‘This is like an act at the circus. When did you get all that?’
‘The hotel did it, early this morning. Come on.’
He set the umbrella in the sand, put up the beds, opened the hamper: it contained a bottle of exquisite Californian chardonnay, another one of Perrier, a modest heap of smoked salmon sandwiches, and a large bag full of peaches, cherries, strawberries, raspberries. ‘And I even have swimsuits for us both. You’re right about the every human need. I feel if I had asked for a trio of naked ladies to come in juggling flaming torches on one-wheeled bicycles, they would have said, “Certainly, Mr Browning,” and had them there before you could say room service. Do you feel like swimming?’
‘I’m not sure. Sunning anyway. You are wonderful.’
‘I know. There are some pretty amazing sights over there,’ he said, pointing to the far side of the beach.
‘What?’
‘It’s the nude beach. Never been there?’
‘No. And I don’t think I want to now,’ she said, laughing.
‘Do you not like the naked form, Lady Morell?’
‘Very much,’ she said, ‘but not on a lot of strangers.’
‘Then,’ he said, ‘I look forward to being your friend. Now don’t start looking frightened,’ he added, seeing her eyes fill with confusion and alarm. ‘I was only joking. Eat your food, like a good nursing mother. You need nourishing.’
‘All right,’ she said, and he watched her relax again.
They ate slowly, drank the wine, watching the surfers, drinking in the sun. Phaedria thought of Miles, spending his days here, in this very ocean; he began to materialize for her, a lean brown body, sun-tangled hair, swooping interminably in on the waves, pursuing nothing but pleasure: she longed to know more of him, now, to meet him and talk to him, to find what sort of a man he could possibly be.
‘Hey,’ said Michael, who had been watching her, ‘where are you? Back in that hospital?’
‘No,’ she said, smiling, hauling herself back to the present, ‘more or less here. I was looking at the surfers and envying them rather. I love the sea and I love the sun. It makes me feel good right down in my bones.’
‘Me too. It’s hot, though. That delicate English skin of yours will burn. Do you want some oil?’
‘It’s not delicate, not really, but it might be a good idea. Did the hotel send that too?’
‘Of course.’
‘Yes please. Could you put some on my back?’
He opened the bottle and began to spread the oil over her shoulders and her back, smoothing it in slowly, rhythmically, gently massaging the tender nape of her neck, down her spine, over her shoulders, his fingers stopping just short of her breasts. Suddenly, shockingly strongly, she wanted his hands on them, more than she could ever remember wanting anything; she closed her eyes, pulling herself tautly together, lest he should feel her tipping over into desire. ‘Thank you,’ she said quickly. ‘That’s fine. Shall I do yours?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no need, I have skin that resembles a tortoise’s shell more closely than anything else.’ He looked at her closely, saw the raw flicker of sex in her eyes, and smiled.
‘You worry too much,’ was all he said.
A little later on Michael went over to the water and Phaedria lay down under the umbrella; when he came back (not having quite entrusted himself to the surf, which was running high) she was asleep; he sat and looked at her for a while, his face an interesting blank.
She woke up quite suddenly, looking startled, sat up. ‘We must get back,’ she said, ‘quickly. We’ve been gone too long.’
‘Calm down,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s only three o’clock, and I don’t suppose they’ll let that baby starve. We’ll go back if you like. But don’t panic.’
She relaxed again, and lay back on the bed. ‘I’m sorry. I just worry about her all the time.’
‘Of course. I would too. And we’ll go in a minute. Are you sure you don’t want to swim?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it’s so lovely just lying here.’
‘Sleeping Beauty again. Why wake up at all?’
‘I have to, Michael. I can’t give up now. I can’t.’
‘I don’t see why not. You have all the money you need. You have a gorgeous baby. You’re beautiful. Talented. Why not just enjoy yourself?’
‘I wasn’t born,’ she said, ‘to just enjoy myself.’
‘OK,’ he said, ‘do something else. Sell out to Roz. Take the money and run. Start your own newspaper or something.’
She smiled. ‘Do you know, I’ve thought of doing that. I just might in the fullness of time. But first I have to resolve this mess. Somehow.’
‘OK. You any nearer?’
She looked at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Quite a bit. Not finding him. But knowing who he was. Is.’
‘Really? And who is he?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
He lay down on the sun bed beside her, turned his head towards her. ‘OK. I’m in listening mode. You should know by now I find people kind of interesting.’
She told him. About the collection of things in Julian’s desk, about Father Kennedy and her conversation with him, about Miles, who he was, his small rather sad history, even about Hugo Dashwood and his role in it. All except the letters and the signature. That she was not even acknowledging to herself.
They dined on the patio again, reluctant to break the spell of privacy, of solitude. After dinner, they went into the sitting room and closed the french windows; the nights were getting cold. Michael poured them both brandies. They sat and looked at one another.
‘Right,’ said Phaedria, ‘let’s talk about you.’
‘How long have you got?’
‘As long as it takes.’
So he told her: about his childhood in Brooklyn, about selling his soft drinks on the streets of California, about Anita, about Carol, about Little Michael and Baby Sharon, about making a fortune, about his constant willingness to risk everything and lose it all again.
She listened, attentively, silent, drinking him in, enjoying his roughly rich voice, his humour, the attention to and pleasure in
unexpected detail, that was so much a part of his charm, his ability to haul his listeners into intimacy; when he had finished she said, ‘And – Roz?’
‘Oh, no,’ he said smiling at her, ‘I think that is a subject we should not discuss. Not now. Not yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I suppose I do.’
She was silent.
‘So now we know all about each other,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
There was tension in the room so strong that Phaedria felt she had to get up, move about. ‘Would you like another drink?’
‘I guess so,’ he said slowly, as if he had come back from a long way away. ‘Then I must go to bed. And tomorrow I have to fly back to New York.’
‘It’s been a lovely day.’
‘Yes it has.’
‘You are,’ she said, suddenly, smiling at him, quite relaxed, ‘the nicest man I have ever met. Ever.’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know how much of a compliment that is. You’ve met some real stinkers, that’s for sure. Been married to one of the best.’
‘Julian wasn’t a stinker,’ she said, indignant, defensive. ‘I can’t let you say that.’
‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘I seem to spend my life hearing women defend that monster. Just exactly what did he do to you all? Phaedria, honeybunch, just think what he did to you. He cheated on you, he manipulated you, he lied to you, and he left you with this goddamned pantomime to orchestrate. Of course he was a stinker.’
‘Well, maybe, in a way. But I –’ She was silent.
‘You loved him?’
‘Yes. I did. I really did. God knows why.’
‘God has to be the only one who does. Funny old thing, love. No respect for persons. Look at me, I’ve loved a greedy Jewish Momma, an ice-cold, nicely bred fish, and probably the biggest bitch in Christendom. Really loved ’em all. And now . . .’ He was silent, then he looked up at her, and his eyes moved over her face, lingering on her mouth. She felt herself tremble.
‘Phaedria – I –’
‘No,’ she said quickly, panic in her voice, ‘no, don’t. Don’t even think it.’
‘Oh, now,’ he said, laughing, the tension gone briefly, ‘you can’t do that. You can’t tell a man what he has to think and not think. You’re taking away one of our most unalienable rights. Besides, you don’t know what it was.’
‘No,’ she said, her voice small, a little sad. ‘No, I suppose I don’t.’
‘Oh, God,’ he said, ‘I hate it when you’re sad. Don’t be sad. Of course you knew what it was, what I was thinking, what I was feeling, what I was going to say. And if I had said it you’d probably have thrown up or something. I find myself in a no-win situation here.’
‘Yes,’ she said, trying to sound lighthearted too, in spite of the awesome conflict in her, the yearning and the panic, ‘yes you are.’ But her voice came out sounding dull and bleak.
Michael looked at her; she was sitting in the chair opposite him, tension in every particle of her; looking down at her hands, the glass she was holding, the great waterfall of dark hair obscuring her face.
‘Phaedria,’ he said, ‘come and sit down here. Next to me.’
She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, full of longing and fear; and in a great rush of tenderness and concern he held out his hands.
‘Come on.’
‘Why?’
‘Dear God, you make things complicated. Because I want to have you near me, that’s why.’
She hesitated, looking at him, considering; then in a visible rush of courage, moved over to him.
‘That’s better. It’s all right, I’m not going to crush you in my arms or anything. Although I have to say I find it a litle insulting that you seem to find the prospect so alarming.’
‘You know why I do.’
‘Yes,’ he said, smiling at her again. ‘Of course I do. I find it quite alarming myself for the same reason. You know,’ he added, leaning back, looking thoughtfully into the soft darkness outside the window, ‘she isn’t really so terrible. Nobody realizes it but me, but she isn’t. Underneath all that toughness
and bitchiness and anger is really quite a nice, funny woman. You’d be surprised.’
‘Perhaps I would,’ said Phaedria carefully.
‘I know she’s been vile to you. I know she’s been vile to a lot of people. But there are always reasons. And one of the biggest was that charming, dangerous father of hers. Who you loved so much.’
She nodded. Suddenly, surprisingly, tears formed in her eyes, spilled over; he reached out and wiped them tenderly away. ‘Poor baby. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have criticized him and I shouldn’t have threatened you. It’s much too soon. You did love him, and you’ve had an awful time, and you must miss him like hell.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do. I really do miss him. I’m sorry, I’m always crying over you.’
‘Well, it beats vomiting.’ He looked at her for a long time, his eyes exploring her face. ‘We seem to have a penchant, both of us, for loving difficult people. What a shame. When we could probably have been so very much happier loving nice easy ones. Like each other. Well, maybe we shall never know.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
He smiled at her. ‘You really are very very beautiful, you know. I enjoy you. I really do.’
He picked up her hand, looked at it, playing with her fingers.
‘I’m beginning to find this rather hard to handle,’ he said. ‘I think probably I should leave.’
‘All right,’ she said, half relieved, half sad.
‘However,’ he went on, with a heavy sigh, raising his hand, stroking her cheek, ‘I find myself in considerable difficulty. I don’t think I can stay, in case I forget myself and do something ungentlemanly. On the other hand,’ and he sighed again, and then, suddenly, with his most soul-baring smile, ‘I have such a large erection, I don’t think I can possibly make it across the lobby and up to my own room. What do you think I should do?’
Phaedria looked at him, and smiled back; happiness, illogical, unbidden, delicious, filling every fibre of her; she stood up and walked through to the bedroom.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Oh,’ she said briskly, reappearing, her arms full of towels, ‘come along. I’m running you a very cold shower. It will do you no end of good.’
‘Ah,’ he said, laughing. ‘The English public school remedy. Did they really believe in that?’
‘They certainly did. They still do. And the Boy Scouts. I’m assured that it works.’
‘Oh, God. Will you get in it with me?’
‘That would defeat the object, I would have thought.’
‘I fear so.’ He was silent for a moment then looked at her sadly. ‘And I thought you were going to come back into the room stark naked, and make me all kinds of interesting propositions.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘No, I didn’t. Unfortunately. It’s all right, you can turn the shower off now.’
‘Certainly not. You haven’t been near it.’
‘The very thought of it has done the trick.’
‘Your housemaster at Eton would not have believed you.’
‘You’re not my housemaster, and this is not Eton. Did you ever know anyone who went to Eton?’ he asked suddenly, his terminal curiosity distracting him for a moment.
‘Oh lots. Charles – my polo-playing friend – for one.’
‘Oh, well,’ he said, ‘that explains a lot. And here you are, confronted with a real red-blooded male from Brooklyn and all you can do is show him the shower.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘of course you’re right. And we would both regret it terribly.’
‘I think we would.’
‘Correction,’ he said, ‘you would regret it terribly.’
‘All right, I would regret it terribly.’
‘Actually,’ he said, after a moment’s thought. ‘I don’t think I can let you think that either. I want you to know that neither of us would regret one single, glorious, fucking moment of it. But it is not to be.’ His dark eyes sought out a response from hers, probing her; it was an odd echo of the act of sex itself. She met his eyes, opened herself to them, and then, with a sense of physical loss, shook her head.
‘No.’
‘At least,’ he said, and there was an expression on his face that turned her heart over, ‘not for now.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘certainly not for now.’
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘go and turn that goddamned shower off and come and sit down again. I promise I won’t lay a single ill-bred finger on you. But I don’t want to lose you just yet. Now tell me some more about this Charles person. Did he really screw you and was he really gay?’