Sextet (12 page)

Watching her now, Katya suspected that Lindsay missed Tom desperately, and was desperately afraid he might sense that. For this reason, intent on freeing Tom, she put on an act of loving dissimulation: possibly lonely, she stressed how busy she was; perhaps yearning to stay, she emphasized that this visit was a kind of fly-past, and that she would have to rush back to London immediately after lunch.

Katya was touched by this and by Tom’s blindness to the deception. Tom loved his mother and was, in many ways, very close to her, yet he was blind in this respect. This interested Katya, the future novelist. She made herself some crisp, pitying mental notes on the insights and sightlessness of love.

Lindsay’s acting ability, she noted, came under further strain when Tom announced that Rowland McGuire and some friend of his from Yorkshire would be joining them for lunch. It is difficult, perhaps impossible, to disguise immediate delight—and Lindsay, Katya saw, could not do so. Her eyes lit; faint colour appeared in her cheeks; when she spoke, there was joy in her voice.

‘Rowland called? He called here? Which friend? Oh, Colin? Heavens, I spoke to him last night, when I was trying to get Rowland. He was terribly drunk…’

At this point, breaking off, Lindsay suddenly remembered that she had brought with her some champagne, to celebrate the new lodgings; it was really for Tom and Katya, but perhaps one bottle might be opened up.

One was opened, which provided Lindsay with more opportunities for distraction and conversational feints. Fiddling with the foil, as Tom and Katya fetched and washed various glasses, Lindsay gave them an animated, but edited, account of her telephone call to Yorkshire, and its results.

She did not mention—she was too reticent, and too ashamed—the minutes she had spent staring at the unwinking red light of her answering machine the previous night. After all, to call Rowland—who had left the number in case of emergencies, he said—was an inexcusable weakness. Shortly before, she had vowed to exorcise his influence, to abandon her hopes…Yet working against that solemn resolve was a deep residual unease, the result of her final conversation with Jippy.

Jippy had mentioned ‘York’, which must surely mean ‘Yorkshire’. He had advised her to check her machine, yet there was no message on that machine. Perhaps then, the absence of messages
was
the message…at which point, Lindsay’s nimble treacherous heart gave a lurch. Something was wrong, that was why Jippy had seemed so alarmed. Could Rowland be ill, or—and here Lindsay’s quick-start imagination kicked in—or worse, could there have been some accident? A climbing accident? A car accident? Frayed ropes? Failing brakes? One second Lindsay saw Rowland lying injured somewhere, the next second, he was deep in a gully, pale, dying, with her telephone number on his lips. She hesitated no longer; with a sweet sense of full justification for this recidivism, she had dialled the Yorkshire number at once.

‘And I got Colin,’ she said, pouring champagne. ‘He was celebrating. Apparently, Tomas Court is about to make a film in England, and Colin’s the location manager…’

‘Tomas Court? Wow!’ Her son gave a low whistle.

‘Court’s been giving him a very hard time, but thanks to Rowland, Colin has finally found him some house he needs. We had a long talk. He told me all about Court and that strange ex-wife of his—she was being stalked, he said, for years, and she nearly had a breakdown, and it led to their divorce…Colin was
not
discreet. And then…’ She paused. ‘Then, he started flirting with me. Rather well, considering I’ve never met him.’

Tom sighed and gave his mother a censorious look.

‘And
very
well considering how drunk he was. We were talking for ages. Rowland was out on one of his strange night walks and Colin kept saying he’d be back at any moment—only he wasn’t. And then…’ She glanced at her son with a smile. ‘And then, this was the best bit, Colin proposed.’

‘
Proposed
?’ Tom’s face was now very censorious indeed. ‘And he’s never met you? He must have been pissed.’

‘He fell in love with my voice,’ Lindsay said, with dignity. ‘We’d been talking about obsession—obsession was in the air, like a germ, and I think Colin caught it. We discussed love, at length, then he proposed. I accepted, of course.’

‘I don’t
believe
this. Mum, listen…’

‘We’ve decided on a spring wedding. Then we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, in contentment and decorum, after some initial years of heady romance.’ She paused. ‘So, you’re about to meet your future stepfather, Tom. I hope you’re looking forward to that…’

‘One question. One little question.’ Tom groaned as he refilled their glasses. ‘Why didn’t you hang up?’

‘Certainly not,’ Lindsay replied with spirit. ‘It’s time I remarried and Colin is the man for me. He is very charming. I think I’ve done well for myself.’

‘This lunatic’, said Tom, in a gruff tone, ‘is arriving here any minute—with Rowland. Now, I’m praying he was so pissed that he’s not going to remember any of this…’

‘In that case, I shall remind him—at once. I don’t intend to be jilted, Tom, I can assure you of that.’

Tom sank his head in his hands. His capacity to be embarrassed by his mother was well developed—indeed, he could be embarrassed by her breathing, or so Lindsay said. He gave a deep sigh.

‘Mum, you remember the time you turned up at school prize-giving in that micro-skirt?’

‘The Donna Karan? Yes.’

‘And you remember that cricket match, when I was out l.b.w., and you argued with the umpire?’

‘That umpire was blind as a bat.’

‘…And then you chatted up the headmaster over tea in the pavilion?’

‘Of course I remember. He was a widower. That was such a brilliant move.’

‘…And then he invited you to lunch?’

‘A very
useful
lunch. Consider the consequences.’

The consequences had been that, several months later, the headmaster had been snapped up by Lindsay’s svelte but difficult mother, Louise. He was now, therefore, married to Tom’s grandmother. Fortunately, this appalling event, which Tom could never have lived down, had happened after he left school. Lindsay, unrepentant, regarded this as one of her greatest
coups
; her son did not.

‘
All
of those occasions, Mum, every single one of them, were embarrassing. They caused me suffering—trauma, I expect. Well, the embarrassment quotient now is even higher. When this Colin maniac arrives, Rowland’s
also
going to be here, and Rowland can be unpredictable. He might not like this…’

‘Too bad.’

‘He’ll think you’re making fun of his friend…’

‘Make fun of my future husband? I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Mum, I’m warning you, and I mean it.
Don’t
. You’ll be making a mistake.’

Tom rose. He had spoken quietly, but there was suddenly no doubt that he was in earnest. Lindsay, who had been about to reply, stopped short. There was a silence. Consternation came into Lindsay’s face.

‘Do you mean that, Tom?’

‘Yes, I do. Sometimes—I guess you just push too hard, all right?’

‘Tom, wait a second now,’ Katya began. ‘Lindsay was teasing you. She didn’t mean…’

‘No, no, Katya—he’s right.’

For one painful, peculiar moment, Katya thought Lindsay was about to cry. She realized that the act Lindsay put on was far more effective than she had conceived, and that for some reason Lindsay was under strain and deeply upset. She regained control very quickly, however. Looking at Tom, she made a face that was wry and contrite.

‘I know, I know.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I push too hard and I talk too much, and perhaps—it’s not very restful. I do understand that, but I was only teasing you, Tom—Katya’s right. I liked Colin, and I wouldn’t embarrass him. I didn’t really intend to say anything…’

Tom smiled. ‘Admit you were tempted.’

‘Yes, I was.’ Lindsay returned the smile. ‘But I shan’t say a word. He’s bound to have forgotten, and I won’t remind him. I promise to behave
impeccably
, all right?’

It was very rare for Lindsay to break a promise to anyone; with her son, every promise made was religiously kept. Tom, knowing this, at once relaxed; Katya, who had suddenly sniffed the cordite of trouble ahead, assumed that trouble had been avoided. Lindsay became quieter and was perhaps tense, but the next half-hour passed pleasurably.

Everything was fine, fine, fine, Katya would later tell herself—until the moment when they heard the roar of an engine, and Katya, looking out of the window, saw a long, sleek monster of a sports car pull up.

‘I
T’S AN ASTON MARTIN,’
Tom said, awe in his voice. ‘Oh my God, it’s a DB5.
Classic
—I’m not missing this. I’ll let them in…’

The door slammed shut behind him.

‘I didn’t know Rowland drove an Aston,’ Katya said.

‘He doesn’t.’

‘Well, he’s driving one now. It must be your fiancé’s, I guess.’

‘Don’t, Katya.’ Lindsay gave a wan smile. She joined Katya at the window. Both women watched the tall, dark-haired figure of Rowland McGuire extricate himself from the low-slung driving seat. He was wearing somewhat aged clothes, as he had been on most of the occasions Katya had met him; in this case an antique tweed jacket, a dark green sweater and ancient corduroys. Clothes clearly did not interest Rowland McGuire in the least; Katya had decided that this was because Rowland tried to make no impression, and cared neither to please nor attract. When Rowland entered a room, he did so as himself, arrogantly indifferent as to whether he was approved, liked, sought after or dismissed. Sometimes Katya admired, and sometimes she resented this.

Rowland did not appear to be in the best of tempers, perhaps. He looked impatiently up and down the street, then glanced up at the house; Lindsay moved away from the window at once. Rowland, with Tom’s assistance, then proceeded to lever and yank the Aston’s passenger from his seat. This took some time; eventually, like a recalcitrant cork from a bottle, a man popped out precipitately, head first. He protested volubly; his face had a greenish pallor and the thin November sunlight seemed to be paining his eyes, for he donned a pair of dark glasses at once. He walked with exaggerated care towards the door of the house, wincing as Rowland banged the car doors shut.

‘Your fiancé has a hangover,’ Katya said.

‘What does he look like, my fiancé?’

‘Well, he’s not as tall as Rowland, but who is? He’s about six feet, maybe six one or two…Even shabbier clothes than Rowland. Thin, quite elegant…Oh, he’s sitting down on the garden wall…No, he’s standing up again. He’s talking to the privet hedge.’

‘Just my luck. Not just a maniac, a dipsomaniac. Hair? Does my fiancé have hair? Black? Brown? White? Bald? Katya, tell me he isn’t bald. I don’t think I’m ready for a bald fiancé…’

‘No, no, he has rather wonderful hair. Auburn. Byronic if you’re being charitable; in need of a barber, if you’re not. Hang on. Oh, he has excellent eyebrows—diabolic eyebrows; they go up in peaks…’

‘Don’t be absurd. You can’t see his eyebrows from there.’

‘I can. He just looked up. Oh—he’s smiling. He’s shaking hands with Tom. He has a very good smile. An angelic smile…Terribly
pale
though. Alabaster. I think he’s about to pass out. What’s he doing
now
! Oh, he’s sitting on the doorstep. I think he’s gone to sleep. Rowland
not
amused. Face like thunder…Riot act being read…’

Lindsay made a moaning sound. ‘Oh, not one of Rowland’s lectures. Katya, I’m not looking forward to this.’

‘What a brave man. He’s just told Rowland to piss off. Rowland not too amused by that either. Wait a second—yes, he’s vertical again. They’re coming in. Brace yourself…’

Lindsay had ceased to listen, Katya realized. Turning, she watched Lindsay arrange herself, first on a chair, then opt for standing up. She was wearing very understated clothes, as she usually did, despite Tom’s allegations. Fashion-pack black, Katya thought, examining Lindsay’s flat black pumps; black tights; short, pleated, black skirt and black polo-neck sweater. Katya felt envious, as she always did, of Lindsay’s boyish build; she herself was too curvaceous, or—as Katya put it in her more self-critical moments—Junoesque. She pulled down the baggy sweater she was wearing and crossed her arms over her breasts. The eyes of the two women met in mutual understanding; Lindsay’s hands flew to her ear-rings, two delicate, pale jade tear-drops.

‘Why did I wear this today? I look as if I’m going to a funeral…’

‘You look fine, Lindsay. You look great. Those ear-rings are really pretty. Are those the ones Genevieve gave you?’

‘Yes. Gini’s goodbye present when she left for Washington. I—they’re hurting my ears; I think I’ll take them off…’

To Katya’s surprise, Lindsay did so—and in an odd, furtive, hurried way too. As footsteps could be heard mounting the stairs, she thrust them into her pocket. She again sat down, then again stood up.

‘I hate meeting people I don’t know. It makes me so nervous. Shall we open some more champagne, Katya? Yes, let’s. I’ll replace it another time…’

Thus Lindsay created yet another of her diversions, Katya thought. It was not the arrival of a stranger, but of Rowland, that was making her nervous, Katya decided, watching her with some amusement and some pity. By the time the door was finally opened and introductions were being made, Lindsay was again suffering a useful female difficulty with a champagne cork. This ensured that, within seconds of entering, Rowland McGuire and this Colin Lascelles were both caught up in an argument, Colin advocating shaking the bottle, Tom intervening to protest that wasted half the champagne, and Rowland quietly taking the bottle from Lindsay, kissing her on the cheek, greeting Katya, and opening the champagne without the least difficulty or fuss.

‘Coffee might have been a wiser idea,’ Rowland said, with a glance in Colin’s direction. ‘And strong black coffee, at that.’

‘No, no, no. The worst possible thing.’ Colin was already ensconced on the sofa; the dark glasses had been removed and he was beaming at everyone with a genial delight that suggested he had known them all for most of his life.