Sextet (48 page)

‘What, darling?’

‘I used to think—there was a time, just before I left Tomas…No, I can’t say this.’

‘Darling, tell me.’

‘I thought Tomas was King. I thought he was sending those letters, making those calls. I don’t know why I thought that; it wasn’t rational. Sometimes King would call when Tomas was in the room with me. It wasn’t Tomas’s voice, it wasn’t Tomas’s writing, and Tomas would never make threats against Jonathan—but I came to associate them, somehow.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘I was very close to going mad, then, I think. I can’t tell you what it was like. I always felt watched, overheard…’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I thought I’d escape from that once I was here. But Tomas comes, and talks and talks—and he’s brought it all in here too…’

‘Darling, don’t cry. Don’t get upset—look, do you want me to stay? I will. The hell with him and what he thinks—’

‘No. No.’ Natasha gently pushed her away. ‘I’ll be fine. Angelica will be back by midnight. That nice Maria girl’s coming to sit with Jonathan…’

‘Does Tomas know that?’

‘Of course not. He’d say I was smothering Jonathan—pandering to his fears. He usually says that; he says there are too many women around his son. But Jonathan wakes up and he gets frightened, so it’s better if she’s here. She has the key to the little door upstairs. Tomas need never know…’

Juliet smiled and raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s
easier
that way,’ Natasha said, with a wry look. ‘We avoid another scene. I learned the advantages of stealth two months into my marriage…’

‘Darling. Most women do,’ Juliet said.

‘Catullus?’ Colin said, looking down at the book of poems that Lindsay had just presented as her Thanksgiving gift. He frowned; there was a narrow silk marker to the book, so it fell open at a particular page. On that page was the love poem he had quoted to Lindsay in one of his Montana faxes. Colin gave a sigh; one diabolic eyebrow rose.

‘You evil woman,’ he said. ‘You evil, devious, wicked woman.’

Lindsay, who was wearing her red dress and her new Thanksgiving Tiffany ear-rings, hid her smile; she gave him a meek look.

‘Ah yes, Latin,’ she said. ‘I can read it. I had it rather dinned into me at school…For eight years, in fact.’

‘You lied, in other words.’

‘Colin, I did.’

‘“Et al—I realize I do know some Latin after all”?’ Colin began to smile. ‘Catullus. I knew you were a paragon.’

‘You can quote from my letters, Colin?’

‘Why not? You’ve just quoted mine. Which makes me suspect you read it more than once…’

‘A couple of times, I admit. Nothing excessive…’

‘I am
immoderately
happy,’ Colin said, putting the book against his heart, and discovering it fitted the inside breast pocket of his masterly suit.

‘I love you to distraction,’ he continued, moving forward in a purposeful way. ‘What’s more, that dress is having a very strong effect on me…’

‘This dress? Pixie hates it—’

‘What does Pixie know? From a man’s point of view, my darling…’

‘Colin, no. Don’t even
think
about it. We’re more than five minutes late already. I—’

‘Dear God, what’s happening to me?’ Colin said, five minutes after that. He detached himself from Lindsay. ‘Is it happening to you too?’

‘It is. Can’t you tell?’

‘Oh God. Yes I can.’ Colin looked into her eyes. ‘And I can’t go downstairs like this. Quick, think of something detumescent, and say it.’

‘Five hours at least until we get back to this room?’

‘No good. No good. That makes it worse.’

‘What are nine eights? Twelve fifteens? What’s six and a half per cent of three hundred and twenty-nine? Why is the universe receding? What did Plato see on the walls of the cave? What was the name of Rochester’s first wife? How many states in America? This must be working, Colin…’

‘It’s not. It’s not. Stand further off.’

‘What’s the capital of Mozambique? Chad? Who killed Cassandra? Why? Which is the highest mountain range in Canada? What’s the longest river in the world? The deepest lake? Why do I like you so much, Colin?’

‘Now
that’s
a truly interesting question,’ Colin replied, leading her from the room to the stairs and taking her hand in his.

‘Do you know all the answers to those questions?’ he asked, as they began to descend to the lobby.

‘Some of them. Certainly not all.’ Lindsay gave him a sidelong glance. ‘I can answer the final one though.’

‘Can you?’

Halfway down the stairs, Colin came to a halt. Below them, the lobby teemed with Thanksgiving celebrants. Oblivious to them, Colin turned her to face him. Tell me,’ he said. ‘Answer that question. We’re not going downstairs until you do. Not if we have to stay here all night.’

Lindsay considered; lifting her hand, she laid it against his cheek; she began to speak in a low voice, hesitantly at first, then with growing conviction. Colin listened with absolute attention.

‘
Then
?’ he said. ‘Is that true of most women? Why? You’re sure? But I thought—Oh God.
God
. I can’t think for happiness. Darling, listen to me—’

Colin began to speak in his turn, with no sign of hesitation, and a conviction that matched Lindsay’s own. Having spoken, he leaned her back against the wall; he looked into her eyes for a long time; Lindsay laced her arms about his neck. Then, with a small sigh on her part, and a marked determination on his, he began to kiss her. This embrace, chaste, rapturous, sweet and prolonged, caused heads to turn. It was witnessed with indulgence, with envy, with nostalgia, annoyance and amusement by various guests—either because they were themselves in a similar state or because they could remember the joys and perils of being so.

It was also witnessed by Rowland McGuire who, as chance would have it, entered the lobby at that precise moment. It took him an instant to realize who this couple were; then he recognized the dress Lindsay was wearing. He turned away at once, and with some presence of mind, attempted to lose himself in the crush of people. He had almost reached the exit, when his height and his haste betrayed him. Colin glimpsed him from the vantage point of the stairs, called his name, and hurried towards him, reaching his side before Rowland could escape.

He clasped Rowland’s hands and began questioning him, his face bright. Rowland looked from him to Lindsay, who had slowly approached; he found their expressions dazed, secretive, radiant and unbearable. Mustering his self-possession, he managed an explanation so unnaturally precise he felt it could convince no-one; Colin, who had scarcely listened to it, accepted it at once.

‘But that’s great,’ he said. ‘I’m so
glad
. How lucky! You spoke to Markov? I expect he’s already here. We’re—well, we’re a bit late. Why don’t you go on through with Lindsay? You must join us for dinner, Rowland. We’re going to Emily’s. Frobisher always cooks enough for an army—Emily would never forgive me if you didn’t come…No, no, don’t be ridiculous. Stop
arguing
. You can’t possibly spend Thanksgiving on your own. Lindsay, you tell him, darling. I’ll just give Emily a quick call, so she can organize an extra place. You two go on through—I won’t be two seconds…’

With which, Colin turned and darted away through the crowds. He had noticed neither Lindsay’s expression, nor his friend’s—but then, Colin was an innocent, as Emily had said.

A short while later, Lindsay found herself standing just outside the entrance to the Oak Room. She had no recollection of walking there, and she was almost certain that nothing had been said. All she could hear and see was the enormity of what was happening and the urgency of preventing it. People ebbed back and forth, separating her from Rowland, then tossing her back towards him again. Fighting her way past a crowd of gaudily dressed women, she made it back to his side and laid her hand on the sleeve of his black coat.

‘What are you doing here? Oh, what are you
doing
here?’ she began. ‘You have to go away—at once. At
once
.’

‘I’m joining you for a drink. I’ve just explained why I’m here.’

‘Oh God, why didn’t you
call
me?’

‘I’ve been trying to call you. For two days. I didn’t know where you were.’

‘Rowland—please leave. It’s much better if you leave…’

‘I won’t leave. Not now.’

‘Rowland—didn’t Markov tell you who else was coming tonight?’

‘No, why? Does it matter?’

‘I think it might, yes. Rowland, listen—’

‘I don’t give a damn who’s here,’ Rowland said. ‘I want to talk to you. I have to talk to you…’

‘Now? You’re mad. Rowland, let go of me.
Please
go away…’

Jerking his hand aside, Lindsay darted past him. She looked across the room beyond; she saw Markov and Jippy; she saw Gini and her husband. She was about to dart back out of sight, when Gini looked up and saw her. She began to smile a greeting, then the smile froze; she stared across the crowded room, her face blank with shock. Lindsay swung around to find Rowland at her side. Her agitation increasing, she began to speak; she attempted to push him back out of sight; she tugged at his sleeve; a small, frantic and undignified tussle took place.

The struggle was all on Lindsay’s part; she had a confused sense of her hands plucking at his coat, and fluttering back and forth in a useless way, for Lindsay, a foot shorter than Rowland, was not particularly strong, whereas Rowland was. He did not move by so much as an inch; Lindsay thought he was unaware of her pushings and tuggings; when he did suddenly become aware of them, he caught hold of her two wrists.

‘What’s the
matter
with you?’ Lindsay began. ‘Let go of me, for heaven’s sake…’

She looked up. She knew then what was the matter, for the expression on his face and in his eyes could not be misconstrued. For one fleeting second, she thought that he had seen Gini; then she realized that he had
not
seen her, that he had not looked around once, that he was blind and deaf to his surroundings and that the expression on his face was caused by herself.

‘I don’t care,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I don’t care that this is the wrong time and the worst possible place. I’m not leaving until I’ve said this—and I’m going to say it before Colin returns—’

Lindsay heard herself make some small sound of disbelief; the noisy space filled with a tumultuous silence. Her heart began to beat fast. She looked up, met Rowland’s green intent gaze, and had a brief rushing sensation of how unfairly, how impossibly handsome this man was. A figure from a romance she had been listening to since her earliest childhood. All the pain and hope and obsession of the past three years swirled in her head, and she realized that she was angry—so angry she could scarcely speak.

‘Don’t you dare say anything,’ she said, in a low furious tone. ‘Not before Colin returns. Not after. Don’t you dare to say one single
word
…’

She saw Rowland flinch, as if she had just struck him, and angrily she shook her wrists free.

‘Go
away
,’ she said. ‘Gini is here, and her husband is here. Colin is your
friend
. He trusts you. He’s just…Oh, how can you do this? It’s unforgivable,
unforgivable
…’

‘Will you listen to me? I can explain—’ Rowland began, reaching for her hand again, but Lindsay had already dodged past him. She began to weave her way through the crush of people to their table, certain that Rowland would not follow her. She could still hear some sound, some rushing, crashing sound, like waves beating in on a beach, as she reached the table, and three men rose to their feet. She could feel the group was petrified with some collective embarrassment; she began on flurried greetings; she embraced Gini, then Markov, then Jippy. Turning to Pascal, whom she both admired and liked, she realized that he was not looking at her, but at someone else, his face hardening in an expression of anger and disbelief.

She began to turn, seeing as she did so that Jippy looked ill, and that Markov’s face wore an expression of startled delight—an expression with which he always greeted incipient social disaster. Rowland McGuire was standing immediately behind her, she found, and next to him was Colin. Colin was pale with agitation; he looked as if he had just witnessed a car accident. He began to speak with great rapidity, a hunted, desperate look on his face.

‘Oh, God,
God
,’ he said, ‘this is terrible. We have to move. We can’t stay here. There isn’t time to explain. This is a crisis, this-is an
emergency
, oh, bloody
hell
…’

‘Col, dear heart,
there
you are!’ said a famous and melodious voice. Colin looked at the table in a panic-stricken way, as if considering diving under it. ‘Too late. Oh
shit
.’ He made a moaning sound, as an arm fastened itself around his shoulders. Lindsay found herself looking into a cadaverous, arresting, and very famous face.

‘Col, I’ve been chasing you all over New York—where have you been
hiding
yourself? I’ve just come from the Thanksgiving bash at Tina’s and Harry’s. Thousands of scribes, Hollywood out in force…Marty was there, and Michelle sent her love…Col, How tremendously
well
you’re looking. Fit, lean, tanned. Waiter, waiter—we’ll need some more champagne over here. At your earliest convenience, if you’d be so good. Col,
great
to see you. I’m not butting in, I hope? Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

The speaker paused, secure in the knowledge that he needed no introduction himself. His gaze scanned the group in an expert way; singling out Gini as the only person of any significance, an expression of homage to a beautiful woman came upon his face. He held out his hand.

‘Nic Hicks,’ he said, unnecessarily, pronouncing his own name with humility and reverent conceit.

Lindsay, who could now hear bombs, mines and howitzers going off, sat down abruptly. Jippy stole out a hand and pressed hers in a comforting way. Lindsay looked around the table as the various introductions and greetings took place. Pascal Lamartine and Rowland McGuire exchanged a curt nod; Rowland selected a seat as far as possible from Gini and as close as possible to Lindsay. Seeing this, Gini frowned and gave Lindsay a searching look. Lindsay could see barbed wire snaking in every direction; she could see vast bomb craters opening up. Through this blasted landscape, Nic Hicks drove the tank of his ego, its gun-turret aimed at Gini, and its tracks flattening everyone else.