsay, a painful experience. She was honest: she knew she was witnessing something she herself had never felt, or inspired.
The most passionate love Lindsay had ever felt was reserved for her son; his welfare, well-being, and future happiness were her dominant concerns—and in some ways she was glad of this. Such love was unalterable; passion between a man and a woman, different in nature, and combustible, was less sure.
“So, tell me, Gini,” she heard as she drifted on the edge of somnolence. “How do you manage—can you call him?”
“Yes. And he tries to call me every day. Sometimes the lines are bad. And we write, of course.”
“Often?”
“Oh—every day if we can. Pascal writes wonderful letters. I can hear his voice when I read them. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, they get through very fast. Sometimes they take weeks to arrive. I haven’t heard from him this week, but that will mean he’s been somewhere remote. He’s not always in Sarajevo. He constantly moves around.”
Lindsay, listening more closely now, paid silent tribute to Charlotte, who had prized this much information from Gini—more specific information than she herself had obtained in two months. She hoped that Gini was telling the truth, and was deluding neither Charlotte nor herself. But Lindsay was no longer sure that this communication did continue as reliably as Gini claimed. Since Christmas, watching the deterioration in Gini, she had begun to believe that some quarrel, perhaps a final quarrel, had taken place in Bosnia, and that the affair, originally begun in a war zone, had now ended in one, as suddenly concluded as it had suddenly begun. Nothing else, she was beginning to believe, could account for Gini’s continuing unhappiness, and her continuing unshakable reserve. It would be very characteristic of Gini to refuse to admit it, should the affair be over. Gini rarely took people into her confidence, and by nature she was proud.
She would mention the possibility to Charlotte later, Lindsay thought; Charlotte might be able to elicit the truth before this weekend was over. Or not. Gini had just turned the conversation back to more neutral topics, she noted. She was now prompting Charlotte to talk about her family, this village, the Cotswolds, her questions as forced as those of some nervous stranger at a cocktail party.
Poor Gini: she was trying so hard. Lindsay glanced again at her own watch, caught Charlotte doing exactly the same thing in a furtive manner, and roused herself at once. Coming to Charlotte’s aid, and giving Gini the opportunity to be silent, which she obviously sought, Lindsay began to chatter away. She discussed, in quick succession, the traffic they had endured on the trip down, the inadvertent detour they had made through the hell of Oxford’s one-way streets, the excellence of Charlotte’s baking, and then—finding the subject suddenly popped into her head—Rowland McGuire, the character of Rowland McGuire, and the many defects of Rowland McGuire.
She warmed to her theme. She said several times that it would be very pleasant indeed to spend an entire two days away from Rowland McGuire, in a place where she never need hear his name mentioned—and then she stopped.
Just as she was remembering—too late—that the wretched McGuire was presumably a friend of Charlotte’s as well as Max’s, in which case her remarks were doubly untactful, Gini said in a dry voice: “If you want to forget him, Lindsay, why mention him? No one else did. You harped on him the whole way down in the car.”
“I did not!”
“I’ve never even met the man, and I already know more than I need. I could describe his appearance, the sound of his voice—”
“Yes. Well.” Charlotte was rearranging cushions energetically. “Lindsay doesn’t know Rowland very well. I do. And he’s—” She hesitated oddly. “He’s very nice. Not devious at all.”
Lindsay was about to expostulate—“nice,” in Charlotte’s book, was high praise, though in Lindsay’s view Charlotte’s benevolent nature awarded the term too often and too easily. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. A car had just passed, on the road beyond, and Lindsay saw that Charlotte, having heard it, had instantly tensed. How odd, Lindsay thought, and then it struck her that Charlotte, always so serene, was on edge. Anxiety about Max on the highway, Lindsay thought. Rising, and moving to the windows, she looked out.
It was dark outside, and the moon was already rising. Lindsay pressed her face to the glass. Behind her, Charlotte was fussing with the tea things, and wondering whether, when he arrived, Max would want tea or a stiff drink.
Lindsay looked out at the garden and tried to construct familiar patterns from the shift of moonlight and shadow. She could feel an early evening sadness, an inexplicable and vague regret, creeping in on her. There was the yew hedge, she told herself, and that pale blur was an urn, and that was the curve of the drive that divided, one arm leading around to the front of the house, and a second leading to the stables and garages at the back. There was the drive, and there—suddenly—were lights. She glimpsed the familiar outline of Max’s car as he paused where the driveway forked.
“Max is home,” she began, and then frowned. “And I think he’s brought someone with him, Charlotte. Were you expecting that? I’m sure I saw someone in the passenger seat.”
“Oh?” Charlotte had risen to her feet. She was looking about her in apparent consternation.
“Whoever could that be?” she said.
“Rowland! I don’t believe it! What a lovely surprise!” Charlotte swung around as Rowland and Max entered, and embraced McGuire with fervor. It did not escape Rowland’s notice—or, he thought, Lindsay’s—that Charlotte was crimson in the face: clearly, she was privy to this “surprise.” Rowland, in response to a fierce nudge from Max, hung back. Lindsay was standing by the window, hands tightly clenched. On the sofa next to her, and directly facing Rowland, was a woman who had to be Genevieve Hunter. As he entered, she raised a pair of clear gray eyes to look at him. That inspection, acute, he would have said, but without interest, disconcerted him. As Max began speaking, she looked away toward the fire. Firelight moved against her hair. Her hands, long-fingered and ringless, were folded in her lap.
“Yes. Well. I was just leaving the office,” Max said. “And I ran into Rowland by chance. In the lobby. Then the idea came to me—on the spur of the moment. Why doesn’t Rowland join us, I thought? After all, he’s been working flat out. A weekend in the country, I thought. It could be just what Rowland needs. He could relax. He could…”
Max’s explanation died away. Lindsay’s eyes were fixed on him with a basilisk stare. Her lips were pursed, and two bright flags of color had appeared in her cheeks.
“How very providential,” she said. “How nice for everybody, Max.”
“Yes. Indeed yes.” Max averted his eyes. “And luckily, Rowland had no plans for this weekend. Well, he did have, of course, much in demand and all that, but he was able to cancel them.”
“And at such short notice too. I’d never realized how impulsive Rowland was. I’d have said he was a man who always planned things very carefully.”
At this, Genevieve Hunter looked up. Rowland thought she might have sensed the tension in the room—it would not have been difficult, it was even subduing the dogs. If so, it did not appear to affect her. She glanced at Max, then at Rowland, then leaned back against the cushions. She had the look of people on airplanes, Rowland thought, the look you saw on people’s faces when they were listening to music on headphones, following the intricacies of some melody inaudible to anyone else. What music, what tune? he thought. Then, recollecting himself, and realizing that someone had to salvage this moment, he stepped forward and spoke.
“Admit the truth, Max,” he began, and Max flinched. “There’s a woman at the back of this—and I made Max invite me because of her. Charlotte—I’ve missed you.” He kissed her cheek and put his arm around the place where her waist had formerly been. “I haven’t seen you in months, and I told Max I had to see you before the baby was born. You’re looking magnificent, has he told you that?”
“Fat,” said Charlotte, rosy with pleasure and relief. “Don’t try to be gallant. I look mountainous.”
“You look beautiful,” Rowland said, meaning it. “And what’s more, it’s definitely a girl this time. A daughter. A Miss Max.”
“You’re sure?” Charlotte laughed. “How can you tell?”
“Because you’re carrying the baby low. And according to my Irish grandmother, that’s always the sign of a girl.”
“What nonsense, Rowland. You don’t even remember your Irish grandmother.”
“Wait and see in two months.”
Rowland released Charlotte and looked around the room. He spied Danny, lurking shyly behind a chair. Rowland, sure the three-year-old could be relied upon to create a diversion, held out his arms to him. With a whoop of pleasure Danny hurtled forward, clamped himself to Rowland’s knees, and then whooped again as Rowland hoisted him aloft.
After that, as he had hoped, it was easy. The dogs came back to life, and barked; Charlotte began to fuss with the tea things; Max had to recall, at length, the tiresome new-age caravansary that had delayed them approaching the village, and the boys—hearing Rowland’s and their father’s voices—had to race back downstairs, their motive part affection and part avarice, for Rowland, a great favorite with them, never arrived without bringing gifts.
In the midst of this melee, Genevieve Hunter was introduced, and Rowland briefly took her cool, narrow hand. She made some English remark—afterward he remembered that—some conventional, meaningless English greeting, uttered in a low, American-accented voice.
Rowland, who knew of her English schooling, her English stepmother, was thrown by the greeting nonetheless; he had been expecting—what? Greater force, perhaps; vivacity, he told himself afterward; possibly even wit, for her writing could be witty, and her writing style, sharply individual, was crisp.
Instead, he was granted just one look from the long-lidded, cool gray eyes; one touch from that thin hand; he had the sensation that he was erased from her memory before her hand withdrew from his.
He was, though he would not have admitted it, disappointed. Also faintly perturbed—for what reason he could not have said. Max, as shortly became evident, felt no such uncertainties. He was ebullient with glee, could not wait for an excuse to get Rowland to himself. Only twenty minutes after their arrival he was racing up the stairs, followed more slowly by Rowland.
“Must wash, must change,” Max shouted back down the stairs, hauling Rowland into his dressing room. He shut the door.
“Well?” he said with triumph. “What do you think? Our little plot worked. We pulled it off, didn’t we? Women are so easy to deceive.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. A couple of tricky moments, with Lindsay, as expected—but you took care of that. A masterstroke—I’ll admit it, Rowland, I could learn from you. You really were consummately cool. Never turned a hair. Great presence of mind…”
“Thanks, Max. It comes with practice.”
“And Gini—you liked her? She came up to spec?”
“It’s difficult to like someone on the strength of one handshake and one sentence, Max.”
Rowland turned away to inspect the pictures on the walls—rows of photographs from Max’s school days: a rugby team, a cricket team; then Oxford, Max and himself alongside the Oxford motorbike—he was touched by this. Max sank into a chair with an air of disappointment.
“Well, I did warn you,” he said. “She’s reserved. Difficult. I told you—every assignment she’s been offered since Bosnia… if you decide you do want her to work on this story, you’ll have to get her interest somehow.”
“We’ve been over all that.”
“I know. But you’ve got only two days, Rowland. All right, it’s a good story—it might be a very good story. The drugs angle might interest her. On the other hand, she’s been offered a number of good stories these past two months since she’s back from Bosnia. And she’s turned them all down flat.”
“Even so.” Rowland bent to another photograph.
“I’m all for the indirect approach—I buy that. Assess her. Give her a chance to get to know you socially first—fine. Make her like you, even. But I know Lindsay, and I know what she’ll have been saying about you. If you do decide to use Gini, you’re going to have your work cut out for you.”
He paused, looking at Rowland speculatively. Rowland, examining a photograph of Max in full cricket regalia, made no response.
“I mean, face facts, Rowland. Now that you’ve actually seen her, perhaps you’ll understand. You still think a two-day-charm offensive’s going to work?”
“I imagine it can’t do any harm.”
“Well, I wish you luck. I told you, it was a nightmare, hiring her. There she is—she and Lindsay—both at the News, both dying to leave it, because that bloody awful Nicholas Jenkins is taking it so far down-market, nothing but sex, sex, sex. Incidentally, have you seen his circulation figures?”
“Another fifty-two thousand? Yes, I have.”
“Bloody man. And it was a good paper once. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. Poaching Lindsay and Gini. Well, Lindsay was simplicity itself. Stated her terms—we had the entire deal sewn up over lunch. A very good lunch, actually, at Tante Claire. Best Meursault I’ve ever had in my life. Two bottles. It was fun. Whereas Gini…” He made a face. “She played me off against the Times. For months.”
“So? You’ve used precisely that technique in the past. So have I. Everyone does.”
“I know. But I just didn’t expect it, that’s all. Not from a woman who looks like that. Charlotte thinks she looks like a Crivelli Madonna.”
Rowland was silent.
“—And I told her, that certainly wouldn’t be most men’s response. It wasn’t mine, and I speak as the most happily married man I know. I mean, you must have noticed—there’s something about the mouth. And her figure—put it like this: it didn’t immediately bring Madonnas to mind.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Max.” Rowland gave a gesture of annoyance. “She’s a journalist. An exceptionally good journalist. Can’t you just leave it at that?”
“No, I can’t,” Max replied with spirit. He eyed Rowland narrowly. “And I have to say, that’s rich, coming from you. Since when were you indifferent to women? There’s a new one every week.”
“Maybe so. That wasn’t always the case. As you very well know, Max.”
There was a brief silence. This answer brought them perilously close to an area of Rowland’s private life he would never, perhaps could never, discuss. There, Max was afraid to trespass. The last time he had dared to raise the subject of Esther had been at least four years before—and he could still remember Rowland’s biting anger when he had done so.
“I do know,” he said now. “But it was six years ago, Rowland. And you’ve broken a lot of hearts since.”
“Not my intention.” Rowland turned his back.
“You use these women, Rowland,” Max persisted. “You may not see it that way, but it’s what you do. I know you loved Esther, but can’t you exorcise her some other way?”
“What would you recommend?” Rowland swung around, white-faced. “Drink? Work? I’ve tried those remedies. Mind your own business, Max.”
“You can’t grieve forever, Rowland. Not even you can do that.” Max spoke quietly. Rowland began on some angry reply, then bit the words back. He averted his face, and Max, having dared this much, said no more. He lit a cigarette and watched his friend thoughtfully. He considered certain comments his wife had made on the subject of Rowland; he considered her matchmaking plans for this weekend. Had he been right to curtail them? Charlotte had accused him of getting cold feet, and Max had agreed. “Yes, I am,” he had replied. “Rowland’s love life is a mine field. I should never have let you even consider this. Lindsay? I must have been mad. We should leave well enough alone.”
Charlotte, an apostle for married bliss, had marshaled her counterarguments with skill. Rowland, in her view, needed rescuing from himself: he was a handsome, kind, intelligent, good man who would one day make an exemplary husband and father; the course of his life, unfortunately, had taken a wrong turn since the events in Washington, D.C. of six years before.
“He’s eaten up with guilt and grief and remorse,” Charlotte had cried. “And women throw themselves at him. All those stupid girls, rushing about, ironing his shirts, cooking dinner for him, ministering unto him. Rowland’s so blind. He doesn’t even realize they’re in love with him—and when he does, he runs a mile. What Rowland needs is a wife, Max. Someone kindhearted. Someone mature. Someone with a sense of humor…”
“The love of a good woman?” Max put in, and groaned.
“Precisely,” Charlotte replied with force. “And since Rowland’s far too obstinate ever to admit that himself, he needs guidance. A helping hand. If he could just get to know Lindsay a little better—”
“No,” Max had interrupted. “No, Charlotte. It’s playing with fire—and it’s Lindsay who would end up in the burn unit. Forget it.”
Charlotte, after further resistance, had finally backed down. Now, looking at his friend, Max wavered; Charlotte’s instincts could be surprisingly sharp: what if his wife had been right all along?
“Tell me, Rowland,” he began cautiously. “Don’t you ever think about marrying, settling down?”
“No,” Rowland replied.
“I don’t see how you can be so certain.” Max persevered. “I might have said that before I met Charlotte. Then I changed my mind. Rapidly, if you remember…”
“I do remember.” Rowland glanced back at him and gave a smile. “I was standing next to you when you were introduced, if you recall. She silenced you. I knew you were in trouble right away.”
“I was deciding to marry her,” Max said with dignity. “I admit my repartee wasn’t too startling, but I was making silent plans. Of course”—he eyed Rowland in a speculative way—“it doesn’t always happen that way. It might be a more gradual process. A woman might be just a friend, a colleague, and then the relationship—well, it might develop in an unexpected way…”
He looked at Rowland hopefully, but Rowland had already lost interest. He had returned to his inspection of the photographs on the wall. He had unbent a little though, Max thought. Encouraged, he leaned forward.
“What happened to that last girl of yours,” he ventured in a casual way. “The French one? Is she still around?”
“Sylvie? No. I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“It’s over, then?” Max looked thoughtful. “Decisively over? You mean—she doesn’t write, or phone?”
“Decisively over.” Rowland’s voice was dry. “Which didn’t prevent her calling me thirty-two times last week. Or was it thirty-three?” He paused, half smiling, looking back at Max, then he frowned. “Extraordinary. She seemed so independent. I don’t understand women, Max. I don’t understand them at all.”
“Who does?” Max replied with delicacy, and waited. The expression on Rowland’s face became one of gloom.
“I mean—I try, Max. I make the situation perfectly clear. No commitments, either side. They always agree. They tell me they don’t want involvements either. They’re modern women…” He sighed. “For some reason they always stress that, just how modern they are. And then…”
“Yes?”
“They’re never very modern the next morning, however modern they claimed to be the night before.”
This statement, made with an air of profound bewilderment, both amused and touched Max. “For that,” he said tartly, “you have only yourself to blame. Presumably you do something to them in the interim to effect this remarkable change. It doesn’t take a great deal of imagination, Rowland, to work out what that might be. My advice—”
“I don’t want to hear your advice.” Rowland, as Max could have predicted, moved sharply to the door. “I’ve had enough of this conversation. I’m going to have a bath.”
“Sure. Sure. Change the subject.” Max made an irritated waving gesture of the hand. “You always do. It’s a pity you won’t listen to a man of my wisdom and experience, especially now.”
Rowland paused. “Especially now? Why especially now?”
“Well, there is this weekend to consider. There’s Lindsay. There’s Gini. I’m sure you’ll handle them both perfectly. You’re the expert when it comes to female psychology, as you’ve just been explaining. So I’m sure it will be clear sailing.”
Rowland hesitated, his hand on the door. Then, with a sigh, he turned around.
“I might have known it.” He looked at Max closely. “You brought me up here for a reason, didn’t you? There’s something you haven’t told me—something I need to know?”
“I was biding my time.” Max gave a small smile. “I wanted you to meet Gini first. Now that you’ve met her, I’d better explain.” There was a brief silence. Without comment, Rowland pulled out a chair and sat astride it. He waited.
“I didn’t want to say this before,” Max began somewhat evasively, “because I know how prejudiced you can be. You will jump to conclusions. You can be censorious, Rowland, and—”
“Get to the point, Max.”
“Genevieve Hunter. Her trip to Bosnia. You want to know why I was so reluctant to send her? It wasn’t just because she’s a woman.”
“Then what was the reason?”
“She lives with Pascal Lamartine.”
This admission was met with silence, then a frown. Max shifted in his seat.
“You didn’t know?”
“You know perfectly well I didn’t know. And you were very careful not to tell me. Why?”
“Because I knew you’d disapprove. I guessed you couldn’t have heard the gossip when you said you wanted to use her.”
“I never listen to gossip. And you’re right—I would have disapproved.”
“Yes, well, not everyone shares your desire to separate their personal and their working lives,” Max said waspishly. “She—”
“I make that distinction now,” Rowland said quietly. “I try to make it. And I know just how hard it can be. I learned that six years ago. Come on, Max—I’m in no position to be censorious. You know that perfectly well…”
“Maybe so. Point taken.” Max, embarrassed by the gentle reproof in his tone, shifted his gaze. “But it was more complicated than that, Rowland. You see, I’d virtually decided not to send Gini to Bosnia. I had my doubts about sending a woman to cover that war, whatever her experience. Her relationship with Lamartine counted against her—that kind of involvement, in a war zone? I thought it could be counterproductive, unwise. On the other hand, I did want Lamartine’s photographs—very badly indeed. Everyone was after him. If you remember, it was over three years since he’d last covered a war. He’d had that period out, being—well, a paparazzo is really the only term. Now, God knows why he did that—I’ve certainly never dared ask. Massive divorce bills, or so I’ve heard. Massive demands from the not-too-pleasant ex-wife. Whatever the reason, the moment word got out that he was returning to war coverage, going to Bosnia, every single one of our rivals was chasing him. And I was determined to clinch the deal.” He paused, and looked back at Rowland, who was listening intently:
“I thought it would be a question of money, and autonomy, allowing him a major say in what he covered, when, and where. I was wrong. He had a third demand; non-negotiable. Genevieve Hunter went with him. They had to go as a team. And if I wouldn’t agree to that, then another paper would. That was the deal.”
This admission was met with a lengthy silence. Rowland’s frown had deepened.
“Now, listen, Rowland, I want you to be clear about this. She didn’t put him up to it. Well, I suppose I can’t say that with absolute certainty—I have only Lamartine’s word for it. But he isn’t a liar, and he wouldn’t let himself be used. Nor would she use him, Rowland. She has her faults, as you’ll discover if you work with her, but lack of scruples isn’t one of them. Quite the reverse.”
He paused. Rowland still remained silent. Max gave a shrug.
“So, now you know the truth. If I’m perfectly honest, if Lamartine hadn’t held a gun to my head like that, I’d have refused. But, as it was, he gave me very little option. And he was very persuasive on her behalf.”
Rowland gave him a sharp glance. “He’s a persuasive man?”
“Very. I like him, and I admire him, and I respect his judgment. If you met him, I’m sure you’d agree. All right, he was speaking as a man who was in love. He was partisan, and he admitted that. But he was fighting to get her a chance, a chance he felt she had earned.”
“And his confidence in her wasn’t misplaced,” Rowland interjected. “As subsequent events proved.”
“Well, yes.” Max hesitated again. “She was impressive. The work she did was very fine. So the ends justified the means. It’s just—”
He broke off; Rowland did not prompt him, and his silence gave Max a twinge of uncertainty. In the same situation, would Rowland have acted as he had?
He thought he knew the answer to that question. Rowland, who, in the workplace, was curiously indifferent to gender, was more likely than Max to send a woman to a battle zone; but Rowland confronted with Lamartine’s demands was another matter. He would not have liked pressure of that kind, and—had he suspected collusion—neither Lamartine nor Gini would ever have worked for him again.
In which case, Max thought with a return of self-confidence, Rowland’s scruples would have lost him first-class photographs and first-class reporting. One of Rowland’s little problems, he told himself, was a certain moral inflexibility, a refusal to compromise. To recall that his gifted friend had an Achilles’ heel restored Max’s humor at once. He rose.
“Anyway,” he said, “for good or ill, that’s what happened. I thought you should know, but all this is in confidence, needless to say. Gini thinks she won that assignment on her own merits alone, and if she discovered what Lamartine had done, if she even knew I had a private meeting with him—all hell would break loose. So not one word to her.”
“Of course.” Rowland also rose. “Trappist silence. You can rely on me. You probably made the right decision, from a professional point of view. Except—” He paused in the doorway. “Were there repercussions of a more personal kind? Why didn’t Lamartine come back from Bosnia with her? Wasn’t that the deal?”
“Yes. It was.” Max, who had expected Rowland to pick up on this, gave him an anxious look. “Then Lamartine suggested he stay on, and I agreed. I assumed that was purely a work decision. Now I’m not so sure. I get the feeling they may have quarreled, even split up—though I gather Gini’s admitted nothing to Lindsay. And I was shocked when I saw her tonight. She looks ill. Even shell-shocked, wouldn’t you say?”
“Her manner’s odd, certainly. I’m reserving judgment.”
“That’s unusual, for you.”
Rowland made no reply to this comment. He opened the door to the landing.
“I just hope I’m wrong, that’s all,” Max continued, glancing in the direction of Gini’s room. He lowered his voice. “I like Lamartine. I like her. If anything has gone wrong between them, I’d feel partly to blame.”
“Not your responsibility, Max,” Rowland said, his manner suddenly brisk. He gave Max a smile of sudden warmth, then headed off to his room down the corridor, leaving Max to wonder: how exactly would Rowland have dealt with Lamartine? He would ask him over the course of the weekend, Max resolved, but as it happened, the weekend took an unexpected turn, so the question was neither answered nor asked.
Downstairs, Lindsay was sitting alone, staring thoughtfully into the fire, when Danny toddled into the room, looking anxious, and clutching a painting of a blue bristly animal.
“Where’s Rowland?” he said.
“Upstairs, I think, Danny. He and your daddy went up to wash and change.”
“Look.” He flourished the picture. “Dog. I made it for Rowland.”
“It’s a magnificent dog, Danny. I like it very much.”
“Short legs,” Danny said in a critical tone, surveying his handiwork.
“Some dogs do have short legs. That’s fine.”
“Could be a hedgehog,” Danny said craftily, turning it upside down. “I like hedgehogs. I like them best.”
“That’s what’s so clever, Danny. It could be a hedgehog or a dog. In fact, it could be a hedgedog.”
Danny thought this was hilarious. He fell over laughing and kicked his legs in the air. Lindsay was just remembering how wonderfully reassuring small children were, because they liked the feeblest jokes, when something else occurred to her. She remembered the cake. She frowned.
“Did you know Rowland was coming, Danny?” she asked, feeling instantly guilty and mean.
“Yes. Mummy said at breakfast. She said it was a secret, a nice secret. But if I ate up all my egg, she’d tell me. So I did. I ate it all up, even the yucky white bits.”
Danny’s eyes rounded. He became bright red. He looked at Lindsay anxiously.
“It’s not a secret now, is it?” he whispered. “He’s here now. He brought me a ray gun. He ate his cake.”
“No, it’s not a secret now, Danny.” Lindsay gave him a kiss. “Besides, I won’t breathe a word.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Zip the lips. Sure.”
Danny loved zip the lips. He zipped his own, several times, then toddled off upstairs. Lindsay remained. She glared at the fire. Skunk, she thought: laughing up his sleeve at her throughout their meeting that morning. Lying, devious, manipulative, two-faced skunk! How long had he been planning this? What was he up to?
Charlotte stuck her head around the door, looking pink and flustered.
“Oh, there you are, Lindsay. I’m—I thought I’d just go and have a chat with Max. And change. Gini’s gone to read. We’re having guests for drinks at seven-thirty. They’ll stay only an hour. Then we’ll eat. I’ve made a huge steak and kidney pie. I hope it’s all right. I’m afraid you and Gini are sharing the end bathroom with Rowland, so if you want a bath…”
“I’d love a bath.”
“Well, turf Rowland out. Don’t let him hog all the hot water. And ignore the boys. Rowland brought them all ray guns. It sounds like World War Three up there.”
She disappeared, and Lindsay went upstairs. Martian noises emanated from the boys’ attic bedroom. Gini’s door was shut. The bathroom door was shut: the gushings and rumblings of ancient plumbing proclaimed Rowland’s occupancy. What in hell was the man doing—running a bath, or filling a swimming pool? Did he have to whistle while he did it? Lindsay glowered at the door, then retreated to her own room.
She looked at the clothes she had packed. She had planned to wear a rather dull dress, which she had brought mainly because it happened to be pressed and clean. Suddenly, she didn’t feel like it. She felt like wearing that very short Donna Karan skirt, that very short, tight skirt, made of the softest leather, a skirt that proclaimed to the world that Lindsay had excellent legs.
Cursing the low priority the English gave to bathrooms in old country houses, she lurked by her door, waiting. Surely even Rowland McGuire must have finished bathing by now?
The whistling had given way to operatic snatches. Rowland sang “La donna è mobile” with gusto, out of tune. Lindsay waited until the various arias had ended; she heard the bathroom door open at last. She counted to ten, then darted out.
She collided with a half-naked Rowland, and reeled back. Six feet five inches of tanned muscle blocked her path. Rowland’s wild hair was wet and black and tamed and sleek. It dripped water onto his powerful shoulders; water ran down his muscled chest. He was wearing a white towel around his waist, and nothing else.
“Do you have to parade around like Tarzan?” Lindsay snapped, trying to avert her eyes from biceps, pectorals, and narrow waist and hips. “You’re half naked.”
“Ah, you object to the towel? I’ll remove it, if you prefer.”
His hands dropped to his waist. From the attic came the stuttering burst of ray-gun fire. Lindsay fled. She dived into the bathroom, slammed the door, and bolted it. She was standing in thick fog; she swore at the steaming billowy air, paddled her way forward blindly, then stopped. He’d had the grace, she noted, to clean the tub, but like all men when bathing, had left the room half flooded and the towels in a sodden heap.
She sat down by the vast iron monster of a bathtub, and stared at its clawed feet. The room smelled deliciously of Rowland’s aftershave. Its scent made Lindsay feel angry, nostalgic—and weak.