Sextet (39 page)

‘All true,’ said Colin, gazing out of the windows at the moon.

‘Are you drunk?’

‘Not on alcohol, no.’

‘All true? Then your interpretation of truth must be very different from mine. Maybe you’d like to explain why you failed to tell Lindsay the
exact
truth: to wit—that house is owned by your father and entailed to you, as it will be entailed to your sons, or—failing that—your cousin’s sons. To all intents and purposes, Colin, you own it—along with Shute itself, God alone knows how many other tenant farms, cottages and houses, plus an obscene amount of Oxfordshire. I find it surprising that you neglected to mention these belongings of yours. Were you similarly reticent about the forty thousand acres in Scotland, and the umpteen million you inherited from the Lancaster clan? Colin, it was perfectly obvious that Lindsay knows none of this, and you, for some reason I cannot comprehend, are deceiving her and manoeuvring her into becoming your tenant at a knockdown rent. You’re doing this, what’s more, at a time in her life when she’s especially vulnerable to assistance of that kind. Now I know your schemes, Colin, and I’ve seen them blow up in everyone’s faces a thousand times. So I’m warning you, if you end up harming Lindsay, or hurting her in any way…’

‘I love her,’ Colin said, in a beatific voice, still staring at the moon. ‘I love her. I adore her. She’s the most wonderful woman ever born.’

This checked Rowland for rather less long than Colin had hoped.

‘Then this is worse than I thought,’ he said, in a brusque way. ‘You do
not
love her, Colin. You fall in love the way other people catch colds.’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Colin, in a robust way. ‘I
used
to, I admit that, but I haven’t done that for at least eight years. I love her. I love her with all my heart. I worship the very ground on which she walks.’

‘Colin, you’ve known her less than two weeks.’

‘That has nothing to do with it,’ Colin replied, his wits returning, and a note of unmistakable conviction entering his voice. ‘You can love someone just like
that
.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘You meet them, you know you’re going to love them, and the love starts to grow. And if you don’t know that, Rowland, you’re a great deal stupider than I thought.’

Rowland hesitated. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I concede that can happen. It doesn’t last.’

‘This
is
going to last. I’ve just left her now. I’ve been with her all day—and I’m so happy I can hardly speak. She’s loyal and good and candid and funny and warm…’

‘Colin, I wouldn’t argue with any of that. I know her too well; she’s also scatty, impetuous and naïve. She has a terrible temper, a nasty tongue and a marked inability to
think
. She is, without a doubt, one of the most impossible goddamned irritating women I’ve ever known…’

‘You see? You’re fond of her too!’ Colin proclaimed, on a note of triumph. ‘I can hear it in your voice. She’s a
paragon
. And you know the best thing of all, Rowland? She likes
me
. She can see my faults and she
still
likes me. She doesn’t know about the money or Shute—she likes me for
myself
. For the first time in my life I have no doubts about that—in fact, if she knew about the money, I’m afraid she might like me less. So I want her to know me,
really
know me, before she finds out. I want her to see Shute for the first time, and not know it’s mine, so she can just love it for itself, and then I want her to marry me. I’m going to marry her, Rowland, and if you come between her and me, I’ll fucking well kill you, because she is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Apart from you, she’s the one good thing, the one incontestably good thing that has happened to me since Edward died.’

There was a long silence then. In London, knowing Colin would never mention his brother unless he passionately meant what he said, Rowland bowed his head in his hands. In New York, Colin thought of Lindsay in his arms and felt blessed.

‘I’m going to marry her, Rowland, and I’m going to marry her within six months,’ he continued, in a quieter voice. ‘I’m going to ask her the very second I think she might accept, and I damn near asked her an hour ago—so you can draw your own conclusions from that.’

‘In that case,’ Rowland said, after a pained hesitation, ‘I shall say nothing to Lindsay about Shute. I hope you know you can rely on that. But I also hope you know what you’re doing, because Lindsay would be very easy indeed to hurt—’

‘As you should know,’ replied Colin, in a flash, ‘considering how you hurt her today. You reduced her to tears—’

‘I did what?’

‘You made her cry, and you’re not going to do it again. She was in an utterly miserable state—and I’m not surprised. You destroy every bit of confidence she has. She’s trying to make a new start in life, and what do you do? You roll in like a fucking Centurion tank, and you tell her she’s naïve and childish, and only a fool would have signed that book contract. Not everyone has your fucking unshakeable self-confidence, Rowland. Why don’t you
think
?’

‘I made her cry?’ Rowland sounded both bewildered and shocked. ‘That’s the last thing on God’s earth I’d have wanted to do. I thought—we argue, Lindsay and I. We’re always having some fight. I lose my temper, she loses hers, and then the next day—’

‘Well, don’t lose your temper with her!’ Colin cried. ‘I love her. I won’t have you talking to her like that. I saw you do it in Oxford, and I wanted to punch you then. Lindsay’s right—anyone would think you were her father, the way you talk to her…’

Rowland, who had begun to speak, was brought up short.

‘Her father. I see. Were there any details of my private conversation with Lindsay that weren’t reported back?’

‘No, since you ask. She told me the whole miserable story from beginning to end. She tried to hide it, when I first arrived, but I
knew
there was something wrong, and then she just broke down. She started crying and she couldn’t stop. I put my arms around her, and—’ He broke off. ‘And, anyway, I calmed her down, eventually. I explained you didn’t
really
despise her. I told her how you’re always bawling me out. We agreed in the end that you were right rather too often, but you weren’t such a bad sort and we both quite liked you. None of which means that you shouldn’t be ashamed of yourself.’

‘I’m certainly ashamed to have made her cry. Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell her that,’ Rowland said curtly. ‘Meanwhile, if there’s anything worse than the thought of the two of you discussing my defects in that particular cosy, nauseating way, I don’t know what it is, so—’

‘Oh, we forgot about you after a bit,’ Colin said, in a cheerful, consoling tone. ‘We never mentioned you again, funnily enough…’

‘I’m hanging up, Colin.’

‘Wait, wait, wait. Rowland—just one question.’

‘What?’

‘Will you be my best man, Rowland?’

Rowland considered this question for what seemed to Colin an unnecessarily long time.

‘No,’ he said eventually, his tone altering. ‘No. I’m very fond of you, Colin, but I don’t think I will. Goodnight.’

T
HROUGHOUT THE FOLLOWING WEEK
, the telephone lines between Lindsay at the Pierre, and Colin, staying at Tomas Court’s ranch in Montana, were kept very busy. It was a week of
correspondences
, and in more than one sense, Lindsay was later to decide. During it, fax lines, the international mail, and in one case a courier service, were kept busy as well.

The first missive, its formality of tone perhaps explained by the fact that it was the last of six drafts he had written, came in the form of a letter from Rowland McGuire.

My dear Lindsay,

It is early on Saturday morning, and I have been trying to find the right words in which to write to you since I spoke to Colin on the telephone, some hours ago now. The conversation with him left me profoundly shaken—I cannot tell you how much it distressed me to learn that I had caused you un-happiness, indeed had made you cry. My immediate instinct was to call you, but when we speak on the telephone, I always feel we are missing one another in some way; this leads to misunderstandings. So I am writing now because I want to apologize to you, and beyond that, make certain things unmistakably clear.

I have had several hours—and they’ve not been pleasant hours—in which to contemplate my own stupidity, arrogance and lack of insight. For those failings, and my inability to curb my temper, I seek your pardon—how stilted that sounds! Lindsay, I’m so sorry and so sad to have caused you pain.

The conversation with Colin has made me realize that I have to be very careful how I express myself. I am not finding it easy to write this, and I want to be sure I avoid ambiguities, so will you forgive me for any awkwardnesses here? Everything I say, however clumsily expressed, is written from the heart.

I don’t want to make excuses for myself, but I do want you to know that almost everything I said to you yesterday stemmed from my anxiety on your behalf. Lindsay, I look on you as a close and dear friend, for whom I feel an unwavering concern. I want you to find happiness and, yes, fulfilment in everything you do. That is why I question and argue as I do. I now realize just how badly I put my arguments yesterday. You were right to resent the way I spoke, but I would like you to understand that I don’t mean to interfere, or snipe from the sidelines. I just can’t bear to think that, as a result of all these recent changes and uprootings, you might experience difficulties, hardship, or unhappiness of any kind.

Colin has made me see how inept I am at conveying that concern to you. I’m grateful to him for that. Talking to him was a chastening experience; he made me see—well, many things for which I feel the deepest regret.

He also made me see that I’ve made one great error, an error I want to correct. I see I’ve always been quick to criticize, and that I have never told you how much I like, respect, value and admire you. So I say it now—without reservations. I hope you will believe that.

We have worked so closely together, and seen one another so often, that I realize I have assumed, in my usual arrogant way, that you knew this. I’ve assumed you would understand the unspoken, and I see now just how mistaken that was. Colin said you felt I despised you—Lindsay, nothing could be further from the truth. I feel for you the very warmest admiration and regard; I rely on your friendship to a far greater degree than you perhaps realize; but then, I trust you completely—and I’m not good at trusting; I trust very few people indeed. I feel the deepest affection for you, Lindsay, even when I am insulting you, even when I have lost my temper, and especially when you are being, as you often are, one of the most provoking, most impossible women I’ve ever known.

You have great generosity of heart, Lindsay, and despite what I said yesterday, when I was angry for a hundred other reasons that need not worry you, I realize that your intuition and instincts are much sharper than mine. Yes, you jump to conclusions, but they are often the correct ones, whereas I am often too slow to acknowledge a truth, and try to argue it away. Something very obvious can be staring me in the face, and yet I refuse to see it until it is too late and an opportunity has gone. I don’t know why I do that: obstinacy, perhaps, or I could blame caution. I think I sometimes fail to act for fear of mistaking the circumstances, or for fear of causing harm.

Well, I won’t dwell on these very male defects, and I know I can rely on you to mock them. The point is, I accused you yesterday of acting first and thinking afterwards. I now see that’s not always a vice, and can be a virtue. It is a virtue you possess—to act on the impulses of the heart—and I wish it were more often my own.

There are many other things I would have liked to say to you, but now is not the moment; besides, this letter is already too long. So, will you forgive what I said yesterday? There will be no more lectures; I give you my word.

I wish you happiness, joy and success with your book, with your new life, and perhaps with your new home. In respect of property, Colin is a very good guide and advisor—far better than I could ever be. You can be confident that any proposals he makes are made with your best interests at heart. Colin can be as exasperating as you can be—and as I know I can be—but he is a good and utterly trustworthy man.

If you do go to live at Shute Farm, I hope it will fulfil all the dreams you spoke of—I’m sure that it will. Meanwhile, I’m not certain when you are returning to London—perhaps after Thanksgiving? Perhaps when you return we could all three of us meet? I’d like to see you and try to begin making amends.

I can’t stop thinking about your tears. I wish to God this had never happened. I realize that now I’ve said only a few of the things I wanted to say, and no doubt said them ill. Lindsay, I trust to your generosity of heart to read between the lines and see the degree of regret I feel.

Damn! More time has gone by. I’m not writing as coherently as I’d hoped, and I’ve now discovered it’s almost impossible to courier a letter to New York over a weekend. I’ve finally found a firm that swears it can do this, so my letter can go off today and will, I hope, reach you tomorrow, Sunday morning.

I shall think of you reading it. I’ll listen for the curses you’ll no doubt, and justly, heap on my head. I’ll be able to hear them, I promise you, very clearly across this distance of three thousand miles.

Please don’t reply to this letter. It doesn’t need a reply, and it’s better to let it stand. Can you read my writing? I’m not feeling as calm as I should, and I expect my punctuation leaves something to be desired.

My love—best and warmest good wishes to you—I hope I can still sign myself as your friend.

Rowland McGuire.

This letter, which Lindsay received without curses and with tears, arrived at the Pierre on Sunday afternoon. On the tenth reading, she still found herself puzzled by that reference of Rowland’s to his punctuation. Rowland’s punctuation was meticulous down to the last semicolon; in which respect, she thought, it was in singular contrast to her own letter to him, which had crossed with this one, and which she had posted express the previous day.

Dear Rowland,

I am in one of my
states
. I can’t sleep, and I’ve been pacing up and down the room in the stupidest way. It’s the middle of the night, and I can still hear myself shouting down the phone at you like some demented fishwife. Oh dear!

Listen—I’m just going to scribble this very fast and then rush out and catch the first post. Rowland, I’m so sorry I said all those horrible things to you. I want you to know—everything you accused me of was true. I see now that I’ve been a total fool about that bloody book contract. I think I knew that publisher man was a complete shit really, but I sort of buried the idea and hoped I was wrong. You’re right about the money too—what’s the matter with me? I always
intend
to get tough on the money front and then I never do. I think it’s that I secretly despise money, so talking about it, let alone angling for more, always seems so
low
. So I’m always v. dignified, get screwed and end up living on vegetables for the next ten years.

But you don’t have to worry,
truly
. I have some money saved, and I think Shute Farm may work out—in which case, I shall be able to afford bread and jam, if not blinis and caviar. I’ll be so tucked away too, that I’ll have no distractions—no movies, or theatres or friends, so I expect I’ll write the book in record time out of sheer boredom and nothing else to do…

Hell. I’m putting off the serious thing. Rowland—when I think of what I said about Oxford and Tom and Katya, I want to
die
. What’s wrong with my brain? Whenever I talk to you, especially on the phone, I get into this stupid flurried state—it’s like listening to fifteen radio stations simultaneously. Then I tune in on one of them and it’s always the wrong one.

Rowland, I’m so ashamed I said those things. No wonder you were so hurt and furious. I just go into a blind panic if I think anything could harm Tom, but if I’d paused for two and a half seconds, I’d have known you would never act foolishly, because you always think everything through too carefully, and there’s no way you’d commit a dishonourable act. It’s strange, isn’t it, that no-one seems to use the word ‘honour’ any more? I think honour is important; I also think you’re the most honourable man I’ve ever known. Yes, I know you can lie to get your way—I’ve seen you do it at work a thousand times. And you lie so well: flagrantly and coolly. I wish I could do that. I’m a lousy liar—well, sometimes I am. Maybe not all the time. But I know you would never lie about anything important. I think of you as a man of truth, an honourable man of truth, so there! That’s why I want you to know that yesterday I said the very opposite of what I meant, as usual. I didn’t mean any of those horrible insults I hurled at you. The truth is, I’m always grateful to you for your concern, your kindness and your strength. And your wit, too, Rowland. It was good of you, yesterday, when listing my drunken sins in Oxford, to be discreet about that shaming episode when I kissed your sweater. This was gallant of you. Thank you for that.

Anyway.
Mea culpa
. Will you forgive me, Rowland? I shall be coming back to London after Thanksgiving. I’ve decided to stay on here until then; I have some Chanel research to do—I’m looking forward to becoming an archive addict. Quiet, dedicated and
nun-like
—and Colin is going to be here, so it seemed quite a good idea.

Colin came here yesterday, after you telephoned; he was understanding, gentle and kind. You have nice friends, Rowland. He told me all about his brother and how you helped him at Oxford. He is very loyal and devoted to you, and so am I.

He’s going to take me to see Shute Farm when we get back to England. I’m praying it will work out. I’m praying I’ll cope if it does—I’ve never lived in the country. If you’ve forgiven me, I hope you’ll come and see me there—you could teach me some useful rustic things: how to chop logs, how to light a fire.

Shall I buy some chickens? Or ducks? There’s a stream. Oh, Rowland, I feel excited and afraid all at once. Since yesterday, so much has happened—and one day I’d like to tell you about it, but not now.

Are you in your lovely sitting-room as you read this? Are you frowning or smiling? I wonder, are those shutters I admire so much open or closed?

You’ve been a good friend to me, Rowland. The very best, kindest and most loyal of friends. I wish I’d said that yesterday, but since I didn’t, I’ll say it now.

God, what horrible handwriting I have! Can you make out any of this? I hope you can at least see the important bits and read the important words.

I send you my thanks for all your wise advice and your insufferable but accurate insight into my defects of character. I send you my apologies. I send all love and best wishes. Damn! My pen’s run out. No ink available at the Pierre at 5 a.m. I’ll have to use a biro. The smudges everywhere are from the biro. You are a dear friend, Rowland, and I kiss your green Christmas sweater in a very sober way. When you next see me, you’ll find I’m a reformed character.

Lindsay.