ONE

He was very, very rich.

‘Ninety, ninety-five, one hundred,’ counted the cashier. ‘There you are, sir. Beautiful morning for the time of year, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is,’ said Patrick. He picked up the pile of five-pound notes. ‘Dear me. They won’t fit into my note case.’

The cashier was perplexed. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘No, no. There’s nothing to be done about it. Whoever designed it must have been crazy. I shall have to buy myself another one, that’s all.’

He divided the bundle into halves and slipped them into the pockets of his tweed coat.

So far it had been a good morning. To begin with it was a beautiful day. London was almost bearable; not quite, but London wasn’t Paris. Still, it wouldn’t be long before he was back in France. It was just a question of laying his hands on enough francs. It was infuriating to be told what he could and what he couldn’t do with his money by a crowd of politicians and economists who kept changing their minds. What was the point of money if one wasn’t allowed to spend it? Over his breakfast of orange juice and rusks he had flicked over the counterfoils of his cheque book. It had been a delightful surprise to discover that there was more to his credit than there had been at the beginning of the year. It must have come from the rents on the Paddington property which Mummy had left him. He would ask his lawyers about it. It might even be fun to go and see who lived in Paddington. At all events it would pass an hour or two.

Yes, it had been a splendid morning. He had drunk just a little too much the previous night, and before breakfast there had been a nasty moment when it looked as if he was in for a tiresome day. He had been on the point of calling his doctor. In fact, he had stretched out his hand to pick up the telephone, when he had caught sight of a letter lying among the unopened mail on the eiderdown. The writing on the envelope had immediately made him feel very much better. When he had read the letter he had forgotten that he had felt the slightest bit ill.

As he walked down Piccadilly towards Bond Street, he admitted to himself that it wasn’t the morning or the thought of returning to his Paris house which was making him feel so young, but the letter from Nicholas Milestone.

How very sensible he had been to motor down to that dreary funeral in Rochester. But one was expected to go to the funerals of old family servants. He had noticed Nicholas the moment they had gone into the church, but it was not until after the service that he’d been able to get into conversation with him. He’d been writing down the names on the cards attached to the quite hideous wreaths in his funny little reporter’s notebook. He really was too sweet; young and so much more amusing than all the boring people in London. Good looking too, with his up-turned nose and floppy hair. But above all he was young. Not that he was old himself. Nobody could throw his age in his face. His forty-four, forty-five years, had failed to spoil his face or figure. He still retained that schoolboy charm which he went to such lengths to preserve. It was just a question of taking care of oneself; not too much food or drink and above all the right clothes. In his light well-tailored suits he could easily pass for thirty-five, or even less. So many of his friends didn’t pay enough attention to their clothes. They aged themselves needlessly through thoughtless dressing. Clothes were so very good for morale as well. Whenever he felt the slightest bit unhappy about his age, he always went out and bought something new. It had never failed him. No, all considered, he felt and sometimes looked the very same boy who had come down from Oxford.

Oxford. For a moment the recollection of his undergraduate days threw a cloud over the sun. It had all been such fun. He had learnt so little. But he had been so very popular. His parties had easily been the gayest in college. And the final party! How the champagne had flowed! How especially delicious the Fortnum hampers had been! What on earth had induced the Warden to come in just as everything had begun to go so splendidly? He had never cared much for the Warden, but it certainly hadn’t been politic to call him an old-fashioned suppressed quean in front of everyone. It was certainly a lucky thing for him that his mother had died the day after he had been sent down. She might have been very difficult about money. There were jealous people who said that the shock had killed her. But he knew perfectly well that she had been broken hearted since Daddy’s death. Her health had never been good. In fact, death had been a merciful release. Still, it had been a lucky day for him. Life might have been extremely tiresome if she had had time to alter her will.

Half way along Bond Street Patrick turned into his jeweller’s.

It was pleasant to pause for a second inside the door and watch the staff converge upon him. They seemed to like him. There was one member of the staff he rather fancied himself. A junior assistant with blond curly hair. His teeth were bad. They could be easily put right by a clever dentist. That man in Zürich was particularly good.

Patrick waved them all aside and waited for the young assistant to approach.

‘Good morning, sir. Wonderful morning, isn’t it?’

‘Is it? I always feel like buying something when the weather’s fine, so I suppose it must be. Have you anything you think might amuse me?’

Yes, his teeth were horrid. But how splendidly they would match his hair if they were straightened and polished.

‘We have these diamond cuff links in from Paris. I doubt whether you would care for them, sir, but I think you will be impressed by the stones.’

‘No, no. They’re not me at all,’ said Patrick. ‘In any case I really haven’t the time to look at diamonds which I can’t possibly afford. I’m looking for something cheap and simple. Just a small present.’

‘Would it be for . . . ?’

‘My nephew. Someone about your own age.’

‘Quite so, sir. A cigarette lighter or perhaps a case?’

‘Have you any bearable cases?’

‘Naturally, sir. These are silver, of course. Quite charmingly worked, don’t you think?’

‘Far too vulgar,’ said Patrick.

He turned and looked into the window. A tray of sapphires sparkled in the sunlight. How charming it would be if one could light a room in exactly the same colour. It might even be original.

‘Have you any gold cases?’ he asked.

‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll go and bring some up for you.’

Patrick watched the young man cross the shop. He walked badly. How depressing to think that the legs beneath the dark striped trousers might be bandy and hairy. If there was one thing he could not stand, it was hairy young men. It was always so difficult to find out. So embarrassing to say to prospective boy friends: ‘Tell me, before we go any further. Are you hirsute?’

‘Good morning, sir. A wonderful morning!’

It was that frightful manager.

‘I hadn’t noticed it.’

He disliked his gold teeth. There was quite enough of the stuff in the shop without his having to show you more every time he opened his mouth.

‘No?’ said the manager. ‘Well, perhaps it isn’t. But no doubt you’ve just returned from wintering on the Riviera.’

‘I have done no such thing. I never stirred from Paris. The south is bedlam.’

‘My wife told me the same thing. She said there simply wasn’t room to move this year. I’d hoped to go myself, but business, alas, kept me here.’

It was fantastic. Very soon one would have to winter with one’s butcher and baker. There wouldn’t be a single place left where one could escape and be alone.

‘Can I help you, sir? I expect you’d like to see the exquisite cuff links that have just come in from Paris.’

‘On the contrary I think the stones have been most carelessly cut,’ said Patrick.

‘Ah, yes. If you will excuse me, sir?’

The manager bowed from the waist.

The blond assistant reappeared and placed a tray in front of Patrick, who began to examine the cases one by one.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘which would you like?’

‘It’s difficult to say, sir. The prices vary so much.’

‘Of course they do. But imagine you’re Croesus this morning and can choose whichever one gives you the most pleasure.’

The assistant looked at the cases and pointed at one, smaller though thicker than the others.

‘You like that one?’ said Patrick. He almost added: ‘Then you must have it,’ but checked himself in time. He took the case and turned it over in the palm of his hand. ‘I think that will do very nicely indeed.’

‘Thank you, sir. Will you take it or shall we send it?’

‘I want you to post it for me. Now where have I put the address?’

He took Nicholas’s letter out of his pocket: ‘Here we are. Nicholas Milestone, c/o The Weekly Tablet, Rochester. Be sure to register it. And I hope you’ll wrap it up in that charming paper of yours. I think your gothic lettering so attractive.’

‘We’ll do that, sir. Thank you very much.’

Patrick had reached the door when he remembered that he had not asked the price. He went back to the counter where the young man had begun to replace the cases in the tray.

‘I’m rather stupid this morning,’ he said. ‘How much was it?’

‘One hundred and fifty guineas, sir.’

‘Dear me. What a lot of money for a spring morning. Do you find the spring makes you crazy too?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

As he stepped into the street it struck Patrick that it certainly was a lot of money to spend on someone whom he had only met once. He would have to be careful. Under no circumstances was he going to make a fool of himself. On the other hand, Nicholas had seemed such a sad young man. It would do him good to have something really amusing for a change. If Nicholas came to London he would have to see about buying him some new clothes. That pin-striped suit of his had been too ghastly to look at besides being threadbare; it should have been given away long ago.

No. It had been a hundred and fifty guineas well spent. It was a pity he couldn’t be present when Nicholas opened the package. Would he be silly and send it back? Perhaps he wouldn’t realize it was gold. He had better write and tell him; he could introduce the word casually into a letter. He would write to him after lunch and tell him that he’d sent him a little present. It must be terrible for him having to live alone in a provincial town in what he called digs. How much did they cost him? Had he said three or was it four pounds a week including all his meals? He must be starving as well as very unhappy. He’d send him something else to cheer him up.

Patrick, you’re going to buy yourself a note case, he told himself. You’re beginning to lose control.

Nevertheless, he went into the art gallery. He would have a quick look round. It was unlikely that he’d see anything he liked.

The Picasso etching caught his eye. An early one. Just three young men, probably dancers, changing their clothes. Quite delightful but probably terribly expensive. But as he wandered round the gallery he found that he was unable to raise any enthusiasm for what he saw. Everything seemed so bad and dull after the etching by the door. It was so very charming. Just the thing to brighten a bedroom in a provincial villa.

He went into the office.

‘What an extraordinary hotch-potch of an exhibition!’ he said. ‘Apart from the Picasso which I quite like.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not cheap. But it’s quite charming. Still, I’m sure there must be something else here that interests you. Let me take you round myself.’

They walked round the gallery.

The manager stopped in front of a large canvas. ‘Now here is something. It’s really one of the best examples of the artist’s work that has ever passed through my hands.’

‘How much?’

The manager looked at the picture and back again at Patrick. ‘Five hundred guineas. That’s a special price to you.’

‘That’s fantastic!’ exclaimed Patrick.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My dear man, don’t beg my pardon. I paid forty pounds for this picture ten years ago in Paris. I sold it because it bored me. Now you’re asking me to buy it back for a crazy figure. I suppose you’re asking the Bank of England for the Picasso.’

‘The Picasso? It’s catalogued at a hundred guineas.’

‘I’ll give you fifty.’

‘I’ll sell at a loss.’

‘As long as you don’t do it too often you’ll be all right. I want you to send it for me.’

He wrote Nicholas’s address on the back of the catalogue.

The day had grown brighter and the air warmer.

Patrick had enjoyed his shopping expedition. He had no regrets. Why should he have? He could afford to indulge himself occasionally. Besides, if all went according to plan his little gifts would bring him greater joys.

‘Patrick! How are you, my dear? I haven’t seen you for ages.’

Ronnie Gras was coming out of his wine merchant’s.

‘Don’t be stupid, Ronnie. You were at the party last night. I watched you the whole evening hovering over the caviare like a cross between a kestrel and a greedy little schoolboy.’

‘Really, Patrick . . .’

‘It was fascinating, my dear. But I do think you ought to give up that disgusting habit of licking your fingers. What on earth has happened to your hair? It’s turned yellow like old Chinese straw. Don’t tell me. You’ve been having treatment. My dear Ronnie, a man of your intelligence ought to know better. If your hair wants to fall out, the most expensive treatment in the world won’t stop it. You big silly baby. All you need, my dear, is to take some gentle exercise and forget your stomach.’

‘If you’re going to insult me, Patrick, I’ve no intention of staying here,’ said Ronnie. ‘It’s a morning in a million. I do think on a day like this you might try to be kind to people.’

‘But I am being kind, my dear. Don’t be so huffy. Come and have a drink and you’ll feel much better.’

‘I don’t want a drink.’

‘Not even a teeny weeny coupe de champagne?’

‘No thank you. Well, perhaps just one glass. That’s if you promise not to insult me. You know it ruins my digestion.’

As they walked together down Bond Street, Patrick wondered how he could ever have imagined himself in love with Ronald Gras. Of course it was a long time ago; five years or even six. Ronnie had been very different then. Even pleasant to look at. But above all he had been, as he could still be sometimes, an amusing conversationalist in an otherwise dull and dreary country. During their short-lived romance Ronnie had held his first exhibition of paintings which the critics had ignored but which he had known to be good. No. He didn’t regret the affair. Together they had given the best parties in London. He had never been bored. Then one day, quite suddenly, life with Ronnie had begun to pall. The stories had been repeated once too often; the same reference had been pulled out of the drawer twice in the same evening. And on top of that had been the question of money. It wasn’t that Ronnie had no money. By ordinary standards he was rich. But the pace at which he lived had been too terrifying. So they had parted, he on his part amicably, Ronnie somewhat sourly, distressed to see a fortune slip between his chubby fingers.

They were passing Patrick’s jeweller’s.

‘Patrick, what an exquisite necklace. Do let’s go in and have a look at it.’

‘Of course you shall if you want to,’ said Patrick.

They went into the shop.

‘It’s like going through the gates of heaven,’ said Ronnie.

‘Do you feel you’ve grown platinum wings? They’d have to be terribly strong not to let you down with a bump.’

‘Did you leave something behind, sir?’ asked the assistant.

‘No, no. Mr Gras wants to look at the diamond necklace.’

‘You never told me you’d been in here before this morning,’ Ronnie said crossly.

‘Do you think I should have? Here’s your necklace. Do you know something, Ronnie? I think it would look terribly chic round your neck. If it’ll go round.’

He took the necklace out of its velvet case and held it under Ronnie’s chin.

‘I can see this little boy loves butter,’ he said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Ronnie.

‘But you like it? Surely you must like it?’

‘It’s magnificent.’

‘Then you must have it.’

‘Really, Patrick. What on earth could I do with a diamond necklace?’

‘Wear it, my dear. You could make it madly smart for men to wear diamonds. After all, everything you wear is smart, Ronnie. You don’t want it? What a pity. Is there anything else you would like? Something simple?’

‘What are these things?’ asked Ronnie pointing to the tray filled with cigarette cases.

‘Cases, my dear. You know little boxes in which you carry round those funny little tubes filled with tobacco.’

The assistant said: ‘These are the selection you looked at earlier, sir.’

‘They’re gold,’ said Ronnie.

‘But of course. Do you know, Ronnie, I believe all that caviare last night has clotted that brilliant brain of yours. First of all you ask me what they are. Now you fail to recognize your favourite colour.’

Ronnie began to examine the cases one by one. ‘They’re charming. Do you know, Patrick, I’ve wanted a gold cigarette case for years.’

‘Have you, Ronnie? How extraordinary you are! You turned down the offer of that superb necklace, and now you’re pining for something as mundane as a cigarette case.’

‘I’m a simple person, Patrick. I believe in simplicity above all. That’s what’s so admirable about Grecian civilization.’

‘My dear, I have the very thing for you. I’m sure they’re the height of simplicity even if they’re not classical. How absolutely adorable!’

He walked to the next counter on which stood a box of cigarette lighters, and picked one up.

‘You shall have one of these, Ronnie. Don’t you think they’re charming? Not the slightest bit vulgar.’ He spun the wheel and the lighter burst into flame. ‘It works too! Isn’t that clever?’

The assistant looked worried. ‘Those are only cheap lighters, sir. We give them to our customers when they bring their own in for repair.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to give me one,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s such bad luck to give away things that have already been given to you. We don’t want to bring Mr Gras bad luck, do we? I shall have to pay for it.’

Patrick handed the assistant a five-pound note.

‘Now Ronnie, make up your mind and choose the one you like most. You don’t want to? Then you’d better have this one. Now what about that champagne you promised me? Where shall we go? The Rialto?’

Ronnie put the lighter in his pocket.

‘You gave him five pounds. What about your change?’ he said.

‘He shall have it,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s such a wonderful morning and I’m sure he’s got a friend he can spend it on. Haven’t you, young man? Then buy him a little present. But go somewhere where you get your money’s worth.’

The young man smiled. ‘Thank you very much indeed, sir.’

‘Now come along, Ronnie. We’ll get the man on the door to call us a taxi to take us to the Rialto.’

‘You have to wait hours for a taxi at this time of the morning. Shall I tell them to ring for a car?’

‘Rather extravagant, my dear. Could we just manage to walk it? It would be so good for your waistline.’

‘Patrick, I’ve told you already that I’m not prepared to put up with being insulted this morning. I shall go to my club.’

‘Don’t be silly, Ronnie. I won’t say another word. Tell me. How is your art progressing these days?’

‘You know perfectly well I’ve given up painting.’

‘Such a pity. You worked quite hard at the time of our little frolic.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,’ said Ronnie. ‘You know how much I value that year of my life. I’ve never been the same since you left me.’

‘Don’t let’s go over all that again. It would choke me,’ said Patrick. ‘I don’t see what you’ve got to complain about. You’re one of the most successful men in London and all the women are mad about you. Leaving me was the wisest thing you’ve ever done.’

‘I left you?’

‘But of course.’

‘I suppose I did,’ said Ronnie.

As they went through the swing doors of the Rialto, he decided it was time he altered his version of the story. No longer would he be the poor abandoned artist. Instead he would be the dedicated genius who had chosen the poverty-stricken life of art, when he had been in danger of being swamped by too much material comfort. In any case, that’s exactly what had happened. He had not been left. He had walked out on Patrick.

‘Which bar do you like?’ asked Patrick.

‘We can drink champagne in both. No. Wait a minute. They usually have some palatable friandises upstairs. I think we’d better go there.’

‘Friandises, Ronnie? What sort of friandises?’

‘They vary. Yesterday there was some very nourishing pâté.’

They ascended the wide staircase and went into the bar.

‘Where would you like to sit?’ said Patrick. ‘In the centre so that everyone can see us?’

‘What champagne would you like?’ asked Ronnie.

‘I’m just a simple girl. I’m sure you know the best one. Personally I always ask the waiter. He should know, shouldn’t he?’

‘Of course he doesn’t. I don’t understand that side of you, Patrick. You’re in one of your difficult moods. I know perfectly well that you’re a fair judge of champagne. Why do you have to pretend that you aren’t? What would you say to the Clicquot ’29? Perhaps it’s getting a little old. The ’34 would probably be safer.’

‘It’s rather expensive, isn’t it?’ said Patrick. ‘I believe the non-vintage champagnes here are drinkable; certainly far cheaper. But order what you think you need. I want you to have just what you want.’

‘This is my party,’ said Ronnie.

‘Nonsense, my dear. You wouldn’t accept that silly little necklace from me. The least you can let me do is to buy you a bottle of champagne.’

‘I’ve ordered a magnum.’

‘Dear me. A magnum then. Don’t you think it’s rather a lot for one?’

‘There are two of us.’

‘I know, my dear. Unfortunately I’ve only time for one glass. I’ve got to rush off and have my hair done.’

‘Your hair looks perfectly all right to me.’

‘How dull witted you are this morning. You must know that it isn’t just my hair that has to be looked after. That’s the trouble with you, Ronnie. You neglect yourself. Or else you’re so vain that you think your face takes care of itself. Believe me, it doesn’t. If you took half as much trouble over your face as I do over mine, you’d still be good looking. You were quite presentable when I first knew you.’

‘They were happy days,’ said Ronnie. ‘How I wish they could return. As we grow older we acquire wisdom. But our youth has gone. If we could have the two together how formidable we would be! Oh the misery of age!’

‘Surely you’re not unhappy, my dear?’ said Patrick. ‘I know you were miserable when you were a painter. But I thought you felt so much better since you’d abandoned that. I always suspected dress designing was much more your métier. Why, everywhere I go I hear people talking of the Gras look. I thought you found it terribly profitable as well.’

‘So it is,’ said Ronnie. ‘But I’m not happy. The days slip by and I never feel that a single one has been my own. Every design I create soon ceases to be mine. It’s quickly vulgarized by my horrible firm. Do you think I like to see my inspirations, created for the few remaining crowned heads of Europe, worn by every shop girl on her Saturday night out? It’s ghastly, Patrick. Do you know copies from my spring collection are already being worn by the tarts in Brighton? On top of that I have the sniggers of my friends to put up with. Poor Ronnie Gras! He might have been a great artist, but he’s sold his soul to trade for cash. I hate it all. But what can I do? I’ve got to live.’

‘Start on your own, my dear,’ said Patrick. ‘Build up a great new business like grandfather Gras. He made a lot of money, didn’t he? Now what was it in?’

‘You know quite well.’

‘Of course. So hygienic, my dear. Inspiring too. You ought to follow in his footsteps and make the family name resound more loudly in every suburban closet. It would give you something objective to do. A Zeitgeist to living.’

Ronnie leaned forward in his chair.

‘Listen, Patrick. And please don’t laugh at me. I haven’t asked you for anything for a long time, have I?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I do want to start on my own. I’ve an idea that’s been going round and round in my head for months.’

‘How wonderful! It’s what I’ve always been telling you. Is it a drain-pipe line or something quite new?’

‘I shall want backing.’

‘Ah! Pennies to throw down fresh drains!’

‘It’s nothing to do with drains. I want to start a magazine. A new fashion magazine. A rival to Vogue and Harper’s.’

‘That’s fantastic! It’s crazy! You wouldn’t stand a chance. You wouldn’t sell a thousand copies a week. I don’t know very much about these things, but I’m quite sure that competition is already so fierce that you wouldn’t interest even the lowest housemaid.’

‘I haven’t the slightest desire to interest such people. This is to be an exclusive magazine. I don’t expect it to have a circulation of more than two thousand at the most. That’s about the maximum number of intelligent people in this country today. Until I can get them to support me, I shall need some backing. To begin with at any rate.’

‘I’m fascinated. Tell me more. What do you get out of it, Ronnie?’

‘I shall be the editor. I want to establish something absolutely fresh. I’ve always thought that fashion is the truest expression of civilization. It expresses the feeling of an age. If you take the music, art and literature of any period of history, you can deduce the fashion of the time. I want to reunite fashion with its progenitors.’

‘It certainly would be amusing to relate modern art to corsets,’ said Patrick.

‘That’s not what I want to do at all.’

‘Of course it is. My dear Ronnie, remember that I know you very well. There’s an old saying, if you can’t create, criticize. Funnily enough I think you’d do it very well.’

‘Do you think so, Patrick? That’s wonderful. I can see you’re enthusiastic already.’

‘It would be new, wouldn’t it? But there are a lot of complications. Where is the money to come from? There’d have to be a staff and an office. There’d be your salary. That would be rather a problem.’

‘I’m sure I could find a suitable staff.’

‘I meant your salary, my dear.’

‘That wouldn’t present any difficulty. Naturally I wouldn’t like to have to take it from you personally. I’d have to pay myself. After all, I’d have to be in a position to write out business cheques. It would be too embarrassing to take real money from you.’

‘I quite understand. I tell you what I could do. I could have it sent round to you in notes by messenger. That should be sufficiently impersonal.’

‘It would certainly be civilized.’

‘My dear, look who’s here!’ said Patrick.

They turned in their chairs and saw a tall man loitering by the door. He was standing now on one leg, now on the other, and scratching his neck as he looked apprehensively round the bar.

‘God, it’s Christopher Lyre!’ exclaimed Ronnie.

‘Just look at that suit,’ said Patrick. ‘I must ask him where he buys his clothes. He looks like an overgrown schoolboy.’

Christopher noticed them staring at him and immediately hurried towards them.

‘Hullo, Patrick. Hullo, Ronnie,’ he said. ‘Please forgive me if I’m intruding but may I sit down with you? I’m so tall I hate standing up in these grand places. I feel everyone is looking at me as if I had no right to be here. I know I’m not a very good painter, but it still hurts me just as much to be stared at.’

‘Come, come. You’re terribly famous,’ said Patrick.

‘Oh, do you really think so? That’s awfully kind of you. When I was a small boy I always wanted to be famous. Now that I am I want to be a small boy again. Stephen Spender in one of his better poems says that changing place isn’t changing mind. That’s terribly true, you know. We all find that out as we grow older. Don’t you agree, Ronnie? I should say your life is a frightfully good example. Don’t you sometimes wish you could renounce fame and turn back the clock?’

‘He’s going to. In a kind of way,’ said Patrick.

‘I’m so glad. But how?’ said Christopher.

‘He wants to start a new magazine. A fashion magazine with the emphasis on culture and the arts.’

‘How terribly good for him,’ said Christopher. ‘What are you going to call it, Ronnie?’

‘My dear Christopher, we haven’t got as far as that,’ said Ronnie.

‘I think you should call it Eleven,’ said Christopher. ‘My school number was eleven. I had my first sexual experience when I was eleven years old. Some people seem to think that was rather late.’

‘I really can’t see what that has to do with culture,’ said Ronnie.

‘I think it was rather young, my dear,’ said Patrick.

‘That’s what the headmaster said. I think he was wrong. But it’s an awfully good number, don’t you think? It sounds so terribly mystical. Patrick, could I be the art editor? I’ve always wanted to work for a magazine, and it’s really going to be yours, isn’t it? I mean, although Ronnie’s going to edit it, you’re going to finance it.’

Patrick smiled. With a wave of his hand Ronnie indicated to the waiter that the glasses needed refilling.

‘Have I said something dreadful?’ asked Christopher. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I can’t help speaking the truth. And I’m feeling rather nervous. I’ve never been in this bar before.’

‘Don’t lie,’ said Ronnie.

‘It’s true. Last time I tried to come here they turned me away at the door. That’s why I’ve put on my best suit today. I couldn’t face being humiliated by that soldier on the door. It’s terribly smart here, isn’t it? Do you come here often, Ronnie?’

‘He practically lives here,’ said Patrick. ‘What’s brought you here this morning, Christopher?’

‘It’s rather a funny story. It started in Germany. You know I went over to lecture there for the British Council. Well, I met some Air Force boys. There was one I liked terribly and I started to paint him. Unfortunately I didn’t have time to finish it. The Germans took up so much of my time. So I asked him to get in touch with me when he came back to England. Yesterday he rang me up and asked me to meet him here. He’s out of the Air Force now. Or rather he’s been thrown out. But I won’t bore you with him. I’m so excited to hear about this new magazine. You will let me be art editor, won’t you, Patrick?’

‘You must ask Ronnie.’

‘It’s kind of you to offer your assistance,’ said Ronnie. ‘But I don’t know yet if there’s going to be a magazine. If it does materialize I’ll keep you in mind.’

‘Thank you so much. Now I must go. There’s my friend over there.’

He stood up and caught his knee against the table, spilling the champagne from the glasses.

‘I’m terribly sorry. You don’t think I’ve drunk too much, do you?’

‘I wonder,’ said Patrick as he watched Christopher cross the room and go up to the young man by the door, ‘I wonder if my intuition is right?’

‘What’s that?’ said Ronnie.

‘Intuition, my dear. I’m afraid I must leave you too, Ronnie. That one glass was almost too much for me.’

‘I feel wonderful.’

‘So you should, my dear. You’ve drunk most of the magnum.’

‘Is it my fault if I find champagne stimulating?’ said Ronnie. ‘Will you be coming back?’

‘No,’ said Patrick. He took a gold pencil from his pocket and signed the bill.

‘Will you leave something for the waiter, my dear,’ he said. ‘I never know how much to give them.’

Ronnie fingered the bill. Signing bills at the Rialto must give Patrick a wonderful sense of power. He knew that they were sent to him on the first of each month. Ronnie looked at the signature, illegible and adolescent. It was a pity that he had allowed all that money to slide from his grasp. Some people told him that he had been a fool, but they didn’t know that life with Patrick was perpetual torture. They didn’t know that Patrick was a sadist. Not a physical but a mental sadist. Ronnie had his self-respect to consider. It had been quite out of the question to go on living with someone who called his appreciation of the art of living, gluttony; who had even been known to refer to him in public as ‘Tubby’ or worse still, ‘mon petit cochon’.

Ronnie frowned. He took out his wallet and undertipped the waiter.

*

As Patrick walked across the bar he was more and more convinced that it had been one of his most enjoyable mornings. It had started well and grown better. People had been amusing. They hadn’t bored him. Ronnie of course wanted money. Perhaps his spring collection was not proving as profitable as people supposed. On the other hand, there was the possibility that he really did want to stop wasting his talents. It would be fun to own a magazine. And there was Nicholas. A magazine might be very useful. Nicholas had been at the back of his mind from the moment that Ronnie had started to talk about a magazine. It would need a staff. Nicholas could be on it. He would bring him to London and launch him on a career. He would have to move carefully. The young were often ridiculously proud, and had even been known to be scared by money.

As he reached the desk to inquire for mail he met Stuart Andrews.

‘Good morning, Stuart. How’s your naughty little rag going?’ he asked.

‘Patrick! Come and have a drink. The Gladiator’s on the up and up. Yes, sir, the public is loving every inch of it.’

‘I’m just going.’

‘Nonsense.’

They walked across the foyer and sat down in a corner.

‘What’ll you have? Whisky?’ said Stuart.

‘Rather brutal this morning, aren’t we?’ said Patrick. ‘Nasty feeling of American gangster films in the air. I really don’t want a drink at all. What are you doing in the Rialto, Stuart? Surely your public wouldn’t approve of it. Didn’t you run an entrancing feature last week headed: “Rase the Rialto to the ground!” I thought your faith was in the people this year.’

‘So it is. You’d better watch your step. I’m gunning for the idle rich again this week. Britain has no room for unearned incomes.’

‘Dear me. Are we going to have that boring stuff about the dignity of manual labour all over again? It’s so unoriginal, Stuart. I suppose you’re going to start calling me a social parasite. Take care you don’t flog it for too long, my dear. If you pillory me too much the public might think you’re being excessively unkind and come over to my side. You’d be surprised at the British Public’s sense of fair play.’

‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ said Stuart.

‘Ask me? My dear, I’m flattered. I’m afraid I’m rather a stupid person whom nobody takes any notice of.’

‘I don’t believe it. I’m a little bit worried. Our circulation is fine. Couldn’t be better. But the question is, what’s going to happen? Are the Government going to the country or not? If they are, I want to start advocating a general election straight away. If not, I don’t want to make a fool of myself.’

‘How should I know? Really, Stuart, you know that politics bore me stiff.’

‘You happen to know the right people. God knows why. But you do.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes. Stop being difficult. Bloody difficult as you always were. Plain obstinate.’

‘Oh my dear, don’t remind me of those days. Such a long time ago that it makes me feel a hundred to think about it. You were so good looking then, and so very ambitious. Do you remember how you only wanted to become the editor of Auntie Times? Well, you’ve got an editorship. Rather different from what we expected, isn’t it? The Daily Gladiator! I suppose we must thank God for small mercies. At least there’s something classical about the name.’

‘Dry up,’ said Stuart. ‘It’s easy enough to sneer when you’ve got more money than you can spend. I wanted money and power. I’ve earned both. I haven’t forgotten what you did for me. I’m grateful. But climb off your high horse for a minute. I want you to find this out for me.’

‘I’ll try. Anything to help you, Stuart. It’s fascinating to watch you heave yourself up the ladder of success. Mind you don’t strain yourself and topple off. In return, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.’

‘Anything I can.’

‘I have a friend on a local newspaper. I want you to offer him a job on the Gladiator.’

‘O.K. It’s a deal. He starts work tomorrow.’

‘No, no. I want it done quietly. How shall I say? Warily.’

Stuart began to laugh.

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s got a dirty ring about it. I don’t want you to pay him too much. It might go to his head, and I should hate to corrupt him. Anyway, he won’t be working for you for long.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m thinking of going into the paper business myself and I shall need staff. It’s been such a dull year I feel I want something new to cheer me up.’

‘And this little number of yours walks straight into the editorial bed,’ said Stuart.

‘You always were beautifully tactful. I do think that when you emerge from your chromium-plated palace of lies, you should leave your gladiatorial manners behind.’

‘Don’t get sore. What’s the boy’s name?’

Patrick wrote Nicholas’s name and address on a piece of paper and gave it to Stuart.

‘Such fun to bribe the Press, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘The only trouble is that you’re almost too rich now, Stuart. If you’re leaving, you could drop me off.’

Christopher crossed the bar conscious that Patrick and Ronnie were watching him.

‘Hullo, Mike,’ he said. ‘How are you? It’s nice to see you again after so long.’

‘Shall we sit? That’s if we can find a seat,’ said Michael.

‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ said Christopher. ‘I’m not at all happy here. I feel as if I’m being eaten alive. That’s terribly painful, you know.’

‘As you like,’ said Michael. ‘Where do you suggest?’

‘What about a pub? Pubs are so much more honest than these places. I find pubs make me work. When I come to places like this I’m incapable of doing any work for days afterwards. You see, humanity is ugly at the best of times. But it’s ugliest when it tries to be beautiful, because it’s being dishonest. Everyone in here is dishonest. They upset me terribly.’

‘You always make everything sound difficult,’ said Michael.

‘I’m terribly sorry. That’s what Ronnie is always telling me. Ronnie Gras I mean. You don’t know him. He says I stir up clear waters to make them muddy and seem deeper than they really are. That’s Nietzsche actually. Not Ronnie Gras. He’s terribly good. Nietzsche I mean. When I’m painting I sometimes try and believe I’m a superman.’

‘Have you painted much recently?’

‘Much too much. None of it is any good, I’m afraid. I’m like a hen that lays unfertilized eggs. It’s not a terribly good analogy. What I’m trying to say is that my pictures lack life; they’re the product of immense effort but they’re all stillborn. I sometimes think that if an artist is going to produce something really alive, he must be loved by someone. That’s why good artists are often so promiscuous. Which makes it difficult for them to live in society, because society thinks them immoral. They’re not helped by the thousands of bad artists who think that immorality makes them good artists. Anyway, that’s why I never come to places like the Rialto. I feel I’m not wanted.’

‘I’m sorry I suggested it. Shall we take a taxi?’

‘No. Let’s walk. It’s such a beautiful day. Please don’t think it mattered at all that you suggested meeting at the Rialto. I’m sure that while one is young these places seem attractive. But when I was young I was very poor and could only flatten my nose against their panes. Now I’ve grown up I still feel they’re trying to keep me out. I expect you’ve always been able to go wherever you wanted. That’s a terrific advantage.’

‘It’s not true. I started to go to the so-called smart places when I got my commission. I had enough money for the first time, and my uniform was a pass.’

‘What are you doing now?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I can’t do anything until I know what I want to do, can I?’

‘Why did you leave the Air Force?’

‘We had an argument. I flew my plane under a bridge. After that they didn’t seem to want me any longer. The funny thing is that when I was doing it, I knew they would chuck me out.’

‘It was a subconscious protest I expect,’ said Christopher. ‘You made a mistake in imagining you could be happy in the Air Force, so you got yourself out of it. You couldn’t help yourself.’

‘That’s all very well. But what do I do now? I can’t make up my mind what I want to do. Have you any suggestions?’

‘I’m afraid not. I’m afraid you’re suffering from guilt at having missed the war. You see war, whatever else it may do, makes us forget ourselves. It gives a purpose to our lives. It’s a wicked thing to say, but true. Living in the peaceful welfare state is terribly frustrating. We’re not equipped to deal with it. We grow bored. You’ll just have to join the ranks of the angry young men and suffer.’

‘How did you get over it?’

‘My case is really rather funny. You see, all generations have to suffer in their own peculiar way. In some ways I think we had a worse time than you. You see, I knew there was going to be a war ten years before the last one was declared, so that when it finally broke out it didn’t stimulate me at all. I had already fought my personal battle in Spain. It was then that I realized that history is a force we can’t control, and that all we can hope to be is merely a part of it.’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. At least you felt like painting. I’ve seen reproductions of pictures you painted in the ’thirties. Frankly, I think they’re the best thing you’ve done.’

‘I’m so glad,’ said Christopher. ‘Some people were terribly unkind to me about Spain because I insisted that I was an artist and not a soldier. When I went to Madrid I knew that my mission was to paint, not to fight. But the fighting was very close. In fact it was inside me, so that I experienced the same sensations as if I was fighting physically. So you see what I mean when I say that my generation has probably suffered more than yours. But it doesn’t help me to give you any good advice. But I do know one thing. If you’re thinking of taking up painting, the sooner you start the better it’ll be for you.’

‘That’s one thing I don’t want to do,’ said Michael.

‘I’m not being very helpful, am I? I hope you don’t mind my trying to help you. People should try and help each other. I remember Wystan Auden once saying to me: “We must love one another or die!” I think it’s the best thing he ever said. After that he went to pieces, although I’m still very fond of him. I don’t want you to think that I’m criticizing him. It’s difficult to talk about him as he works in such a different medium. But creators have something in common after all.’

‘What?’

‘The act of creation.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Michael. ‘To a pub, or do we keep walking?’

‘Pub? I’m afraid I forgot. How stupid of me. I thought we were going to my studio. Would you like to do that? I feel I could get on with your portrait this afternoon, if you wouldn’t mind sitting. But I expect you’re dying for a drink. Shall we try this one? I don’t know what it’s like. But all pubs are pubs, aren’t they?’

They sat down at a table in the corner of the saloon bar.

‘Talking about wanting to help people, I’d really very much like to help you if I can,’ said Christopher.

‘Thanks.’

Michael put his hand to his forehead and pushed his hair back from his eyes.

‘You’re terribly handsome, Mike,’ said Christopher. ‘You’re one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen. I’m sure this portrait is going to mean something. Perhaps the end of my sterile period.’

‘I didn’t think much of it last time I saw it. I felt that you were going to forget to put me into the triangle at all. I suppose it’s fashionable but it’s not going to look anything like me. It would be terribly funny to see it in a gallery and make rude remarks about it, only to discover later that it was myself.’

‘You’re talking like a philistine. I promise you you’ll like it when it’s finished. Beauty is elusive. I’m going to put it into this picture the moment I trap it. I’m not going to allow it to slip from my grasp.’

‘You can’t isolate beauty like that,’ said Michael. ‘In your case I should have said that it was entirely dependent on your vision. It’s the essence that exists between your eyes and what you see, or what you think you see.’

‘You’re terribly clever,’ said Christopher. ‘I want you to tell me more about this essence.’

‘Do you find me funny?’

‘No, no. Far from it. I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll make a mutual assistance pact. While you’re wandering and wondering what to do, you must stay with me. I’m afraid my place isn’t very grand, but at least it won’t cost you anything. In exchange you must tell me more about these beautiful essences.’

‘I’d be glad of a bed. I’d like to nurse my modest resources until I’ve got a job, and rooms cost a fortune. But we’ll forget the other nonsense. It’s bloody silly imagining that I could teach you a thing. Everyone says you’re the best contemporary painter in the country.’

‘I know. But one must always try to learn more. That’s why Jesus was so wise and good. He believed in teaching. He gathered simple people round him and started to teach them everything he knew. He realized that he was working on fertile soil. Simplicity is the most fertile soil of all. And it’s always beautiful. That’s why my work has been so influenced by the Minoans and Dorians.’

‘Shall we go to your studio?’ said Michael.

Stuart Andrews eased himself out of the Rolls. The commissionaire at the door saluted him. Stuart eyed his smart soldierly uniform with approval. He looked up at the neon signs on the face of the building. The lettering was forty feet high. They could easily take another ten feet, he thought. What the hell did that architect think he was about with all his highfalutin talk of perspective? In any case he wasn’t interested in perspective. It gave him enormous pleasure to leave the building at night and see the evidence of his success against the London sky. The bigger the lettering, the greater his success.

Today the chromium-fronted building gleamed in the sunshine. He knew that his Fleet Street enemies called it the Silver Coffin. Let them. It made no difference to the circulation of the Gladiator, which soared weekly. He knew what the British public wanted. It wanted what he made it want. Two things only. Sex and scapegoats. He never forgot these two words. They paid handsome dividends.

‘Beautiful day, sir,’ said the commissionaire.

‘Sure, Charles. Swell day. Have a sandwich sent up to my office right away. Make sure it’s fresh.’

That was another factor which had contributed to his success. Simplicity. Down-to-earthness. He was as happy with a sandwich as he was dining at the smartest restaurant in London. Social life was unprofitable. It burnt up energy and gave no return. He could go where he liked. Every door was open to him. But he was first and foremost a newspaper man. His place was at his desk on the third floor of the Gladiator. He’d rather eat a snack there than waste time at the Rialto with a crowd of idlers who imagined themselves smart.

He went into his office, switched on the intercommunication set and asked the assistant editor to join him.

‘How’s she going, Tom?’

‘Fine, sir. We’ve bannered the fire story. Should have the whole fire service on their toes holding their backsides.’

‘How did the fire start?’

‘No idea. They couldn’t bring it under control because the hoses wouldn’t reach. So I thought we’d play the child angle and ginger them up a bit.’

‘What’s the banner?’

‘Do you want your baby burnt alive?’

‘Fine. Got a good picture?’

‘The news editor’s youngest. Sweet looking kid. It should send them all right.’

‘Blow it up big. Now I want one of the boys to do a job for me. Who’s been working extra hard and could do with a few hours off?’

‘John Berlin. He’s been putting in a lot of hours on prostitution in London parks.’

‘He’ll do. I’m taking on a new man. I’ll let you know what you’re to put him on later. Send Berlin in right away.’

Three minutes later Berlin knocked at the door and came into the office.

‘Take a pew, John. That stuff you’ve been turning out is swell. Good and hot. Been working hard at it?’

‘Fairly, sir.’

‘Only fairly?’

‘You see, sir, my kid’s been teething and kicking up such a hell of a shindy that I haven’t been able to get down to work until late.’

‘Did you take a look round the parks?’

‘No, sir. I find my imagination produces the best results.’

‘That’s the idea. I’ve a job for you. It’s confidential, by the way. Take a car down to Rochester this afternoon. I want you to contact a kid on the local for me. Here’s his address. His name’s Nicholas Milestone.’