IN OXFORD THAT WEDNESDAY, the day before Thanksgiving, Katya was enduring the last fifteen minutes of a tutorial. It was being conducted by her senior tutor, Dr Miriam Stark, a woman whose cool intelligence Katya feared; it concerned the use of narrators in two novels by the Brontës. It had begun with Katya reading aloud to Dr Stark the essay she had written on this subject, comparing Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights with her sister Anne’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall; it had continued with Dr Stark’s analysis of that essay; the questions had been unrelenting and the criticisms barbed.
Katya, who had begun writing having done too little preparation, and who had continued writing with her mind on quite a different subject, was aware this essay was a poor effort. For several weeks now, Katya had been suffering a certain mental and emotional turmoil; reading her essay aloud, she had realized that turmoil and confusion were evident in every line. In an obstinate way, she continued reading, praying Dr Stark might not notice the skimpiness of her arguments, praying she might be impressed by the two obscure critical references Katya had tacked on at the last moment, and—failing that—might be distracted by Katya’s aggressive and iconoclastic tone.
Dr Stark had not been distracted by such frills; she was concentrating on fabric, on basic tailoring, and for the past twenty minutes had been scissoring Katya’s offering apart.
Katya glared at Dr Stark, an American who had graduated summa cum laude from Barnard, but whose MA and PhD had been awarded by Oxford. She was in her late thirties, was beautiful, highly distinguished, and thin, which seemed unfair.
Dr Stark, famously unmarried, had a cloistered air about her; she possessed an aura, Katya always felt, of steely, determined, female dedication. She was a Fellow of Oxford’s last remaining women’s college, a college to which Katya had applied in a burst of feminism she now regretted, and she was the kind of woman who could spend half an hour dissecting the implications of one word.
‘Katya, I can see your mind was not on this essay when you wrote it, and is not on it now…’ Dr Stark paused, having caught Katya staring moodily through the window at the quadrangle and pouring rain outside.
‘Yes, well possibly,’ Katya mumbled, taking refuge in mutiny. ‘I don’t really like either novel.’ She eyed Dr Stark. ‘All that hysterical spinsterish passion. I don’t really go for the Brontës at all.’
‘Evidently,’ Dr Stark replied, showing no inclination to argue with that kind of coat-trailing idiocy. ‘Katya, have you asked yourself why it is you have these problems with women writers? All women writers?’
‘I don’t,’ said Katya, who on principle never admitted to having a problem with anything.
‘Katya—it is most marked. It was apparent in your work on Eliot, even on Austen. It is most apparent here. I set you this particular essay, Katya, because I hoped it might suggest to you that these novels, far from consisting of womanish outpourings, as you seem to believe, are schematic, and very carefully planned.’
She frowned. ‘I find it strange, Katya, that in addressing yourself—intermittently, as I think you will admit—to the question of narrative techniques, you have failed to examine the ways in which these narrators are made to manipulate their texts…’
She flicked a page. ‘Both novels contain lacunae, Katya—I find no mention from you of that. Both novels make use of what one might call ‘secret’ texts, in one case a diary, in the other, for instance, the marginalia of a child. Beyond such details, you have shown a marked disinclination, I feel, to examine the similarities in their structures…’
‘Yes?’ Katya said, in her most challenging tone.
‘Both novels employ two narrators, Katya.’
‘I went into that.’
‘You dipped into that. In each of these novels, Katya, one narrator is male and one female. In each case, the female narration is framed by the male one. The two interact. One might say there is a dialectic between the two…That did not interest you, perhaps?’
Katya made a non-specific noise.
‘Which narrator does the author intend us to believe, do you think, Katya? The male storyteller, or the female? Neither? Many critics, as you will of course know, have taken the view that it is the women here, Nelly Dean in the one case, Helen Huntingdon in the other, who give us an author-endorsed truth. I would not take that view myself.’
She flicked another of Katya’s pages. ‘I have to say, Katya, that you appear to have no view on the subject whatsoever. Which is uncharacteristic, to say the least.’
Katya was stung. ‘I thought…’ she began.
‘You thought very little, Katya.’
Dr Stark handed back the pages of the essay, now covered in Stark hieroglyphs. She gave Katya a long, cool and assessing stare.
‘One of the purposes of your degree course, Katya, is to teach you to read. To teach you the subtleties of the reading process. They will not be acquired by skimming and skipping, or approaching a text with a mind awash with foolish prejudice.’ She paused. ‘Such skills, I sometimes fear, are endangered—might even be on the way to becoming extinct. Except, of course, in places such as this…’
She glanced towards the quadrangle; Katya glanced at her watch.
‘Such skills,’ Dr Stark continued, ‘useful in the study of literature, can occasionally be of use in life.’ She paused. ‘Katya, something is wrong. You have ability, and on the evidence of this essay, you are squandering it. You are, when you wish to be, intelligent. You were most certainly not in an intelligent frame of mind when writing this, nor are you in a receptive frame of mind now. Katya, you are clearly distracted by some other matter—would you like to tell me what that is?’
‘No,’ said Katya.
‘Deal with it,’ Dr Stark replied, gathering up her skirts and rising to her feet. ‘You are at liberty to waste your own time, but not mine. Six thousand words on the complexities and significance of the heavily disguised time scheme in Wuthering Heights by next Tuesday. Should you feel disposed to rewrite this particular essay, it would be of benefit.’
Sod it, thought Katya, rising hastily, as Dr Stark whisked past her and moved to her desk. She thought of her own novel, begun on a sudden impulse earlier that week, at three o’clock in the morning, when Tom was fast asleep. It was told, in the first person, by a woman twenty years older than Katya: she had been pleased by its world-weary tone, its eclat and its bite. It now occurred to her, as Dr Stark began to gather up armfuls of papers and books, that perhaps first-person female narration was a mistake. Why not have two narrators? Four? Omniscient third person? No, far too dated. A subtle combination of first and third? Stream of consciousness? Diaries? Some metafictional folderols, perhaps? It came to Katya that her narrator, who was of course not a heroine, but merely a voice, would function far more effectively with testicles. She was perfecting this sex change in her head, and wondering whether it might toughen up that interesting section on page four, when she realized that Dr Stark, saying something about picking up lamb chops from Sainsbury’s, was accompanying her out of the door.
They crossed the quad together and turned out into the street. There, Katya, striding along in a bad temper, combat cap pulled low on her brow, head lowered against the rain, collided with someone in a black suit and a black overcoat.
‘Good heavens,’ said Dr Stark, coming to an abrupt halt. ‘Rowland? It is Rowland, isn’t it? I can’t believe it. It must be fifteen years.’
It was indeed, and undeniably, Rowland McGuire. His hair was very wet; his coat was soaked; his expression was grim, dazed and dark. Katya, lip curling, thought he had a Rochester look.
‘Miriam,’ he said, as Dr Stark blushed a slow, deep crimson. ‘I—this is a surprise. I’ve been looking for Katya—’
‘And now you have found her. Fortunate.’
‘This city is impossible. You can’t park in it. You can’t drive in it. Katya, I’m looking for Tom. I need to see Tom. Urgently…Yes, almost fifteen years, Miriam.’ He paused, frowning. ‘After the Commem. Ball. Yorkshire, I think.’
‘How accurate you are, Rowland. But then you always were.’ Dr Stark smiled in a somewhat dangerous way. ‘I agree about the traffic in this city. One always ends up going around in circles, don’t you find? And now I must leave you. I’m late for a lecture, as it is…’
She disappeared. Katya had decided twenty seconds before that she did believe in destiny after all; she glared hard at the walls of her college.
‘She’s not going to a lecture. She’s going to Sainsbury’s to buy lamb chops,’ she said, in an angry voice. ‘Why did she blush? She never blushes.’
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ replied Rowland, in a tone that precluded further questions. He began walking away in the direction Dr Stark had taken, then halted abruptly and turned back.
‘Tom,’ he said, in what Katya felt was an odd, wild and highly agitated manner. ‘I have to see Tom.’
‘Well, you can’t. Not today.’ Katya was dressed in jeans and a workman’s donkey jacket; she turned up its collar against the rain and scowled. ‘Tom’s in Scotland—Edinburgh. He flew up this morning for some stupid debating thing.’
‘Scotland? Today? Christ.’
Katya gave him a venomous look. ‘And he doesn’t get back until tomorrow night,’ she continued, setting off up the street. ‘So you’re out of luck. You should have phoned.’
‘Phoned? I’ve been phoning since nine o’clock this morning. I’ve phoned his house; I’ve phoned his college, your college…I damn near drove off the motorway calling on the mobile…Scotland? It’s term time, for God’s sake.’
‘Even so,’ Katya said, walking faster, ‘he doesn’t have lectures. He rejigged his tutorials. Things have changed, Rowland, since your day. This place isn’t the prison it used to be. Shit.’ She came to a sudden halt. ‘That bloody woman.’
‘What woman?’
‘Dr Stark. She just took an essay of mine apart.’
‘That’s her job.’ Rowland had caught up with her; he frowned along the street. ‘I didn’t realize she was your tutor. It wasn’t a good essay then?’
‘No, it was a fucking awful one.’ Katya glowered. ‘My mind wasn’t on it. My mind was on other things.’
She looked at Rowland closely as she made this remark; he seemed to pay it little attention.
‘The Brontës,’ Katya said, in furious tones. ‘Wuthering Heights. The Tenant of Wildfell fucking Hall. Passion. Much that bloody Stark woman knows on that subject. Love—yawn bloody yawn.’
‘She must know something on the subject. Miriam Stark wrote an excellent book on the Brontës.’ Rowland continued to frown along the street. ‘She was researching it when I knew her. I went to the Brontë parsonage in Haworth with her once…’ He broke off and turned back to Katya. ‘Never mind that now. Is there somewhere I can reach Tom? Do you have a number for him? Damn, no. That’s no good. I need to see him…’ Rowland looked up and down the street in a distracted way, as if expecting Tom to materialize at any second.
Katya gave him a withering look and strode off again.
‘I can give him a message if you like,’ she said, over her shoulder, ‘or you can leave him a note. I’m going over to his room now. It’s up to you.’
‘A note. Yes, a note. That’s an excellent idea…’ Rowland accelerated his pace, overtook her, and set off up the street, Katya finding it difficult to keep up with him.
‘Is that your car?’ she said, in an accusing tone, as they finally reached Tom’s house, having walked a considerable distance, in heavy rain, without a single word being spoken. Katya glared at the car in question, which was drawn up outside the front gate and parked in an impetuous way, one wheel on the pavement.
‘Yes. Yes, it is—’
‘Interesting,’ said Katya, kicking the wheel. ‘I always wondered what you drove…’ She followed Rowland through the gate and caught up with him at the front door.
‘And strange as it may seem,’ she continued, in a poisonous tone, ‘it’s no good pushing and shoving at the door like that. You need a key. Luckily, I have one.’
‘Here,’ she said, as they entered Tom’s room, a room which seemed to have a peculiar effect on Rowland McGuire. He was staring at the cerise sofa, then at the bookshelves; Katya held out a notebook and a pen to him. The pen was a biro, an unremarkable biro; looking at it, Rowland appeared transfixed.
‘Christ,’ he said again, directing his remark to the bookshelves. He looked at the notebook. ‘What shall I say?’
‘That’s rather up to you, Rowland,’ said Katya, in an acid voice. She gave him a measuring look and slowly unbuttoned and removed the donkey jacket. She pulled off her combat cap and shook loose her long, damp, russet hair.
‘Tom—I need to talk to you,’ Rowland wrote. He paused, frowning, then added, ‘as soon as possible.’ He frowned again, then added, ‘I’ll call you next week.’
‘What’s the date?’ He looked up at Katya. ‘The date—what date is it today?’
‘It’s the twenty-fifth. Wednesday, the twenty-fifth.’ Katya gave him an unpitying stare. ‘You’ll find there’s a date window on your watch, actually. I can see it from here.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Thanksgiving tomorrow. Hell,’ said Rowland. He added the date to the note, frowned again and added, ‘Kind regards, Rowland’ and made for the door.
Katya panicked. ‘I can make you a cup of coffee if you like,’ she said, in an ungracious tone.
‘No time,’ Rowland replied. ‘Thank you, but no time—I have to get back to London. I have a plane to catch…’
Katya listened to his footsteps descending the staircase. It was at this window, just a few weeks before, that she had watched him arrive in Colin Lascelles’s astonishing Aston Martin. It was then, she thought, that she had first sensed the tremors; it was beside these very bookshelves, as Rowland McGuire examined that Anne Brontë novel, that everything right in her life had begun to go wrong.
She strode up and down the room, clasping to her chest one of Tom’s discarded sweaters. She found she was angry, confused and close to tears: Tossing the sweater down, she crossed to her work table and picked up the chapters of her novel, printed out early that morning, after Tom had left.
She had not wanted him to see what she had written, and now, rereading it, she saw why. She began to see the nakedness and duplicities of her own fictions. Snatching up the pages, she tore them into halves, then quarters, then eighths. Overwhelmed with guilt and misery, she threw this confetti on the floor. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she said aloud, filled with rage against Rowland McGuire and herself, and furious at discovering that her novel was not about alienation, as she had supposed, but about love—a feeble topic, a woman’s topic, after all.
She picked up one of the Brontë novels that had been the subject of her essay, and scowled at it. She flicked the pages, and then, her eye caught by a particular sentence, began reading. She carried the book across to the cerise sofa and curled up with it there.
What had she missed? What, exactly, had she missed? She began reading, mindful of Dr Stark’s corrective scorn; to her surprise, the craving she now felt for Rowland McGuire diminished somewhat as she began to concentrate. Perhaps the exercising, of her intellect would effect a cure, she thought, hoping that might be the case, for the craving was unlike any she had experienced before, and its nagging, obsessional vitality was something she had come to fear.
To her relief, this prose kept Rowland at bay for a while; despite the passion she had sneered at in her tutorial—or, possibly, because of it—she was still reading two hours later, completely absorbed. Three hours later, stirred by what she had read, she felt a need to confess. Picking up pen and paper, she began writing to Tom.
‘It’s going to snow—there’s a storm threatening,’ Colin remarked as the limousine which had collected them at Kennedy turned out of the airport precincts. Beside him, Tomas Court, who had not spoken to him once on the flight from Montana, gave a sigh.
‘It’ll hold off. It’s hours away yet,’ he replied. He gave Colin a shrewd glance. ‘What time are you meeting your friend?’
‘Around one o’clock. One-thirty. At the Plaza.’
Colin craned his neck to look at the clouds bunched over the western horizon; they were edged with a jaundiced light. With difficulty, he prevented himself from consulting his watch which he had been checking at five-minute intervals throughout their flight.
‘Relax.’ Court gave a half smile. ‘I won’t make you late for your appointment. I guess you’re pretty anxious to be on time…’
‘Does it show that badly?’ Colin asked.
‘I recognize the symptoms,’ Court replied, his manner kind enough, but faintly bored. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Lindsay,’ Colin said, his heart lifting as it always did when he pronounced, heard, thought of, or saw this name.
‘We’ll drop you at the Conrad,’ Court continued. ‘You find those pictures and notes, bring them down to TriBeCa…It won’t take us long to go through them. Half an hour at most, then you’ll be a free man.’
His tone, Colin felt, was slightly mocking. He considered arguing, then rejected the idea. The photographs concerned, in which Tomas Court had previously evinced little interest, showed the moorland landscape around their chosen Wildfell Hall. They were now lying in their file in Colin’s room at the Conrad; overnight, Tomas Court had decided that he had to re-examine them urgently. Colin, not pleased by this decision, which indeed threatened to delay him, was wary of protest. He now felt a growing respect, even affection, for Court, but he retained a keen sense of the man’s perversity. If he demurred now, Court was more than capable of keeping him working throughout the afternoon.
Let him try, Colin thought; he had every intention, should that situation arise, of proving to Prospero that he had a will of his own. Meanwhile, it was simpler to humour his whim, produce the required pictures, which would almost certainly turn out to be irrelevant, agree with everything Court said, and then make his escape from TriBeCa to the joys that lay in wait for him uptown.
Court, meanwhile, had relapsed into a moody silence. Colin patted the breast pocket of his jacket, where Lindsay’s letter and fax to him lay folded against his heart. Not for the first time that morning, he blessed the fact that he and the uncommunicative Court were travelling alone. Thalia Ng had left that morning to spend Thanksgiving with her widowed mother in Florida; Mario Schwartz had left to join his family in what he called Hicksville, Idaho; the rest of the production team had dispersed to various parts of America, leaving Colin to travel with the person least likely to interrupt his reveries. With relief, touching that precious letter, Colin began to rehearse its phrases in his mind.
There had been a ‘but’ in Lindsay’s fax, a ‘but’ that drew Colin’s eyes every time he reread it; there were fewer ‘buts’ in the letter, however, and this gave Colin heart.
He was almost certain that he could hear a new note in these sentences, as if Lindsay, writing to him from her hotel room, had begun to hear the same music that haunted him; Colin’s mind dwelt on that music and its melodies. His hopes rose as they approached Manhattan; this city contained Lindsay and very shortly she would be on her way to meet him at the Plaza. Find the photographs, he told himself, deliver them to Court’s loft, make his escape. He dived out of the limousine in great haste as it pulled up in front of the Conrad, and entered that building blindly, praying that he would be eloquent, not tongue-tied, when he took Lindsay in his arms.
In the limousine, Tomas Court continued his journey south to TriBeCa; he watched the streets of Manhattan as they drove, and felt a familiar despondency settle upon him. He felt a brief, passing longing for the pure air, and the spaciousness, the great spaciousness, of Montana; then, remembering the interviews he had had with the police there, and the subsequent sleepless nights, he passed his hand across his face and closed his eyes.
On reaching TriBeCa he dismissed his driver, shouldering his bag himself, and stepped into the grim confines of the elevator. As its doors closed, he tensed; he had heard a sound, a small unidentifiable sound, perhaps the scrape of a shoe against concrete, and it had come from a landing above. The air in the elevator was faintly perfumed: the residue of a woman’s scent clung to the air, and when he reached his floor and stepped out, he saw that a woman was there before him. She was in the act of tapping at his door; hearing the elevator, she started, then swung around.
She gave a low exclamation, then blushed, then took a step backwards; Court saw that she was carrying a small package—a package with his name on it written in large capitals—and that she was clutching this package to her breast, somewhat defensively. Court gave her a wary look, hesitated, then moved forward. He did not recognize her, but he recognized her type instantly: an out-of-work actress, he thought, with irritation—either that or, possibly, some fan.
He came to a halt beside her and looked her up and down. He saw that she had a pretty if unmemorable face; her eyes, of an unusual yellowish hazel, were large and set too close together; they were fringed with short lashes to which thick black mascara had been clumsily applied. These eyes—their expression awed, excited, and half fearful—were now fixed on his own.
‘Yes?’ he said, his manner cold. ‘You’re delivering something? That package is for me?’
‘It is.’ She made no attempt to hand it over. ‘I didn’t expect—I mean, I hoped I might meet you, obviously, but I thought I’d probably have to leave it with someone. A maid, maybe…’
‘I don’t have a maid.’
‘I wanted—if you could just spare me ten minutes of your time…’
‘I don’t have ten minutes to spare. I don’t have five minutes to spare.’ He looked at her narrowly. ‘You’re not a messenger, are you? You’re not from some courier company? Maybe you’d like to explain just how you got this address?’
‘I got it from a friend.’ She passed her tongue across her lips, then, frowning slightly, lowered her eyes. ‘He worked on your last movie with you—and he took a whole lot of persuading.’ She paused, indicating the package. ‘It’s just a videotape. I wanted—’ She hesitated, then glanced up at him again. ‘Can’t I come in? If you won’t give me five minutes, how about four? Three? Two and a half?’
Court looked at her more closely. He looked at her dark hair, which she wore loose on her shoulders, at her clothes, which were cheap but pressed and clean, and at her figure, the curves of which drew his eye. What she was offering was not a videotape, he suspected; beneath the coat she wore, which she had left open, was a dark blouse of some imitation silk material. The top button of this blouse, intentionally or unintentionally, was unfastened; he could just see the cleft between her breasts. He noted that she had small, well-manicured, pretty hands.
‘Two minutes,’ he said and opened the door.
‘You’re an actress, aren’t you?’ he said, once the door was closed. He looked around the unnaturally tidy space of his loft: Thalia and Colin had made a thorough job of their cleansing operation, he saw. Without those piles of cardboard boxes, the room looked unfamiliar and faintly alien. He turned back to the woman with a sense of boredom, wondering how she would script her overtures, whether she would echo the words of her numerous predecessors, or whether she might surprise him by being original. He did not expect originality from women in this situation, nor was he going to receive it, he thought, as with an odd, defiant, half-obstinate glance in his direction, she set her package down delicately on his work table, and then began to unbutton her blouse.
‘Sure, I’ve been an actress.’ She gave another small frown. ‘In a few crummy movies, blink and you miss me—that kind of thing. I’ve done a few TV shows. That’s what’s on the tape—kind of a composite: my best scenes, my best roles. The kind where I actually got to speak some dialogue…’ She paused, an expression of faint mockery passing across her face. ‘I’ve done other things besides acting, obviously. I mean, I’ve held down a whole lot of demanding positions. I’ve been a model, I worked in a gas station one time. Let’s see…what else? Waited on tables, of course. But that was way back, when I was a student at UCLA…’
Court looked at her steadily; he could hear a certain anger in her voice, and for an instant saw it flash in her yellowish eyes. Liking the anger, he changed his mind.
‘Look,’ he said, less coldly, ‘do your blouse up. You’ve been misinformed, I think. I don’t audition this way.’
‘Don’t you? That’s not what I heard. I asked around. I take an interest in you—I have done for years.’ She hesitated, eyeing him, clasping her blouse across her breasts. ‘I really admire your movies—I wanted to tell you that. I’ve watched them a thousand times. I think you’re a really great director…’
Court turned away with a gesture of irritation. Her voice, with its faint hint of southern California, was beginning to grate on him. He liked neither her voice, nor her sentiments, and the momentary sympathy he had felt for her ebbed away.
‘Some people like my movies; some people loathe them, and either way, I’m indifferent,’ he said. ‘Also, I’m allergic to compliments—particularly fulsome ones. Do your blouse up. I’m expecting a colleague here any minute…’
Her response surprised him: he was used to obedience when he used that kind of tone. The girl seemed scarcely to have heard him and she ignored the contempt in his voice. She continued to look at him as he spoke, that small perplexed frown still creasing her brows. Then, with a sigh, and another yellowish glance in his direction, she began to move slowly around the room, her manner unhurried, as if she were here alone and waiting for someone to return.
She moved across to the tall windows, then back to the work table; in a desultory way, she removed her coat, then brushed her hand across a pile of scripts, picked up a book, examined it, then set it down. She moved with a grace that interested Court; her silence and her apparent absorption in her activities began to affect him. He wondered whether she had realized that he was likelier to respond to silence, and its ambiguities, far more than words.
As she moved around the room, he began to track her with his eyes as he might have done with a camera; he found the chemistry of the room was altering, thickening and becoming charged. She had his attention now and he found he was interested in what she might do next: spoil the effect by speaking? Move towards the door and leave? She did move towards the door, and at this Court felt a sharp and immediate pulse of excitement; for the first time in almost three years he was remembering how much such encounters could fuel him, and how reliably, if briefly, they drove all thoughts of his wife from his mind.
He took a step towards the woman and regarded her levelly. He watched the light slide across the planes of her face; he watched a new concentration enter her eyes.
‘When did you say your colleague was joining you?’ she asked. ‘Any minute now?’
Her eyes rested on his for a moment; then, with a glance of perfect understanding, she unfastened the door, and left it ajar.
She moved a little to the side of it and leaned back against the wall. Court took a step towards her, then another. He came to a halt just in front of her; he could now smell the scent of her body; he could sense the warmth of her skin, and see the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. The desire to touch her deepened and Court’s body stirred. From the landing beyond, through the crack of the opened door, came the sound of the elevator. It whirred into life; the clankings and shiftings of machinery came from its shaft. Going up, or down? Court was unsure. He was almost certain that it would be twenty minutes at least before Colin Lascelles arrived, but since the woman had begun to move about his room time had slowed, so he might have been wrong.
The possibility of discovery excited him further, and the woman seemed to share that taste, or at least to accept it. An expression of quiet and concentrated complicity had now entered her eyes. Reaching forward, she took his hand and guided it inside her opened blouse. Her breasts had the unnatural jut that betrayed silicone implants; beneath them, he could just feel the thin ridge of the enhancement operation’s scar. This unnatural plasticity, he found, also excited him; the woman gave a small sharp intake of breath that might have indicated pleasure. Court moved his hand up so that it rested against the base of her neck; he exerted a faint pressure downwards. This signal, or suggestion, she responded to at once; she smiled, revealing pretty, perfect teeth, then, with a quick caress from her small pretty hand, and a glance that might have been one of triumph, she obeyed him without speaking, and knelt down in front of him on the floor.
‘No, no, no,’ said Colin, darting past his great-aunt Emily, who was intent on waylaying him. ‘Emily, I can’t talk now, I’ll be late. I have to go…’
He snatched up the pile of photographs and notes for Tomas Court and, dodging furniture, made for the hall.
‘Supposing there’s a crisis?’ Emily said, pursuing him. ‘I ought to be able to reach you—in emergencies only, I understand…’
‘Crisis? What crisis? Why should there be a crisis?’ Colin cried, in desperate tones. ‘Emily, I’ll be late. Let me go…’
‘Anything could happen!’ Emily replied, somewhat dramatically. ‘Supposing I died? Supposing I fell down the stairs? What about a heart attack? I expect a heart attack at any time, and if I had one, I might need to contact you…’
‘Christ,’ said Colin, rolling his eyes.
‘I won’t tell a soul. I swear I won’t call—unless I am actually dying, obviously…’ Emily paused. Her voice took on a wheedling tone Colin instantly recognized, since he himself used it when necessary, and knew it rarely failed.
‘The Pierre? The Plaza? The Carlyle?’
‘Give me a break,’ cried Colin, opening the door.
‘The Regency? Not the Waldorf, surely?’
‘None of them! I’m not telling you and you won’t guess in a thousand years…’ Colin plunged out onto the landing.
‘It’s the Plaza, isn’t it? A view of the park! I might have known it! Ah, Colin, what a romantic you are!’
‘It is not the Plaza,’ Colin cried, blushing furiously. ‘I’ve gone. I’m out of here…’
‘Ah, love. Too charming,’ said Emily smugly, closing the door.
Ah, love, thought Colin, racing out of the Conrad and leaping into a cab. ‘Drive very fast indeed,’ he said to the driver, pressing dollar bills through the screen and spilling out directions to TriBeCa. The driver spat out of the window and accelerated. Colin looked out upon a transfigured city, a blessed city; he could hear the conversation he would shortly be having with Lindsay very clearly as they drove. He listened attentively to this tender and delightful dialogue for an eternity of intersections; each red stop light was an affront to the universe. Gallop apace, he thought, looking at his watch for the twentieth time. He was still on schedule, he realized; he could make it back to the Plaza by one-fifteen at the latest, provided Tomas Court did not delay him. No sooner had he thought this, however, than the driver swung left on what he claimed was a cut-through; they at once came to a halt. Colin stared ahead with tragic eyes: ahead of them was a huge delivery truck blocking the street. The driver hit his horn fifteen seconds before Colin told him to do so, but the protest was useless—they were now blocked both behind and in front, the delivery truck clearly intended to be there for the next century, and all the traffic was snarled.
In his loft at TriBeCa, Tomas Court adjusted his clothing and stepped back from the girl. It was not his practice, in such situations, to waste time once the required act was over. The brief allure the woman had possessed for him had now gone, and he was without further interest in her. His one concern now was to extricate himself as quickly as possible from this formulaic event, and, looking down at her, he was just considering which of his old formulaic devices would ensure her swift departure, when something caught his eye.
The woman was still kneeling, head bent, face hidden; during the course of her ministrations she had removed her blouse, which now lay beside her on the floor. As she bent forward to pick it up, Court’s eyes rested on her bared back; he had been looking down at the discernible line of her spine as he assessed the best way to get rid of her; as she moved, the strands of dark hair that fell across her shoulders parted, and Court glimpsed—he was not sure what he glimpsed, but he heard himself make a small, disbelieving sound.
The woman’s face jerked up towards him; she made another quick movement, but Court was too swift for her. Before she could rise, he stepped forward and forced her back down. With a low exclamation of anger and surprise, he parted the thick strands of dark hair, exposing her left shoulder. And no, he had not imagined it: there, in almost precisely the right place, high on the left scapula, was a tattoo—a tattoo of a small, crouching and delicate black spider.
He jerked away from her and pushed her aside. He stepped back, his face pale. Slowly, the girl straightened up. She wiped her hand across her mouth, met his gaze and frowned.
‘I told you I admired your movies,’ she said.
‘That’s a foolish way to express admiration. Write a letter next time. I’ll make sure one of the secretaries answers it.’
‘Write a letter?’ Colour swept up into her face. ‘That’s what you advise? Mr Court, I’ll remember that.’
She reached for her blouse, put it back on and began to button it up. Court watched her in silence. When she had put her coat on also, and began to move towards the door, his anxieties eased somewhat. He began to tell himself that he had been lucky, that the risk had been greater than he had realized, but that the risk was over now. In the doorway, however, she paused.
‘You don’t remember, do you?’ she said, resting her yellowish gaze on his, and voicing the question in a quiet tone.
‘Remember what?’ Court replied, moving further away.
‘The last time we did this.’ She looked slowly around the room; Court frowned.
‘You’re mistaken,’ he began. ‘I think it would be better if you went now. I told you—’
‘Oh, I’m not mistaken, you are.’ She hesitated, a shy, almost coy note coming into her voice. ‘It’s OK, I don’t blame you. Why would you remember? I was blonde at the time. Quite a lot younger. It was very brief—nothing special, I guess, as far as you were concerned. Why would it be? I was the third that week, after all.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about; we’ve never met. I don’t even know your name…’
‘It’s Jackie.’ She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘No? Well, never mind. I understand how it is. I understood then. I mean, you were under a whole lot of pressure, I could see that. The great director! Only the movie wasn’t going too well; you were having technical problems—problems with Natasha too, I think…’
The use of his wife’s name startled Court and angered him.
‘Whatever problems I was having,’ he said coldly, ‘I wouldn’t have discussed them with you, I’m very sure about that. So—’
‘No, you didn’t.’ She gave a low laugh. ‘The way I recall it, you didn’t say too much of anything. You fucked me that time…’ She paused, the tiny frown reappearing on her face. ‘Think about it and you may even remember. On location, outside LA? The Soloist, and it kind of bombed at the box office. We went to your wife’s caravan…You know I always liked that movie? One of your best. It really made me laugh, all those asshole critics eating their words, reappraising it after Dead Heat came out. Boy, are they dumb. I could have told them…’
‘Look,’ Court interrupted, hearing a new droning and fanatical note enter her voice, ‘you’re mistaken. I’m sorry, but let’s leave it at that, shall we? For your information, not that it’s any of your business, I was happily married when I made that movie—’
‘Oh, yes? You’ve never been happily married.’ Her voice rose. ‘If you were so happily married, how come you did what you did? You fucked me from behind. I was bent double over your wife’s make-up table. I had a picture of your kid right in front of my face; he was only a baby then. It took you less than five minutes, start to finish. Women tend to remember things like that…’
There was a silence. Court had been listening with the closest attention. He could remember that location well; he could remember the caravan she spoke of, and he could remember very vividly the difficulties he had encountered when making that movie: the groping after solutions, the script rewrites, the elation that accompanied creation, and the despair.
Of the event she described, he had no recollection at all—but that did not mean she was lying; it simply meant that she had been useful, and having been useful, had been erased.
‘Are you threatening me?’ he said quietly, after a long pause. ‘Is that why you’re here today? What do you want? Some form of revenge? An apology? If you’re waiting for an apology, you’ll wait a long time.’
‘An apology?’ She gave him a blank look. ‘No, I came here…I guess I came to see if you’d changed. You might have been different now. I thought…’ She hesitated. ‘You’re older now; you’re divorced. People say you’re pretty ill—I guess I thought you might be—kinder, you know.’
‘And do you find me altered?’ Court asked, watching her closely.
‘Oh no.’ She glanced away. ‘You’re exactly the same. I never quite got you out of my head, you see—so I guess I wanted to be sure…’
‘Maybe we should meet again,’ he said, with care. ‘You might revise your views. Do you have an address? A phone number? You live here in New York? I’m going to be in the city for a few more days…’
A small derisive smile flickered across her features. ‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘Maybe we’ll run into each other—you never know…’
And with that, before he could prevent her, she was out of the door. She left it ajar; Court, knowing there were better methods of pursuit, did not attempt to follow her. He could still hear her footsteps on the stairs as he reached for the telephone and began dialling. Then another idea came to him. He replaced the receiver and picked up the videotape she had brought with her. His hands a little unsteady and his breathing tightening, he inserted it in his machine.
He had expected some message, some revelation, some clue. The tape was blank; discovering this, he reached again for the phone.
‘Now,’ Colin heard, through the door, as he reached Tomas Court’s landing. ‘I’m not interested—just find the records; they must be on file. I want to know her name and who hired her…I told you, The Soloist—that’s five and a half years ago. You check the payroll records. What? No, I don’t know. Try Wardrobe, Continuity, Make-Up…You think I don’t realize that? Goddamn it, I know it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow. I don’t give a fuck if it’s Thanksgiving, Christmas and your son’s bar mitzvah all rolled into one. You get me that information and you get it now…’
Colin hesitated, tapped on the door, then pushed it open. Court swung around, as if startled; then, seeing it was Colin, waved him towards a chair and continued speaking. Colin ignored the chair; he looked at his watch, placed the file of photographs on Court’s black work table and edged back towards the door.
‘How long to run those checks?’ Court was now saying. ‘Yes, but she could be using several names. What? Everything—credit cards, licence registration, sure, sure. Then cross-check with that LA photography lab—you still have their employee records? Fine. Then try UCLA—she could have studied there. Try student records for their Literature courses—never mind why, just do it. And any courses that they ran on movies. What? I don’t know; it’s difficult to say: twenty-five, maybe twenty-seven, no older than that. Go back over the past decade and that should do it…’ He hesitated, glancing towards Colin. ‘And she mentioned a boyfriend…What? Just in passing, never mind how it came up, but you do see? Yes. Yes, precisely. I know a man has to be involved, goddammit; you don’t need to spell out the obvious…What? I don’t know. She just said he was some kind of an artist—I hadn’t realized it could be important then. No, I was only half listening, I had my mind on other things…What? No, an artist, that’s all she said, and she was probably lying…’
He paused; Colin, impatient to leave, edged towards the door again. He considered interrupting, then, seeing Court’s expression, thought better of it. When Court’s gaze moved in his direction, he embarked on some complicated semaphore. He pointed at his watch, then pointed at the door; he mouthed the words, ‘cab waiting’, and when this had no effect—Court indeed seemed blind to him—he gave a small dance of agitation and mouthed the words, ‘Late—have to go’.
Court gave no sign of receiving this message either; he had begun speaking again. Stealthily, Colin edged into the doorway. He was about to turn and flee when, after a pause Court said, ‘Ah, God, yes,’ and replaced the phone.
The way in which he spoke halted Colin. There was a note of extremity in his voice which Colin had never heard before, and which awoke an instant anxiety. He began to realize that this was not an ordinary conversation, and that Court was in the grip of some strong emotion. Forgetting his cab and his haste for a moment, Colin saw that Court’s face was blanched of colour, and that he was now breathing with difficulty. As Colin turned back to him, he leaned against the table as if to steady himself, and stood there in silence, head bowed.
‘Tomas, are you all right?’ Colin began, moving towards him. ‘What’s happened? Here, sit down…’
He reached for a chair, but Court, straightening up and steadying his breathing, waved it aside.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ His pale gaze rested on Colin’s for an instant. ‘Some problem’s come up—casting, nothing for you to worry about; not your concern. Those are the pictures I wanted? Thank you…’
‘Tomas, you don’t look well…’ Colin hesitated, fighting his conscience. He thought of his late-night conversation with Court at the ranch, a few days before. He thought of the candour and bleakness with which Court had spoken of his love for his wife and his continuing hopes for a reconciliation. Colin had sensed it was the first time he had ever discussed this with anyone. He had pitied him then, and looking at Court’s drawn face, he pitied him now.
‘Let me call someone, Tomas,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t be alone. Maybe I should call that doctor of yours, just to check you’re all right…’ He hesitated again, then submitted to his conscience. ‘I can stay,’ he continued, ‘if it would help. I can stay for a while…’
‘I think not.’ A flash of dour amusement came into Court’s eyes. ‘I appreciate the generosity of the offer, but you mustn’t keep this Lindsay of yours waiting. I promised you you’d be on time—I don’t want to break my word.’
‘I can call her,’ Colin began, trying hard to hide misery. ‘Really, Tomas, she’ll understand. You look ill—you’re terribly pale.’
‘It’s nothing. It’s passed. Off you go…’ He gave a dry smile. ‘And I hope you’ve remembered a present. It is Thanksgiving, after all.’
Colin felt a rush of gratitude and liking. He thought of the elegant pale-blue Tiffany’s box safely stowed in his bags.
‘I have. I bought it in New York, the morning before I left for the ranch. Just in case I couldn’t find anything in Montana…’
‘Very wise. What one finds in Montana doesn’t take too portable a form.’ Court paused, then added, somewhat awkwardly, ‘I hope you liked the ranch.’
‘I did,’ Colin replied.
‘It’s isolated, of course. My son loves it. Ah well.’ He gave a sigh, held out his hand and clasped Colin’s.
‘Enjoy your Thanksgiving. I’ll be speaking to you on Monday, in England, as arranged. And you can relax—it won’t be before.’
Colin hesitated still, alarmed by something in his manner, by a note of resignation or fatigue he had not heard in Court’s voice before. With another dry smile, Court turned away from him and took out the photographs he had requested. He waved Colin away and Colin, moving towards the door, watched him blend over these images of a bleak northern landscape. He thought of Thalia’s assertion that Tomas Court was without friends. He could believe that. Court seemed to him to be a man inexperienced at intimacy, slow to trust, and awkward at indicating regard. His attempts to convey liking, both at the ranch and now, touched Colin. He wished Court goodbye, unease and affection tugging at his heart.
Then he remembered Lindsay; his spirits rising at once, he sprinted down the stairs and out to his cab. He told the driver to get him uptown to the Plaza by the best route, and to break every record when doing so. The driver, amused by this demented Englishman, duly did so. Half an hour later, all thoughts of Tomas Court forgotten, Colin was walking into the lobby at the Plaza, his heart beating hard.
He was five minutes late. Meeting Lindsay, who was waiting for him, and who sprang to her feet as soon as he entered, he saw that she was even more nervous than he was. He took her hand, which felt small and cold, in his own. He watched colour come and go in her face; her eyes rested on his, their expression dazed and a little afraid. Colin, who had planned an amusing speech, found he was struck dumb; he could say nothing at all.
He booked them both in under the name ‘Lascelles’, told the desk clerk to hold all calls until further notice, overtipped the porter who showed them to their room, and, the second the man departed, fixed the ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice to the door.
He locked it. Lindsay had retreated, he saw; she had backed away, past a table decked with flowers, and was standing in front of the tall windows that overlooked Central Park. Joy welled up in Colin’s heart. She was wearing a new dress, and a coat he had not seen before; they were black, like most of her clothes. She was smaller than Colin remembered, and slighter in build; with a sudden sense of her frailty, he saw that her small white hands were tightly clasped at the waist of her funereal coat. He saw the anxiety flare in her eyes, and he sensed a new defencelessness in her. At this he felt a great tenderness for her, and his own anxieties melted away.
‘I’m so afraid,’ she said, as Colin began to walk towards her.
‘Don’t be,’ Colin replied.
‘I did plan what I’d say and do. Now—you look different. I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing…’
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Colin answered. ‘Darling, you don’t have to say anything at all.’
He took her hand gently in his own and kissed it. Lindsay made a small, nervous, disconsolate sound. Colin drew her back across the room to the bed, which was large. Lindsay sat down on it and looked up at him. Colin saw that her hands were trembling.
‘I spent all morning shopping,’ she said, panic in her voice. ‘I bought an illicit coat and an illicit dress. I’m wearing them both—and now I don’t feel illicit at all.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Colin quietly. All desire for pretence fell away from him; a new, and unmistakable expression came into his eyes. Lindsay, reading that expression, gave him a half-fearful look, then gave an odd, breathless sigh.
Colin thought of all the things he had intended to say, and realized just how wrong and how inadequate they were. Her face, lifted to his, was alight with contradictions and doubt; seeing that, he felt a second’s fear. He could see questions in her eyes, and he could sense some tidal pull in the room, exerting its force on him. For a moment he felt at sea, in uncharted waters, with no experience of how to navigate here.
‘I love your illicit clothes,’ he began, somewhat nervously. ‘I love you in them, and I know I’m going to love you out of them…’
He paused; Lindsay saw him battle with his pride and struggle against some final constraint. Then his face cleared.
‘The truth is—I love you,’ he said quietly. ‘I expect you’ve realized that. I tried to hide it when I wrote, and it couldn’t be done. I meant to hide it now too—and I can’t do that either. I love you so much it actually hurts. That’s never happened to me before.’
Lindsay, moved by a sadness in his expression, by the directness and simplicity of his words, felt a rush of pure affection for him flood her heart. She gave a small flurried gesture of the hands; she raised her eyes to his, then looked quickly away. ‘Oh God,’ she began, her voice catching. ‘You mustn’t—I can’t—I don’t know who I am any more, Colin…’
Colin was hurt by that reply, but he hid it; it seemed to him that words were better avoided now. In a way that brooked no argument, he drew her to her feet and took her in his arms. He began to kiss her, and that kiss silenced them both. Feeling blind with sudden happiness, and certain he could see a similar blindness in her eyes, he caught her against him. He felt a mad conviction that they had no need for words, and that the language of his body was one she must understand.
He began to make love to her, in ways which he had had 101 hours to dream of and plan. By the time this eloquence was finally over, it was dark in the city outside, and a full moon was riding above the bare trees in Central Park. Lindsay, her body pleasured, and her mind in disarray, gave a small cry of loss as he withdrew from her. She felt both broken and whole. In a frantic way, she began to press kisses against his throat and his chest, and to murmur endearments; taking his hand, with mingled sadness and happiness, she began to kiss his face, and his eyes, and his hair.
Colin’s heart lifted; he felt a certainty of purpose, a contentment, and a calm deeper than he had ever known. He kissed Lindsay with great tenderness, then, having learned when it was wiser to remain silent, lay with her clasped against him, making no comment and asking no questions, when she began to weep quietly in his arms.
‘Rowland, you are handsomer than ever,’ said Emily Lancaster, regarding him with affection and pouring him a very large bourbon indeed. Rowland, who was standing at the window of her drawing-room, did not respond. ‘Close the curtains, would you?’ Emily continued. ‘I don’t like to see the moon through glass; it’s unlucky…’
‘That’s only when it’s a new moon,’ Rowland replied. He watched the trees move in the darkness of the Park, then obeyed her instruction. Emily, who had been watching him thoughtfully, moved across to the sofa. ‘Now come sit down,’ she said. ‘You must be exhausted—that long flight. Lord only knows what time it is by your body clock. Are you sure you won’t let Frobisher get you something to eat? No? Rowland, my dear, I’m sure you must be suffering jet lag—even a man of your determination can’t face that down.’
Rowland made some polite disclaimer. He seated himself beside her on the sofa; Emily budging her pug with a smile. She inspected him closely, putting on one of her pairs of spectacles to do so; she gave a small frown.
‘Yes, you’ve definitely improved with age,’ she pronounced. ‘You have a dangerous look about you these days. An air of perturbation. I’ve always found perturbation attractive in a man. If I were forty years younger, Rowland, I’d fall madly in love with you, and we could have a very incautious affair.’
Rowland looked at Emily with affection; in the five years since he had last seen her, she had considerably aged. She could no longer hold herself as straight as she had once done, but her spirit, he sensed, was as indomitable as ever. He thought of the first time he had met her, when she came over to Oxford for Colin’s graduation. At sixty-five, she had been magnificent; and at eighty-five, wrapped in a shawl of heathery-coloured tweed, she was still magnificent. Rowland could see, though, the distortions time had made to her hands and spine; suspecting she might be in pain, he pitied her for the ravages of the last twenty years.
Liking her, and also knowing how astute she was, he tried to shake off his own exhaustion and despondency, to rally himself and respond.
‘If you were forty years younger, Emily,’ he said, ‘you’d be playing havoc with my heart. And I wouldn’t risk an affair: I’d propose.’
Emily smiled at this. ‘Smartest move you could make,’ she said. ‘I’m one of the few women I know who could cope with you. I’d sort you out in no time. I’d be more than a match for you. What you need, Rowland, is a woman who’s ten jumps ahead of you the entire time.’
‘Do I?’ Rowland said, giving her a glinting, green-eyed glance that made even Emily’s eighty-five-year-old heart beat appreciably faster. ‘Do I indeed?’
‘My dear, it is very good indeed to see you.’ Emily laughed. ‘I’d forgotten how well you flirted. Wicked man! This is a pleasure—an unexpected one, too…’
‘Yes, I had to leave London rather suddenly. It was a last minute thing.’
‘What did you say brought you to New York, my dear?’
‘Work,’ said Rowland, who had not previously explained his presence. ‘My paper’s negotiating various link-ups with the Times here. We’ve suddenly run into a few problems.’
‘How exciting. Oh dear.’
‘So I came over to—finalize things.’
‘Of course. But won’t everyone be away, my dear? It is Thanksgiving tomorrow after all.’
‘That shouldn’t present any difficulties.’
Emily raised her eyebrows, but taking pity on him, pressed him no more. She began to chat away about inconsequential things, while waiting for Rowland to reveal his true reason for being here in this apartment. Much as she liked him, and flattered though she was by his gallantry, Emily was not under the illusion that he was here to see her.
Rowland listened to her with half his mind. He was finding it almost impossible to sit still and be patient; it required all his self-discipline, and that discipline was usually considerable, to avoid questioning Emily at once. All he needed was a location or a telephone number, then he could be speaking to Lindsay within the hour. What he would then say, he had no idea, but he felt a frantic conviction that once he heard her voice, or preferably saw her, he would be blessed with eloquence; the right words, or actions, must inevitably come.
This address and telephone number he had been chasing ever since he had finally arrived at the Pierre some four hours before. He had first tried calling Lindsay from Heathrow airport, only to find her number engaged; he had tried calling from Kennedy as soon as he landed, and had been cut off three times.
‘What do you mean she’s checked out?’ He had stared at the two young men behind the desk at the Pierre. ‘Checked out when? Checked out where?’
‘Ms Drummond checked out this morning,’ said the younger of the two, glancing at his confrère. The confrère smirked.
‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘She collected her faxes, then checked out. Around ten.’
The mention of faxes produced visible and incomprehensible mirth. Rowland stared blankly at the two men. He felt as if he were still travelling: he was on the motorway to Oxford, on a fool’s errand to see Tom; he was on the motorway back, breaking the speed limit to catch his plane. He was in the limbo of the aircraft itself, and he felt in limbo now. The two men had denied all knowledge of Lindsay’s present whereabouts. Grimly, Rowland had booked himself in to the small cell that was the only room available there over Thanksgiving, and had started telephoning. Twenty calls later, he still had no information and no leads. As a last resort, he obtained Markov’s Manhattan number from a giggling Pixie, in London, and dialled it. He did not expect a kind reception, nor did he get one.
‘Looking for Lindsay?’ Markov trilled, in his most infuriating tone. ‘Too thrilling, my dear. I always wondered when you’d get round to it.’
‘Where is she?’ Rowland said, swallowing his pride. ‘I need to talk to her and I need to talk to her now.’
‘Can’t help, I’m afraid.’
‘Please,’ said Rowland.
‘Not a word I ever expected to hear on your lips,’ cried Markov, detectable triumph in his tones. ‘How are the mighty fallen, my dear.’
‘Fuck it, Markov—where is she?’
‘Sweetheart, I genuinely don’t know. Tucked up in a love-nest somewhere, I suspect. With the new inamorato. I can’t wait to meet him. He sounds too charming for words.’
‘Markov—have you ever been desperate?’
‘Of course, darling. Most of the time.’
‘Well, I’m desperate. No doubt that delights you. Help me out, here.’
Markov made a considering noise. ‘I’m seeing a little cabin in the woods,’ he said, in a maddening way. ‘Could it be out of state? Yes, I think so. A cosy little cabin, somewhere très discreet. An intimate little cabin, with log fires…’
‘Christ, Markov—’
‘Oh, all right.’ Markov gave way to the temptation to cause trouble, a temptation he could never bear to resist for very long. ‘I’m seeing the Oak Room at the Plaza, tomorrow evening at seven; they get back then. Thanksgiving drinks, darling. Jippy and I get to vet the inamorato. I gather…’ Markov lowered his voice. ‘I gather he has auburn hair, hyacinthine curls, diabolic eyebrows, an Apollonian body, and a way with women…’
‘What fool gave you that description?’ Rowland said, in a violent tone.
‘Can’t think, darling. Someone who knows him pretty well, I guess. Have to go now. Byeee.’
Replacing the phone, Rowland realized that even he, with a journalist’s persistence, could not call every hotel with cabins in America; besides, there was an easier way. He dialled Emily’s number at once; as a result, here he was—jet-lagged, exhausted, afflicted with a sense of whirling futile momentum, going nowhere exceedingly fast.
‘I’m sorry to miss Colin,’ he said, interrupting Emily and unable to bear prevarication any longer. ‘I hear he’s staying out of state somewhere with Lindsay.’
‘Ah,’ said Emily, bending to fondle her pug. ‘Yes indeed.’
‘Have they been away long?’
‘Well, now, I’m not really sure. Colin’s being a little secretive…’
‘He wasn’t secretive when I telephoned before,’ Rowland said, hearing the bitterness in his own voice and realizing that he was losing his capacity to dissemble. Lindsay, he thought, would not judge his untruths to be cool or flagrant now. He turned to look at Emily. ‘I gather marriage is on the cards.’
‘He is very much in love,’ Emily replied, in a quiet, firm tone.
‘And are his feelings returned?’
‘That I cannot answer. Lindsay would not confide in me. Though I would say…’ She paused and turned her blue gaze steadily upon Rowland. ‘I would say they were admirably suited to one another, wouldn’t you?’
Rowland’s reaction confirmed everything Emily had suspected, and told her all she needed to know. She saw his handsome face darken and an arrogant expression mask his dismay. He gave her a cold, green-eyed glance, and took a swallow of bourbon.
‘I always find questions like that impossible to answer. They’re foolish. Only two people can judge—and that’s the two people concerned.’
‘Well, I think they’re made for each other,’ Emily said, a little sharply; then, seeing the unhappiness in his eyes, she modified her tone. ‘Consider,’ she went on, ‘they are both vulnerable; they are both innocents—and I do not mean that in a pejorative way. They both have an open, sunny, optimistic disposition, though Colin, of course, likes to dramatize his fears. They have a very similar sense of humour—which is very important indeed…’
She hesitated; Rowland, his face set, said nothing. Emily looked around her room, wondering whether to show him mercy or continue. She thought of her conversation here with Colin on the night she had first met Lindsay; love for her nephew, and protectiveness towards him, rose up in her heart. Continue, she decided, and began speaking again, ignoring the stony expression in Rowland’s eyes.
‘And then,’ she went on, ‘there are the long-term considerations. Lindsay is not in her first youth. She has one miserable marriage behind her. For twenty years, she has had to bring up a child alone. She has a resilience, and a determination I admire—and they would be of great benefit to Colin…’
‘They would be of benefit to anyone who married her.’
‘Indeed.’ Emily gave him a sharp glance. ‘But Colin has admirable qualities too, let us not forget that. With Colin, she could rely on unswerving loyalty and devotion…’
‘I’m sure she would repay that in kind.’
‘No doubt. My point is that with Colin she could be secure. He would be faithful, loving and considerate. He would make the very best of husbands…’ She paused, then added, in a delicate way, ‘Not all men are husband material, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’d say appearances can be deceptive in that respect,’ Rowland answered, somewhat roughly.
Emily made no reply, but continued to look at him, her expression kindly but perplexed; she gave a sigh.
‘Well, well, I am very old now,’ she said, in a quiet way, ‘I look at these things differently from you, no doubt. I love Colin; his future happiness and well-being are very close to my heart.’ She paused. ‘I’m sure you will understand that, since you and Colin are such close friends, and have been for so many years.’
Rowland heard the undisguised note of warning in her voice; his eyes met hers.
‘I also wish Colin well,’ he began, in a stiff way. ‘I like Colin and I respect him. I hope you know that—’
‘Indeed I do. I also know what it is to experience a clash of loyalties. That is always painful, and especially so for an honourable man.’
Rowland coloured. ‘I don’t follow you,’ he said, looking away.
‘Oh, I think you do,’ Emily said. She paused, her gaze resting thoughtfully on his face; then she made one of those lightning shifts of attack that Rowland remembered of old.
‘You have thought of marrying, I imagine, Rowland?’
‘I have thought of it. Yes.’
‘And no doubt you would like children?’
‘Yes, I would hope—’ He stopped, suddenly seeing the unerring accuracy of her aim. He turned back to look at her. ‘I would like to have a family, children—yes. I have no family of my own. So I had hoped to have children one day.’
Emily gave a small inclination of her head. Rowland saw pity come into her eyes.
‘Colin also wants this,’ she said quietly. ‘In many ways, and despite the life he’s led, Colin is and always has been, a very domestic man. He loves his home and is never happier than when he is at home. With the right wife, and God willing, with children, there is no doubt in my mind that he would be completely fulfilled. Of course, in Colin’s case, there are additional reasons—I suppose one would have to call them dynastic reasons—why he should want children. He may deny it, but I know how deeply it matters to him, and to his father, that he should be able to pass Shute on to his son and heir.’
‘I know that. I know exactly how much that matters to him.’ Hope had come into Rowland’s eyes. ‘So I would have thought that—’
‘So would I.’ Emily cut him off with a small lift of her hand. Seeing her expression change, Rowland felt a second’s foreboding; he could see that she was perhaps tiring, but she clearly intended to say something more, and knew it would be unwelcome. She looked at him with gravity and compassion, then sighed.
‘You are an intelligent man, Rowland. No, sit down; there’s something I want to tell you before you go. This question of children, of heirs. You should know—I discussed that very issue with Colin, here in this room, on the night he introduced me to Lindsay. I reminded him of Shute and the length of time his family has lived there. I reminded him of the entail…’ She paused. ‘I didn’t use the word sacrifice to him then, but I will use it to you now.’ She paused.
‘To contemplate marriage to a woman who might, unhappily, be unable to bear a child, is perhaps the greatest sacrifice Colin could make. Yet he intends to marry her, and he made the decision without the smallest hesitation—I think you should know that, Rowland. Other men, in similar situations, might have acted differently…’ She allowed her gaze to rest quietly on Rowland’s face. ‘I would not blame them for that. But I will say that, in these circumstances, Colin’s love for Lindsay should not be underestimated. He showed courage—and I have never admired him more than I did then.’
The statement was gently made, but it cut Rowland. He rose and turned away. ‘I’ve never doubted Colin’s moral courage,’ he said.
‘But you do doubt him in other ways? You think he is unsteady, perhaps? Impetuous? No doubt you would feel concern on Lindsay’s behalf, if that was your view…’
‘I do feel concern,’ Rowland began, turning. ‘I feel—’
‘My dear, I can see exactly what you feel. I am not blind and I am not deaf.’ Emily gave a deep sigh. ‘Rowland, what you feel is obvious in your speech, in your expressions, in every gesture you make. You have my sympathy, but I would counsel you to think very carefully and very honestly before you take any action you might subsequently regret. Colin looks upon you as a brother. I would not want you to delude yourself that he is not in earnest here, however tempting that might be. He is utterly in earnest. And if I may give my opinion, I think that from Lindsay’s point of view and his own, he has made a hard, but a very wise choice.’
‘I love her,’ Rowland said, in a low voice. ‘Emily, for God’s sake—’ He turned away, and Emily, who had never seen his composure even threatened, in all the years she had known him, watched it break.
Saying nothing, she waited for him to regain his control. She leaned back against the cushions, feeling suddenly that all her energy was gone. The strength of Rowland’s reaction disturbed her; now her eighty-five-year-old mind felt fearful, and every one of her eighty-five-year-old bones seemed to ache.
She had suspected this conversation might be necessary as soon as Rowland telephoned and announced his arrival in New York; she had known, beyond doubt, that it was necessary when he entered, and she saw the expression on his face. She had begun this conversation feeling very sure of her ground, but now an old woman’s incertitude gripped her. Confronted by the evidence of pain—and a man’s pain, which she found harder to witness than a woman’s—her mind felt flurried, muddled, and flooded with doubts.
‘Rowland,’ she began. ‘Rowland, I’m so very sorry. Listen to me—’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ Rowland, his back to her, fought to steady his voice. ‘You were right earlier. I’m desperately tired. I should take myself off…’
‘I wish you wouldn’t. At least stay and finish your drink.’ She gave him an anxious look, then, as he slowly turned, held out her hand to him. ‘If you go now, I’ll feel I’ve offended you.’
‘You certainly haven’t done that.’
He hesitated, then, with a gentleness that surprised her, took her hand, with its bent and misshapen fingers, and held it in his own. Emily saw that he could still scarcely speak for emotion; she drew him down beside her, and looking at his drawn face, felt another flurry of remorse and doubts. Those who could not see beyond Rowland’s appearance, she thought, were very foolish. Rowland McGuire was a considerable man, to whom Colin, and Colin’s family, owed a debt. Who was she to judge whether he was, in her own glib phrase, husband material?
Marriage was a serious subject; love was a serious subject; the bearing of children was a more serious subject still: these issues determined the course of entire lives—what right did she have to meddle here? She was partisan, and had in any case been too long retired from the fray; she had forgotten the agonies of love, and had no doubt underestimated them, for she was preoccupied too often now with the more pressing concern of mortality and imminent death.
‘Ah, Rowland, Rowland,’ she said, laying her hand on his arm. ‘I never married. I never had children. I’m old. I hadn’t understood how strongly you felt. I shouldn’t have spoken as I did.’
‘No. I’m glad that you did.’ He looked across the room. ‘I can see now—I suppose I always could—Colin can offer her so much. Not just material things; I don’t only mean that. Colin is generous at heart. And you’re right, they are alike, in many respects. When they first met, I could see then…It’s just that—well, I had thought—I had sensed—’
He broke off, and Emily, pitying him again, and knowing his pride, turned her gaze away from his. With skill and with tact, she diverted the conversation away from this subject to more neutral ones. Rowland, as anxious as she was to regain neutral ground before he left, followed this lead. Prompted by Emily, he began to talk of other things; Emily half listened to him, and half listened to something else.
At first, she was aware only of some shift and disturbance in the room—having lived so long in the Conrad, this was something to which she had long been accustomed. Attuned to the spirits of the building, both malign and benevolent, she could always sense when they became restless and stirred.
This they did, these days, more and more often. Emily attributed their more frequent activation to her own age, to the proximity of her own death, and to the fact that she no longer dismissed them as the products of her own fancy or superstition, as she had done in her youth.
The spirits here were always encouraged, she believed, by perturbation in human beings. Perhaps Rowland had unwittingly summoned them up tonight; perhaps she herself had. She glanced at his now guarded, tense face, then looked down at the rug beneath her feet. It was an Aubusson, still beautiful, and patterned with faded roses; the dusky pink of these flowers, in this subdued light, darkened to the colour of blood. Tonight, these flowers, like the shadows in the room, teemed with abundant life. Emily’s little dog could also sense this; she felt him stir beside her, and his hackles rise up. She concentrated on the other conversation she could now hear, which she realized had been continuing for some while, beyond and above the sound of Rowland’s quiet voice. She tried to hear what was being said, in that other anterior exchange—and something was being said; she could half hear it, emanating from this carpet’s warp and weft.
She began to distinguish first a man’s, then a woman’s voice; their words were muffled, but the reproach and pain in their voices were not. Gradually, as she listened, stroking her little dog and wondering if this message might be indirectly meant for herself, she heard that the woman’s voice had come to dominate; Emily listened as an aria of accusation mounted, then faltered. There was a silence, then a long cry of uncertain gender, a cry which might have signified desolation, or delight, or distress.
‘What was that?’ Rowland said sharply.
Looking up, Emily realized how deeply she had been abstracted. Rowland had brought their conversation to a close without her being aware of it; he had risen, and must have been moving towards the door, when he spoke. She looked at him uncertainly, confused and surprised that he should have heard this sound, one with which she had become familiar, and which she believed to be the cry of a woman long dead. It would scarcely do to inform Rowland, a rational man, that the voice was Anne Conrad’s. He would assume that age had finally taken its toll on Emily, that she was losing her wits.
She gave herself a little shake and opted for the pragmatic answer, realizing as she did so that it could well be correct. After all, according to Frobisher, who had it from the porter, Giancarlo, Tomas Court was at present in the building; he was in the apartment below this one, visiting his former wife.
‘Oh, just a marital argument,’ she said in a dry way, recovering herself and holding out her hand to him.
‘I wish you well, Rowland. I wish you wisdom, my dear.’ She paused. ‘When will you be returning to England?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘I see.’ She released his hand. Somewhere in the building a door slammed. Emily shivered.
‘It’s darned cold tonight,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to take the stairs, Rowland, the elevator’s playing up again.’
‘I’ve already discovered that.’
‘I dislike those stairs myself.’ She huddled her shawl more tightly around her. ‘Well, well, you’re a good man, Rowland. I’m glad you came—’
Rowland hesitated. ‘Are you all right, Emily?’
‘Fine. I’m just fine. A little tired maybe.’ She picked up her tiny dog, and kissed his crinkled sagacious brow. Still Rowland hesitated, suddenly concerned for her; he looked about the shadowy room and felt unease furl its wings about him.
Emily waved him away, her diamond ring catching the light.
‘Goodbye, my dear,’ she called after him, as he stepped out into the hall. Rowland passed out onto the galleried landing, with its brandishing arms and inadequate light. He descended the stairs, looking neither to left or right, and left the building. Snow had been falling, he discovered, stepping out onto a thin crust of white. There was an unnatural hush about the city, and more snow would fall during the night.