AT FOUR THE FOLLOWING morning, Colin and Lindsay were finally able to leave the Conrad. They stepped out of the building into a hushed, near-silent Manhattan. The snow on the sidewalks was unbroken; there was a serene high moon, and each limb of the trees in Central Park was frosted silver.
‘Oh, let’s walk, Colin.’ Lindsay took his hand. ‘Let’s walk. How quiet it is…’
‘You won’t be too cold?’
‘No. I need air and silence. And you must need them far more than I do.’
Colin was indeed desperate for both. He took her arm in his; they crossed to the far side of the avenue, and began to walk south. Colin listened to the crunch of their footsteps; he glanced back at the trail they left in the fresh snow. Snow was continuing to fall, gently, as they walked, and it was already beginning to fur and obliterate the marks of their feet. Much preoccupied with death that evening, Colin thought of death as he walked. He and Lindsay were the same age—how many years or decades had they left? It was so important that they should waste none of this future time, he thought. He hoped they would be granted many years, but for all either of them knew, the time allotted might be short.
He could hear the wheels of Time’s winged chariot very clearly tonight, but he heard them, he found, without fear. They concentrated the mind wonderfully; he drew Lindsay’s small cold hand into the warmth of his overcoat pocket and clasped it tightly. He wondered if Lindsay could sense his thoughts, if she felt something similar. Looking at her quiet face, he felt that she might.
As they walked, the unusual quietness of the city began to calm him; he allowed his mind to consider the events of that long strange night. He thought of his still-unanswered proposal, of a death he had now decided was accidental, of the labour of his interviews with the police; the more accurate and factual his replies to their questions had been, the less accurate they felt. He still was not sure of the dead woman’s name, he realized. He had still been trying to piece together her story and her connection to Tomas Court, when he had learned that she had an accomplice, and that this accomplice had been found when, at Tomas Court’s suggestion, the tiny service room off the elevator shaft on the first floor had been searched.
A man—perhaps her brother; the police had seemed as uncertain as Colin—had been found. According to one of Colin’s informants, he had been in a delusional state. According to another, the man, freaking out, had finally been yanked out of the tiny room gibbering about ghosts.
‘So—was he Joseph King?’ Colin had asked Tomas Court, as they sat together between police interviews.
‘No.’ Court had given him one of his still, pale looks. ‘No, he was just her medium, if you like. He killed that tourist in Glacier. It was he who attacked me at my loft that time but his sister planned it, I think. Colin, don’t worry about the details; they’re not important, and they don’t concern you. Let it go. Just tell the police what you saw and heard tonight.’
Colin looked around the room where they were waiting. Its light was too bright. There was a clock on the wall which Colin refused to look at. He had a strong sense that he and Court were outside time, outside place. Here, he found, he could ask Court anything, and Court would reply without evasion or deceit.
‘Do you feel free, Tomas?’ Colin had looked at his white, strained face with concern. ‘Do you feel free—now she’s dead?’
‘Free?’ Court considered; the concept of freedom seemed unfamiliar to him. ‘No, not really. I had hoped I might, but I can’t erase the tapes, or forget those letters she wrote. I listened to those tapes once too often.’
‘I heard a bit of them.’ Colin coloured. ‘That night with Thalia, at your loft. They were still playing—and I couldn’t find the switch-off mechanism…’
‘Really? I usually used a remote.’
‘In the end, I couldn’t bear it any more. I just ripped the tape out of the machine. That stopped it.’
‘Did it?’ Court gave a half smile. ‘And do you still remember what was said?’
‘No, not really. I did for a bit, but it’s worn off now. It was just pornography anyway…’
‘Just pornography?’
‘All pornography’s the same.’ Colin coloured more deeply. ‘It’s repetitious. I hate things like that.’
‘“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom—”’
‘What?’
‘William Blake.’ Court gave a sigh. ‘It was one of King’s favourite quotations, that. There were a lot of quotations…’ He turned and gave Colin a still, tired and affectionate glance. ‘What a good decision I made when I hired you, Colin.’
‘I don’t see why.’ Colin sank his head in his hands. ‘I’ve been a fucking disaster as far as I can see. I couldn’t find you the right Wildfell Hall. I spent weeks sitting around saying “but”. And tonight, I tried reasoning with a mad woman. I kept saying “please” and “don’t do that”. It was the most fucking pathetic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’
‘I wouldn’t agree.’ Court frowned. ‘I could hear what you were saying as I came up the stairs. I knew it wouldn’t work, but that wasn’t the point. To the pure in heart, all things are pure—and besides, I think it had some effect. After all, she didn’t stab Jonathan; she didn’t jump; so maybe she did listen to you after all…’ His pale eyes rested on the wall opposite. He sighed. ‘You used the word “wicked”. It’s years since I’ve heard anyone use that word in its proper sense. Ah well.’ He touched Colin’s arm briefly. ‘You’re a very good location manager, Colin. Let’s leave it at that.’
Court had said nothing more. Colin had completed his police interviews, but had not seen Court again that night. In a state of glassy and unnatural calm, he had returned to Emily’s apartment. There, he found Lindsay and Rowland waiting for him. Nic Hicks, to his relief, had already left; Henry Foxe had returned to his own apartment, it seemed, once he was sure that Emily’s collapse in her hallway was not, as had been feared, a heart attack.
Emily, Frobisher informed him, had been put to bed and was now asleep. Her three ancient indistinguishable friends, meanwhile, were preparing to depart. They had wanted to wait, it seemed, until Colin came back. Why they should have wished to do this, Colin could not conceive, since they seemed remarkably unconcerned as to that night’s events. The eldest and frailest of the three was virtually blind, Colin realized, as she kissed him goodnight; all three lingered, and all three were still twittering on about the elevator.
‘The override switch! Such a useful device!’ the eldest cried, fiddling with her gloves. ‘Do remember it on another occasion, Frobisher dear. My sisters and I were shown how to use it by our father—a little trick he taught us when we were girls. All you need is a very small implement, dear; nail scissors will suffice. You open up the control panel, flick the override, and up you go! Most useful tonight, for dear Henry’s party. Ten flights of stairs, which we could never have toiled up. Dangerous in the wrong hands, of course…’ She paused. ‘Do you know anything about hydraulics systems, Mr McGuire?’
Rowland, silent and abstracted, started. ‘No, no—I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Ah well. Goodnight Mr McGuire. Lindsay, Colin With which, they wrapped themselves in their ancient moleskins and glided out. And Colin, finding himself alone with Lindsay and Rowland, had discovered that he knew what he had to do next.
‘Rowland, could I have a word with you alone?’ he said.
Lindsay at once rose, consternation on her face. She had been about to protest, Colin feared—but perhaps his determination communicated itself to her. She glanced from one man to the other, then, saying she would fetch her coat, quietly left.
The door closed behind her. As if from a great distance, Colin considered his friend. Rowland had risen, and his discomfiture was evident. Colin saw he was finding it difficult to meet his gaze, and this puzzled him for a second. He was not angry with Rowland, he realized. He did not feel angry, or jealous, or confused, or betrayed. He simply felt calm—and armed. Excalibur was in his hands, he thought.
‘I have to say this, Rowland, and I have to say it now,’ he began, in a quiet voice. ‘There’s been enough confusion and uncertainty tonight—’
‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’
‘I didn’t realize until just before I saw you together in that doorway.’ Colin sighed. ‘That must seem stupid to you—but it wasn’t stupidity. It wasn’t even that I trusted you, so it never occurred to me you might lie. It was just that I was so happy, I couldn’t see beyond the happiness—I think it was that.’
‘Colin, I regret this more than I can say. I want to explain—I’m entirely at fault here…’
‘Rowland, you’re my friend.’ He paused. ‘I know you won’t have done this lightly.’
‘No, I did not.’
‘You had three years, Rowland. You’ve known Lindsay three years. You could have acted at any point in those three years—and you didn’t. Tell me why not. Was it her age?’
‘Partly.’ Rowland looked away. ‘Also—’
‘Tell me.’
‘Colin, I wasn’t in love with her. I looked on her as a companion, a colleague, a friend. I came to love her—and that process, well, it had never happened to me before. I wasn’t sure it was enough. I was very afraid of making a mistake and hurting her. I wasn’t sure of her feelings either. Colin, I’m sorry. I can’t discuss this.’
‘So when did it change? In Oxford—that lunch?’
‘No, before. When she spoke to you on the telephone in Yorkshire; maybe before that. I thought of her, when I was away in Scotland. Colin; I don’t know…’
‘You wouldn’t make her happy, Rowland.’ Colin gave him an anxious look. ‘I think you’d end up making her very unhappy. If I thought you’d make her happy, and go on doing so, I’d walk away from this myself—I promise you that. I’d remove myself from the scene with as much grace as I could muster and I’d go off and lick my wounds in private. I’d hate you for a bit, obviously, but that would wear off.’ He paused, his blue eyes resting on Rowland’s troubled face. ‘But I would do it, Rowland. You see, I love her very much.’
‘I can see that.’ Rowland’s expression hardened. ‘And now I’m supposed to act in a similarly noble way, is that the idea?’
‘It’s not noble. It’s sensible.’
‘Since when has sense had anything to do with love?’
‘It’s the right thing to do.’ Colin’s gaze also hardened. ‘I’m asking you, Rowland, to walk away from this. If you won’t…’ He sighed. ‘If you won’t, I’ll fight you every inch of the way, with every weapon at my disposal. But that would be the end of our friendship, and I’d like to avoid that.’
There was a silence. Rowland turned away, with a sudden dismissive gesture.
‘Your request is immaterial, as it happens,’ he said, ‘as Lindsay made very clear to me tonight.’
As always, Colin thought, he disguised pain and uncertainty with curtness, with coldness; even when making an admission of defeat, Rowland could sound arrogant. The reply, which ought to have given Colin joy, did not. Looking at his friend, his calm and certitude began to ebb away. He could not believe in Rowland’s rejection, he realized. Why would any woman turn Rowland down? In Colin’s experience, no women did—and this had never really surprised him, since he loved his friend, and admired him without reservation himself.
He looked at Rowland, so gifted in so many ways, not least in his looks, and suddenly he saw the hopelessness of his own case. Whatever Lindsay might have said to Rowland, it seemed inevitable to him that, faced with a choice between the two of them, she would choose the better man. He himself had no weaponry at all, he thought, except love—and now, it seemed, Rowland could also give her that.
But for how long? Colin thought. Not—and of this he remained utterly certain—not for long enough.
‘Rowland,’ he said, ‘please leave her be. Let her love me. I believe she could.’
‘Are you totally blind?’ Rowland gave him an angry glance. ‘Use your eyes, Colin. She already does.’
‘What?’ Colin said, staring at him, unable to believe his ears, feeling the beginnings of joy, of a most wonderful hope. He felt himself begin to blush—an affliction he had never been able to cure.
‘Oh, God, God,’ he heard himself say, discovering he was beginning to pace about. ‘Do you mean that? You really think that’s true? Could it be? Why? Why? Rowland, you can’t possibly be right—what could she see in me?’
‘God alone knows,’ Rowland replied, frowning, then beginning to smile, as if despite himself. ‘You’re bloody impossible, but presumably it can’t be that. According to Markov, it’s your hyacinthine hair. Oh, and your Apollonian body. That famous way you have with women…’
‘What? What are you talking about? I don’t have a way with women—I never did. What’s an Apollonian body, for God’s sake?’
‘I’m not too sure. Maybe it’s your vast wealth. Have you told her about Shute?’
‘Yes, yes—but it won’t be that. It has to be something else. No, I think you’ve got it wrong, Rowland…Oh, God, God. I’m going mad. I was just starting to hope…’
Rowland hesitated. He gave Colin a long and considering look. With a sigh, he put his arm around his shoulders and pushed him towards the door.
‘Colin, I shouldn’t keep her waiting any longer if I were you. You’ll find out the answers to your questions in due course, no doubt.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure you haven’t been given them already?’ His voice became dry. ‘As you may imagine, I was paying close attention. I’d have thought you’d been given your answers, Colin—judging from the way Lindsay was looking at you tonight.’
Colin turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and Colin, who had never felt more grateful to Rowland than he did then, gave him a troubled look.
‘I think that sometimes,’ he said, in a quiet voice, ‘sometimes—I have no doubts. She knows that I love her, of course…’
‘Colin—’
‘And I know that she likes me. Tonight, she said such extraordinary things to me. And I felt so happy—but she said “like”. She was very definite about it. And liking isn’t enough.’
‘Colin, listen to me. I know Lindsay very well, and she’s rather more careful with words than she appears to be. If that’s what she said, there will have been a reason. She’s impetuous and hesitant, you know. Give it time, Colin. Trust your instincts. I would…’ He broke off. ‘What am I doing? I appear to be encouraging you. Why I should be doing that, in these circumstances, God alone knows…’
‘It’s because we’re friends,’ Colin said. ‘You like me even as a rival, and I like you even as a rival. You know that.’
‘I admire your ability to get your own way.’ Rowland gave him a considering look. ‘In fact, I sometimes think you’re the most ruthless man I’ve ever known. As to liking…’ He repressed a smile. ‘Go away, Colin, and don’t push your luck.’
Colin advanced as far as the door. He stopped and turned back.
‘Advice,’ he said. ‘Rowland, I need advice. I mustn’t mess this up. I have to get this right…’
‘Dear God, you are unbelievable.’ Rowland gave a groan. ‘You want my advice? Now?’ He paused. ‘Very well, Colin, I’ll give you my advice—and much good it may do you. Bear in mind my own record. Bear in mind the fact that I obviously don’t understand women and never have…’
‘I’m sure that’s not true, Rowland.’
‘Just don’t waste any time, Colin, trying to work out their motivation, that’s all. Don’t assume that they are ever rational—they’re not. Remember, they change their minds every five seconds. Remember, their requirements from a man tend to vary, so one moment they want a tyrant, and the next a Galahad. Remember they’re quite keen on priests, father-substitutes, son-substitutes, brother-substitutes and grandfather-substitutes for all I know. Remember their penchant for princes, and heroes…’
‘Hell. Rowland, are you sure about this? That rules me out then…’
‘And remember that quite a lot of the time, Colin,’ Rowland cast a suspicious eye upon him, ‘quite a lot of the time, I think they’d just settle for a man who was very very good in bed…’
‘No, no, no,’ Colin said, in a somewhat evasive way. ‘I’m sure you’re wrong there, Rowland.’ He paused delicately. ‘Of course, I admit it would probably help…’
‘Who knows?’ Rowland pushed him towards the door again. ‘I most certainly don’t. Nor do I care any more. As of now, I’m giving up the quest. I shall remain celibate. Solitude has always suited me. I shall live like a monk…’
‘I slightly doubt that, Rowland…’ Colin had said. He had looked carefully at his friend. Rowland had other ways besides arrogance of disguising pain, he thought. And so, knowing how much it cost Rowland to turn the conversation in this way, and knowing why he did so, he had left.
Walking beside Lindsay now, with the Plaza in sight, Colin’s heart lifted. He had known Rowland wished them to part without animosity or resentment; he had never seen better evidence of his acting ability, or his generosity, than he had then—and if that generosity came about only as a result of a rejection, well, he could forgive Rowland that. The question was, when Rowland spoke of Lindsay, had he been right?
He came to a halt at the corner of the Park and turned Lindsay to face him. He watched the moonlight work its magic upon her face. It made her skin silver; it gave brilliancy and depth to her eyes; tiny crystals of snow clung to her hair and to her lashes. Looking at her, Colin felt a wash of desire and helpless love. Bending down to her, he kissed her lips, which felt warm, and which opened in a sweet, familiar way under his.
A thousand questions and hopes thronged in his mind, yet the instant he touched her they became immaterial. Who could define or explain love, he felt, looking down at her. If he had to say why he loved her, he could give a million answers, none sufficient and none exact.
He loved her because she made a day bright; because she made him laugh, and think; because she was truthful. He loved her because she was often muddled and confused, as he was; he loved her because, when he kissed her, her mouth was the way it was.
Lindsay, looking up at him, wished he would kiss her again, because when he kissed or touched her, she remembered who she was. As they had walked quietly together through the snow, it had come to her that she had taken one decision correctly tonight, and that a second was easily made. Navigating here was less difficult than she imagined; there were reefs, it was true, but there might be a way of avoiding them—a way that had stolen into her mind in this quiet moonlit city as they walked.
‘Can you wish on a full moon, or only on a new one, do you think, Colin?’ she said, unfastening her coat and his, then moving inside it, so the warmth of her body was pressed against his.
‘I’m sure you can,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure you can wish on the moon at any point in its cycle. It’s a powerful planet.’
Lindsay wished. She wished a momentous wish—but being practical, as well as superstitious, she had no intention of relying solely on supernatural forces. She rested her head against his chest and—the decision made—found herself at peace.
‘I want you to know something,’ she said. ‘I know you saw me in that doorway with Rowland tonight. Did you ask him about that?’
‘No. Not directly.’ He hesitated. ‘I would ask you, but I’m afraid to, I think.’
‘You have no reason to be afraid. I give you my word, Colin.’
‘Then I have no questions; they’re all answered.’
‘I was saying goodbye to Rowland, and he to me. We were both leaving behind something that didn’t happen. I can’t explain it any other way. Can you understand that?’
‘Of course.’
‘It was a final goodbye, Colin. Truly.’ Her eyes rested on his, then a glint of amusement came into them. ‘And it was a very quiet goodbye too, you should know. Marked by English understatement and English restraint.’
Colin’s face lit. ‘I’m very glad about the restraint,’ he said, in a dry way. ‘If it had been unrestrained, I should have found it very hard to bear.’ He paused. ‘Just don’t try saying goodbye to me, because I won’t let you. Are you clear about that?’
‘You sound very determined.’
‘I am very determined. I’ve learned a lot tonight. Never waste time—you might have very little left. Besides…’ He took her hand and they began walking on again. ‘Don’t forget all those ancestors of mine. English and American. I have centuries of ruthless self-interest in my veins, Lindsay. Never forget that.’
‘Ah, yes, those ancestors,’ Lindsay said, as they were about to cross Central Park South. ‘I’d forgotten about them and all those riches of yours. Ah well, I forgive you for them. I can love you despite them, I expect…’
Colin stopped dead in the middle of the road. He went white.
‘What did you just say? What did you just say?’
‘I used a four-letter word,’ Lindsay replied. ‘I’m sorry about that…’
‘Say it again!’ Colin made a grab at her. ‘Say it again, loudly, at once, without equivocation…’
‘I shall whisper it,’ Lindsay said, pulling him towards the hotel entrance. ‘First we have to go upstairs, then I have to call my son, then I have to wash and undress…’
Colin groaned.
‘Then maybe I’ll admit it. I’ll slip it into the conversation…when we’re in bed.’
They were in their room, and in their bed, with great speed. The call to Oxford was made, but it was brief. There was no conversation—or need for it. Lindsay’s confession, which Colin extracted with some ruthlessness, was made, she later claimed, in extremis—this being a phrase, she added, that she knew Colin would not need her to translate.
As Colin and Lindsay, that morning, finally slept, Jippy got up. He tiptoed out of the bedroom, where Markov lay dreaming, and crept into the living-room beyond. He had spent a night without sleep, watching the flux of future events. This process, Jippy felt, was akin to the processing of photographs. When he helped Markov develop his films, and in particular when he worked with the delicate techniques needed for silver prints, it delighted him that an image could be stored, invisible to the human eye, on paper. He loved to watch the pictures-to-be as they lay in the baths of developing fluid. He loved watching them slowly emerge, as mere shapes and outlines at first, then, gradually, as shapes that had content and could be read.
Sometimes, if errors had been made, this process remained incomplete—and sometimes Jippy would deliberately lift the picture from the developing fluid too soon, because he liked suggestions and hints better than exactitude. To glimpse the future, he felt, was like this. He was rarely, virtually never, shown a clear image—although, in the Plaza the previous night, he had been shown just that.
For this Jippy was grateful. To see the future, even a suggestion of the future, was terrifying. It filled Jippy with misery and fear and bewilderment. Few could live their lives with any tranquillity, he believed, if they could see what lay ahead.
Today, seeing the possible future and hating it, he had decided on a spell. Jippy had only intermittent faith in his spells, most of which had been taught him as a child by his Armenian grandmother. He suspected she had muddled the spells in the first place, and that his own memory of them was imperfect at best. Nevertheless, he intended to try. For Pascal Lamartine, he could do nothing; for Lindsay, whom he knew well, intervention might be possible, and since he loved Lindsay, and could see the urgency of intervention, he had decided to do the spell now, at dawn—a powerful moment, his grandmother always said.
He decided to do it on the kitchen table, which was next to a window facing east. On the empty surface of this wooden table, he assembled the objects he needed. He laid down a hair, which he had removed from Lindsay’s coat when he kissed her goodbye the previous night. Next to the hair, and for want of anything else, he placed a postcard Lindsay had sent him some time before, when she and Markov were away in Thailand on a fashion shoot. The postcard showed a glittery pagoda, and the message was brief: ‘Today Markov and I came here and were given a lotus flower. It is like an artichoke, only prettier. Markov is missing you badly. I send love’.
This, if characteristic, was less than ideal, but it would have to suffice. He rummaged around in the food cupboards, and eventually settled for a packet of muesli—again, less than ideal, but it contained nuts and grains, and they had some powers, of course. Jippy sprinkled the muesli in a lopsided circle, centred the hair and the postcard inside it, and then, after further consideration, placed next to them an orange and an egg. The egg kept rolling around, so eventually he put it in an eggcup and surveyed his handiwork. It was not impressive, and its lack of symmetry offended him. He decided to add a second egg, also in an eggcup, and resisted the impulse to arrange these objects in the vague shape of a face.
He glanced towards the window; the sky was lightening and he knew he had to be quick. The orange kept rolling around in an unstable way, and this made his hands start to shake. ‘Stay s-s-still,’ he whispered, as the orange threatened to roll out of the circle. The orange obeyed and Jippy felt a little happier at this.
From the pocket of his neat striped pyjamas, he took out the small bent coin his grandmother had once given him—a rare coin, this—and placed it in the circle, between the orange and the eggs.
Then he knelt down, rested his forehead against the edge of the table and waited. He muttered under his breath. He watched thin sharp winter sun strike the edge of the window-frame and the edge of the sink. As it slowly began to reach the table, and his circle of objects grew bright, Jippy began on his special prayer of benevolence, to those forces his grandmother had taught him dispensed benevolence—although only when they were propitiated, or in the right mood, she said.
Jippy prayed this prayer with absolute concentration. He gave it every ounce of his energy. When he was on line, the sweat began to run down his body, and his feet and hands began to twitch like a dog dreaming. Halfway through the spell, finding he was afraid, he left out one vital phrase and had to go back. He asked the spirits—politely, his grandmother had always emphasized the importance of this—to avoid the certain evil he had glimpsed the previous night; to make the unlikely, likely; to bend, twist, distort and reassemble events, and having done so, to reorganize them so they were sweet to the eye and the heart. Jippy knew this was well within the powers of these spirits; they did that sort of thing a hundred times a day, on a whim, on a flick of the wrist.
In a humble way—humility was also a wise tactic, his grandmother said—Jippy asked these spirits to employ their artistry. He said this several times, emphasizing the point, because the spirits, on occasion, could be tired or bored, and could simply botch the job, then walk away from it. Jippy did not want botching here—he feared it. He wanted perfect joinery; he wanted a seamless finish. The capricious spirits appeared to listen to this.
To listen, however, was not enough. Jippy redoubled his efforts. He lapsed; he went down, down, down into some strange liquid, swirling space, where he swam back and forth, back and forth. In this space, his spell came to an end. All the words were used up. There, Jippy found he was very afraid; it was so hot it was cold; he started shivering and panting—and it was in this state that Markov found him some time later.
He stared at him in panic; Jippy was lying on the kitchen floor, twitching. An epileptic fit, Markov thought. Jippy’s eyes were tight shut and there was foam on his lips. Giving a cry, Markov fell to his knees and put his arms around him. He lifted him up, then found Jippy was too heavy to move. He almost fell over; he started crying Jippy’s name and kissing his face. He tried to remember what you did if someone had a fit—but was this a fit? ‘Darling, darling, darling,’ he said, clasping Jippy’s hands. He tried to find a pulse and could not find one. Jippy seemed not to be breathing. Frantic now, he laid him back down on the floor, and in the wrong way, at the wrong angle, placed his mouth on Jippy’s mouth. He breathed air into him. He started counting, realized he did not know why he was counting, and breathed again. He had begun to cry, and his tears ran down onto Jippy’s white face. ‘Please, please, please, please,’ he said. He breathed a third breath and Jippy’s eyes opened.
‘W-what are you d-doing?’ he said, and sprang to his feet. He made a grab at the table, which Markov was about to knock over, and Markov, feeling foolish, slowly rose to his feet. He looked at the table, at a ring of muesli, a postcard, a human hair, a coin, two eggs and an orange. Jippy was looking at this orange in consternation. The eggs were fine; the hair and the postcard and the coin were fine; the orange, probably thanks to Markov’s ministrations, and kickings out, was inside the circle still—but only just.
‘I thought you were dead,’ Markov said. ‘I was giving you mouth to mouth.’
‘W-well, you n-nearly ruined the whole t-thing,’ Jippy said, somewhat crossly. ‘It’s very d-delicate.’
Markov was hurt. ‘Jippy,’ he said, ‘these goddamn spells of yours do not work. They have never worked and they are never going to work. Those spells are a load of baloney.’
Jippy, who did not agree with him in this case, gave him a calm look.
‘Th-this is for Lindsay,’ he said, ‘and it is going to work.’
‘For Lindsay?’ Markov looked at the assemblage with more interest. ‘Explain,’ he said.
Jippy explained. Markov paled, then nodded, then frowned, then, smiling, raised his eyebrows.
‘Well, well, well!’ he said, ‘Stranger than fiction! Who’d have believed it?’
Markov himself did not believe it, but he did not want to hurt Jippy, so he kissed him. ‘Now come and look at the news on TV,’ he added. ‘You were certainly right about the Conrad, darling. Updates every half-hour, and paparazzi positively crawling all over the place…’
The Conrad, Juliet McKechnie discovered, was crawling with paparazzi, and with police. Arriving there at seven in the morning, having failed to get through to Natasha on the telephone, she then experienced considerable difficulty in gaining admission to the building. When she finally did, and found the elevator was back in service, she discovered she was sharing it with Emily Lancaster.
‘You’re up and about early, Emily,’ she remarked, eying the grizzly bear overcoat. ‘First floor, please.’
‘I went out to get the tabloids,’ Emily said, with dignity. ‘Unfortunately, they must have gone to press too early. A pity. Frobisher and I were looking forward to reading a great deal of inaccurate scandal.’
‘Did you see any of it, Emily?’
‘My dear, I was in the thick of it.’
‘So terrible. I saw the TV news. I couldn’t believe it.’ Juliet gave Emily an azure-eyed glance. ‘Poor Natasha. Who was this woman?’
‘Some lunatic.’ They had reached the first floor. Emily held the doors. ‘Fortunately,’ she continued, eying Juliet, ‘Natasha Lawrence was shielded from the worst of it by her husband…’
‘Her ex-husband.’
‘He had to lock her in their apartment, you know—she was quite hysterical. Of course, had the woman laid eyes on her, it would have been fatal—or so my nephew Colin says. My nephew Colin was the hero, you see…acted without hesitation, ran off in pursuit…so brave!’
Juliet was not interested in Emily’s nephew, or his putative bravery. She stepped out of the elevator.
‘I was overcome,’ Emily continued, somewhat dramatically. ‘Palpitations, my dear! There was all this uproar, people screaming and running about. One of my dear friends—now which sister was it? One of them anyway, said, “Emily, my dear, do you feel unwell?”—and, do you know, Juliet, at that precise second, I realized I did not feel myself. Pain, Juliet—all the stress, of course. It started gripping my chest. I thought: This is the end. I am having a heart attack, right here, in my darned hall…’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Juliet, ‘very understandable, at your age. Emily, I must go—’
‘Fortunately,’ Emily continued, in an unstoppable flow, ‘a dear friend of my nephew’s was there. Such a good young man! Experienced at first aid, on top of all his other qualities…He climbs, you know, so he has to be, I guess. He took charge immediately! I do so like it when men do that, don’t you, Juliet? Only it turned out, it wasn’t a heart attack after all. Indigestion, I think—the soup we had had was delicious, but rather rich. Anyway, by the time I recovered, it was all over bar the shouting…’
Juliet, who had been about to turn away, had a sudden suspicion that there was a subtext to this interminable stream of uninteresting and irrelevant information. She stopped and gave Emily a long cool azure look.
‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, with emphasis, ‘I don’t like it when men take charge. I’ve always found that particular male tendency irritating, to say the least. That applies whether they’re administering first aid, Emily, or locking people in their apartments…’
‘I wouldn’t have thought,’ Emily said, ‘that now was the best time to call upon poor Miss Lawrence. She will have had very little sleep…’
Juliet did not like the way this remark was made.
‘And I wouldn’t have thought that was any of your damn business, Emily,’ she replied, and walked off smartly.
Emily smiled as the doors closed. On the warpath, she thought, wondering how Juliet managed to look so chic so early in the morning, an art she herself had never acquired. She liked a woman who gave as good as she got, she thought—and her opinion of Juliet McKechnie rose accordingly.
‘You can’t see her,’ Angelica said to Juliet, in a sullen way, opening the door to Natasha’s apartment. ‘She’s sedated. She’s not seeing anybody.’
‘Then I shall wait until she is ready to see me.’
Juliet, who disliked Angelica intensely, and who knew her dislike was returned, gave her a dismissive glance and walked past her. She went through into the white living-room, and sat down.
‘Angelica, I know perfectly well that Natasha won’t be sedated. It’s difficult to persuade her to take aspirin. So don’t waste my time, please.’
‘She’s upset. Distraught.’ Angelica glowered at her. ‘Most people wouldn’t need to be told that.’
‘That’s precisely why I’m here. She will need me.’
‘What she needs is sleep, rest, and peace and quiet.’
Juliet gave her a cold glance; she was not a woman who wasted time arguing with those she disliked, and her upbringing had taught her that under no circumstances did one argue with servants.
‘I do not understand…’ she said, frowning around the room, ‘how any of this could have happened. It’s appalling. Is Jonathan all right?’
‘He’s better now.’ Angelica’s face softened. ‘He was frightened out of his wits. But the doctor came. He quietened down eventually…’
‘Where’s his father?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Angelica replied, her tone suggesting she did not greatly care either. Her face became set. ‘He had to talk to the police—him and that Englishman who was with him when she fell. He took off for TriBeCa. Knowing him, he’ll be working.’
‘At a time like this?’
‘At any time. He’s like that.’
Juliet considered this information, and her dislike for Tomas Court deepened.
‘If I’d been here,’ Angelica said suddenly, her face reddening, ‘it would never have happened. She wouldn’t have got past me. I’d have cut her throat for her. Strangled her with my bare hands. That’s what I’d have done.’
Juliet looked at her heavy bulk, at her small black eyes, and the hate in her face; she could well believe this flat and definite statement.
‘I don’t understand…’ she said, ‘how she managed any of it. Where were the bodyguards? What in hell was that stupid Texan doing?’
‘Natasha gave him the night off.’ Angelica’s expression became evasive. ‘She didn’t want anyone here, not him, not me. I said I’d stay, but no, she wasn’t having it…She didn’t want people around—you know, when he’s here. She doesn’t like people to see—it upsets her, the way he talks to her.’
Juliet digested this interesting information also. She might have liked to question Angelica further on that subject; unfortunately her upbringing had taught her not to listen to servants’ gossip, either. She considered the hulking, handsome Texan bodyguard, whose blond, muscled good looks and constant presence had always annoyed her.
‘So where’s that ridiculous Texan now?’ she said. ‘I blame him for this. It was a rank dereliction of his duties. No matter what Natasha said, he should have insisted. What’s he doing now? Running around shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted?’
Angelica shot her a small black glance. She smiled. ‘Maybe he’s busy shutting doors,’ she said, an odd gloating note entering her voice. ‘I wouldn’t know. He’s around here somewhere. I saw him talking to the police…’ She paused. ‘Mind you, that was hours ago…’
‘Well, I hope Natasha dispenses with his services. She won’t need them now in any case…’
‘You think so?’ Angelica smiled again. ‘You could be right. Natasha might want him to stay around though. She’s been very satisfied with him—the way he performs his duties. Always vigilant. Never lets up…’ She paused, her small black eyes resting on Juliet’s face with detectable malice. ‘You really want me to tell Natasha you’re here? You want me to do it right now?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Juliet gave her a cold look. ‘And when you’ve done that, you can bring me some strong black coffee, please. And while you’re about it, an ashtray.’
The eyes of the two women intersected. Angelica left the room. She was frightened of Juliet McKechnie—but she had additional reasons now for obeying her. She made a brief call on the internal line from the kitchen, replacing the receiver after the telephone in Natasha’s room upstairs had rung only twice. She began to prepare coffee; she watched the percolator begin to bubble. Then, despite explicit instructions to the contrary from Natasha, instructions given her only a few hours previously, she opened the jib-door as she had been longing to do, and in a state of mounting excitement, began to climb the staircase.
She padded silently along the upper corridor, pausing by the sheet closets. The door to Natasha’s bedroom was closed; she listened to silence. She then padded quietly to the end of the corridor, and Jonathan’s room. He had received a mild sedative, even if his mother had not; he was now sleeping peacefully. Angelica looked down at him with pride and love; she tucked the duvet more securely around him, kissed his flushed cheek, and touched the dressing that had been applied to the knife-cut.
Love and fear for him rose up in her heart with such force that she felt almost dizzy. She straightened up, pressing her hand against her chest, as her heart began to hammer painfully. Angelica had never carried a child, but this boy, whom she had nursed from birth, she loved with a mother’s intensity. Tears came to her black eyes. Making a small crooning sound, she tucked his favourite bear more securely in his arms and padded from the room. Bitch, bitch, bitch, she muttered to herself. Dead bitch, she corrected herself, thinking of the sheeted shape she had seen on her return to the Conrad. Well, my curses surely worked, she said to herself, and feeling a dark exhultation, her breath coming faster now, she padded through into the small sitting-room.
This room, as she had expected, had been used. She looked at the crumpled cushions on the couch; she looked at the two glasses on the nearby table. Natasha drank wine; the Texan bodyguard favoured tequila. She picked up the glasses in turn and sniffed them. One smelled of red wine; the other—and she tasted it to make sure—contained a few droplets of water.
She stared at this glass, the blood rising up and darkening her face. She looked at the other clues here: a pair of Natasha’s pretty shoes lay kicked aside near the couch; on the carpet next to them, she saw, was a string of pearls. Stooping to pick them up—they were valuable—she saw their clasp was broken and the pearls were unravelling. A cascade of seed pearls fell from the end of the silk stringing. She weighed the fatter pearls in her palm; she rubbed them back and forth between her fingers. Making a small grunting sound, she bent and groped for the lost pearls and found them secreted in a fold in the couch’s upholstery. Her breathing had become shallow and rapid; the clasp to these pearls had not been broken when she helped fasten them around Natasha’s neck the previous evening.
Dropping the pearls, she pressed her hands over her mouth. She felt dizzy again, and she had never felt heavier, bulkier, slower. Her heart was now pounding and her head was swimming with blood. ‘No, no, no,’ she said, under her breath, rocking back and forth. She looked at the scattered pearls, and then turned, clumsily, knocking over one of the glasses. She stumbled across the room, then, slowing, crept along the corridor. She stopped at Natasha’s door, her heart thumping, and pressed her ear against its panels.
She found she could not hear properly. Her heart was banging too loudly, and there was another noise, a sighing and a susurration, a tidal sound, like waves beating in upon a beach. She shook her head, as if to clear her ears of water, and the sound increased in volume. It began to beat in on her with a mounting rhythmic insistence. She pressed her hands against her hot face, and then over her mouth, to stop herself crying out. She knew what she was hearing now: she was hearing a mystery, a rite to which she had herself never been admitted. Of its details, she was ignorant, since she had never had a lover, male or female. Even so, she knew what was happening on the other side of that door. She knew who these lovers were, and she could see and hear what they did with the hot clarity of a vision: the moistness of it; the touchings and whisperings; the mounting urgency; the seeking mouths; the desperation. She began to tremble violently; a low sound of rage escaped her lips as she heard the groan and the cry that marked the crucial moment of union.
She backed away from the door and pressed herself back against the wall, covering her ears with her hands. She turned her face to the wall; through the wall she could sense violence, secrets and pleasure; she trembled at the force of this thing, this force, which excited, shamed and angered her, and which she thought of as a violation. It went on and on, for a longer time than she would have believed possible. It was like listening to a killing; then, with some guttural extreme sound from the man, and some strange drowning yet victorious cry from the woman, it was over.
Angelica waited. Gentler sounds came from beyond the door now. She wiped away her tears. She wiped the envy, outrage and anger from her face; she waited until her breathing quieted and the hot flush of excited shame subsided, then she crossed to the door and rapped on its panels. She gave the message she had been told to give, and after a delay—an insolent, careless delay—the door opened a fraction.
Angelica was given a tiny glimpse of the devastation wrought to the room the previous night, a devastation that Natasha and her partner were blind to, she presumed—unless, she realized, it suited them. Then Natasha Lawrence interposed her body. She stood there, wrapped in a loose, thin, white robe, the door open only a crack, looking at Angelica. As Angelica well knew, Natasha Lawrence, though gentle, could be cruel—and this capacity in her had always intensified Angelica’s devotion. There was cruelty now in the way she flaunted her state, Angelica found. The expression in her eyes, dreamy, sated, yet faintly amused, cut Angelica to the heart. She knew at once that, while her position in this household was safe, that look was a form of dismissal.
Natasha made no attempt to disguise the fact that this was an unwelcome interruption. Her black hair, loose on her shoulders, was damp with sweat. There were vivid marks on her pale throat; she was breathing rapidly, her lips parted as if in expectation of more kisses. Colour stained her cheeks, and her eyes, liquid, brilliant, seemed to rest on Angelica, yet look beyond her to further pleasures. The thin robe, carelessly clasped at the waist, was neither properly wrapped around her, nor fastened. Angelica could see the roundness of her breasts and the hard points of her nipples; she could see her slender bare feet and glimpse her pale slender thighs. Her thighs were wet, Angelica saw, and the thin material of the robe adhered to this seeping, spreading dampness.
She was being shown sex, Angelica realized. With pain, she also realized that Natasha enjoyed showing her this, and that the demonstration was both deliberate and careless. It seemed to her that Natasha wished to exhult, yet was ultimately indifferent to her reaction. She wondered if this exhibition was intended to evoke desire—as it certainly did—or whether it could be a warning, an instruction to observe her place from now on, and accept her exclusion from these precincts. Whatever the reason for this manifestation, Natasha’s beauty, at that moment, burned her. To Angelica she looked like a goddess.
‘Tomas will come down,’ she said, giving a small sigh. ‘Angelica, tell Juliet that Tomas will be down directly.’
This information proved inexact; Tomas Court did come downstairs—but he did so one hour later.
‘Would you mind not smoking?’ he said in a polite way to Juliet, moving across the white room and opening the window. ‘Angelica brought you coffee? Good. Now—how can I help you?’
Juliet slowly turned her azure eyes upon him. Angelica had said nothing of his presence in the apartment—her motive no doubt malice. Tomas Court’s arrival came as a complete surprise to her. Having met him in person only once before, at the Foxe party the previous evening, Juliet now saw the necessity for examining him a great deal more closely. She measured his height and build; she noted that he had calculated—and she was sure of the calculation—that his appearance would impart its own message. His demeanour was that of the husband, at ease in a familiar home; it was also—and markedly so—that of the lover.
He was dressed in the manner of a man who had thrown on his clothes in haste. He was unshaven, and as he moved past her, she realized he was also unwashed. A faint but unmistakable scent reached her nostrils; she understood that he had been careful to come downstairs with the smell of sex still on his body.
She felt jealousy and pain at once. Seeing he was watching her face for just such a reaction, she gave him none.
‘You can’t help me,’ she replied coldly. ‘I want to see Natasha. Does she know I’m here?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid she does.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I’ll just have to wait until she’s ready to see me.’
‘As you wish,’ he replied quietly.
Juliet’s mouth tightened. That brief exchange told her a great deal—not least that Tomas Court now knew of her relationship with Natasha. It had not taken him long to extract that confession, she thought; then she realized that, in a polite way, he had also rebuked her.
‘I came when I saw the news on TV,’ she said at once. ‘I wanted to say—I am very sorry for you both. It was a terrible thing…’
‘Terrible things happen.’
‘Is your son recovering?’
‘I hope so. He is sleeping now. The doctor will be calling in again later. He wasn’t physically harmed, apart from a small cut. But the shock—you can imagine…’
He paused, then, as if coming to a decision, sat down opposite her on the white couch; Juliet wondered if he knew it was a couch she had chosen.
‘I think it will be very good for Jonathan to get away from this place,’ he continued, in a deliberate way. ‘I’m sure it will help him to spend the next three months in England. Natasha too, obviously…’
Not a man who wasted time, Juliet thought—and that remark had been a throwing down of the gauntlet.
‘I’m sure,’ she replied, in a cool way. ‘You’ve decided not to postpone then?’
‘I shan’t alter my plans.’
‘Really? I’d have thought Natasha might need time to recover.’
‘Natasha is resilient. Very.’
Juliet flushed. She could hear the warning in that quiet remark; it was meant to suggest a more intimate knowledge of Natasha than her own, and that angered her. Meeting his gaze squarely, she said, ‘Are you flaunting something? It isn’t necessary. I always knew that Natasha would be away with you for three months while you made this movie. I’m prepared for that.’
‘Are you?’
His expression, to her surprise, became one of sympathy. He rose and began to move about the room. He reached out and straightened a picture. His manner, Juliet noted, remained calm and considering.
‘It’s a very good part for Natasha,’ he remarked, after some minutes of silence. ‘Tell me, did she show you my script?’
‘No,’ Juliet replied, knowing he would see this as an admission of weakness. ‘I have read the novel, however, and I wouldn’t share your view about Natasha’s part. I disliked this Helen Huntingdon she’s going to play. A pious, possessive, masochistic woman.’
‘I agree, particularly as the novel progresses. There’s an irresolution on the author’s part, I feel. She gives us glimpses of a far more interesting woman. She placates the conventions of her time, while also challenging them.’ He gave her a somewhat bored glance. ‘In any case, the novel is an irrelevance really. I do not make adaptations. I dislike the Brontë output on the whole, with the exception of one novel—not this one, as it happens—and I have never subscribed to all that hysterical Brontë worship. Emily excepted, the Brontës wrote women’s novels.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ said Juliet.
‘My script bears little relation to the novel, in any case. I’ve made drastic changes. I’ve altered the end completely…’
‘Have you also altered the husband’s part?’ Juliet put in, coldly. ‘I’m sure you’ll have made that a great deal more sympathetic.’
‘I’ve ensured it’s played by a great actor.’ He gave a shrug. ‘That will make a difference, of course. And yes, the character is certainly changed. As to sympathy—I’m not interested in evoking sympathy. That is always easy to do—quickly and cheaply.’
‘How very arrogant you are.’ Juliet rose. ‘I knew you would be, of course. I detest men like you. Why didn’t you bother to wash before you came downstairs? I don’t smell victory, if that’s what you’re hoping. Conquest, possibly. I’d rather wait here alone, if you don’t mind.’
‘That is your prerogative.’
He turned his pale steady gaze upon her. Again Juliet had the disconcerting feeling that the only emotions he felt for her were curiosity and sympathy. His refusal to betray the least indication of anger, uncertainty or jealousy enraged her, she found.
‘May I say something, though, before I go? You may feel that you know my wife—’
‘I know that I know her, and she is not your wife; you should remember that she’s your ex-wife.’
‘I never think of her in that way. If you asked Natasha, I suspect she would tell you that she never thinks of me as her ex-husband, either. Never mind that. Were you ever married?’
‘Yes, once.’
‘Then you will know, every marriage is a secret shared by two people. It’s unwise for any outsider to assume they know that secret. I’d prefer you to be spared the ordeal of a long humiliating wait, so I’d suggest, for your own sake, that you leave here now.’
‘I’ll wait until Natasha asks me to leave. This is her apartment, not yours.’
‘As you wish.’ He gave a sigh. ‘She won’t come down, you know.’
‘I don’t believe that. She wouldn’t do that—’
‘I think you’ll find that she will.’
He spoke quietly and with total certainty. So authoritative was his tone that Juliet, for the first time, felt doubt. Instantly, she was less composed; her voice rose as she replied, and she regretted this, but could not prevent it.
‘If Natasha does not come down,’ she said, ‘it will be because you are here. You’re obsessed with controlling her. You aren’t satisfied with controlling her work, you have to control her life as well. She’s frightened of you. You bully her.’
‘Is that what you think?’ He looked surprised. ‘I thought you were more intelligent. Don’t you find that scenario a little glib? Simplistic? Is Natasha really such a poor thing? I don’t believe so.’ He paused. ‘I begin to see—you don’t really know her at all, do you? Have you ever seen Natasha when she’s working?’
‘I’ve seen her on stage, yes. Many times.’
‘That wasn’t really what I meant; then you’re watching a finished performance. If you had watched Natasha put that performance together, piece by piece…’ He gave her a steady look. ‘Working with my wife is a very interesting process. Her approach is the very opposite of my own. She is oblique, timid, instinctual, and emotional; I am none of those things. She swerves in on her target, whereas I track it in a controlled, planned way. Yet she hits that target, time after time after time…’ He paused. ‘So I have come to see, Natasha’s attack is every bit as carefully planned as my own—but being a woman, she prefers to disguise that. On set, obviously, I give Natasha direction. I can assure you, on set and off, she submits to direction only if she wants to do so. And sometimes she contrives it so that the direction I give her is the direction she has been secretly desiring.’
There was a silence. Juliet met that pale gaze. She did not like the information he was giving her, and she did not like that word ‘submit’, either. She suspected he had intended it to cause a specific unease—and if so, he had succeeded.
As she stood looking at him, weighing the implications of his words, she became aware, for the first time, of the background noises in the room, the clickings, creakings and shiftings which, in her experience, were always to be sensed at the Conrad. A radiator made a faint sound; a voice filtered into the room from the stairs. It was born in on her, with sudden force, that a woman had been killed in this building the previous night.’
She found herself looking at Tomas Court’s hands; her throat had become dry; he had strong square hands, of some beauty. Suddenly, information rushed at her. She had been telling herself that Court’s presence here could be explained, that if he had been admitted to Natasha’s room now, it was because, after the night’s events, she was afraid and desperate for consolation or protection. Now she saw that supposition was wrong; she knew it with every instinct in her body. Court’s sexual reunion with his wife had another explanation—and it was one she had no wish to examine.
‘It’s a little hot in here, don’t you find?’ he said.
‘A little, yes,’ Juliet replied, moving further away from him.
‘I’ll ask Angelica to turn down the thermostat.’
He removed his jacket as he said this, and rolled back his shirtsleeves. Juliet saw—and knew he intended her to see—that he had a scratch on his inner arm. He had read her mind, Juliet thought, and he was now answering an unspoken question. She looked at the scratch, which ran from elbow to wrist. Since she had a similar scratch on her own back, she knew precisely who had made it and in exactly what circumstances.
‘You’ve injured yourself,’ she said.
‘The injury was not self-inflicted.’
‘Your marriage is over,’ she said, paling with anger. ‘It was over before you divorced. It’s finished.’
‘You would want to believe that, of course.’ He paused; for the first and only time she saw his equilibrium threatened. ‘I wouldn’t deny there’s been pain in my marriage. Considerable pain is involved—and that pain is mutual.’
‘I’m not discussing pain—of any sort—with you,’ Juliet said sharply. She moved further away. ‘I’m aware of your interest in the subject. It’s apparent—only too apparent—in every one of your damned movies.’
‘True, true.’ He gave her a pale glance. ‘But I do at least avoid the banalities of pain, you know. Give me credit for that. You won’t find whips or masks in any of my movies. That kind of tawdry game doesn’t interest me remotely…’ He paused. ‘Nor, in case you’re wondering, does it interest Natasha.’
He bent and picked up his jacket. Juliet, uneasy and distressed, looked at him with loathing. He was intensely male, she found; the fact that even she was aware of his sexuality made her violently angry. She was beginning to see that Natasha might desire and fear this man—or desire him because she feared him. That idea sickened her; of that need, Natasha could be cured, she told herself. Giving Court a glance of defiance, she returned to her chair and sat down again. This, she was glad to see, annoyed him.
‘Shall I tell you why you’re wasting your time here?’ he said, ‘and why my wife will not come down to see you, however long you wait?’
‘Natasha will come down. She loves me.’
‘Perhaps, to an extent. There is one requirement, however—and in your case, it’s missing.’
Juliet gave him a look of disbelief and scorn.
‘Oh, please,’ she said, ‘don’t tell me you’re that stupid. Believe me, that particular lack is an advantage, as Natasha has often told me.’
‘Has she? Well, my wife will always try to be gentle, but I’m afraid you misunderstand.’ He paused. ‘There is one difference between you and me, and it has nothing to do with gender. You cannot hurt Natasha, you see, whereas I can. And my wife retains the ability to hurt me. She is the only woman who has ever had that ability—and don’t smile, no man has it either.’
‘I wasn’t smiling. I don’t view the ability to cause pain as a distinction.’
‘Then we differ.’ He gave her a quiet glance. ‘And now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to work. I’m going down to my loft in TriBeCa. You’re sure you won’t let me see you out, drop you off somewhere?’
‘No. And I find it astonishing you can even consider working at such a time—’
‘Oh, I can always work.’ His pale eyes rested steadily on her face. ‘No matter the circumstances. The work, ultimately, is the only thing of any importance.’
‘Another male boast.’ Juliet returned his look coldly. ‘If your son had died last night, would you be working this morning?’
‘No.’ His gaze moved away from hers and came to rest on the blank wall opposite. ‘But next week I should have worked, or the week after.’
His tone reproached Juliet, who at once regretted her remark.
‘That wouldn’t be true of Natasha,’ she said slowly, considering him. ‘If anything happened to Jonathan it would destroy her.’
‘I think so too. I expect that is the one difference between us.’ He paused. ‘Now I must go. I’m glad to have met you.’
With that—and Juliet sensed he meant his final remark—he left. Still angry and discomposed, she remained in the room. She sat there for four hours, trying to understand the information she had been given, and the information she was certain he had withheld.
Several times she rose to her feet, intent on going upstairs and confronting Natasha. Each time, realizing that such a confrontation at such a moment was unthinkable, she sat down again. As Tomas Court had predicted, she began to feel a pained humiliation. When she could endure that no longer, she left.
She called many times over the following weekend, to find all calls fielded by a machine or a surly Angelica. Not one of her calls was returned and, subsequently, not one of her letters was answered.
She suffered, but less than she would have done when younger, she told herself. Refusing to speculate any further on the nature of the bond that held Court and Natasha together, it came to be her view that Natasha had accepted her husband’s aegis—an error fatal in its consequences, she believed, and one made by too many women. She wrote no more letters, and in this way, with many questions left unresolved, she came to accept that the Conrad chapters of her life, as she now thought of them, were over.
Being a resilient woman, she determined not to look back, but to close the book on the entire episode; in her experience, such ends were always best viewed as a new beginning.