Sextet (63 page)

‘You’re sure?’

Colin was
not
sure. True, he could not imagine Rowland leading Katya on, but if she had actually gone to see him, if she turned up on his doorstep? Katya was young; she was noticeably attractive. Thinking of Rowland’s past, he felt doubts, and knew it was vital to conceal them. ‘Has she gone to his house, Tom?’

‘That’s what she said she was going to do. Oh,
Christ
. She’ll be there now. You don’t know Katya—you don’t know what she’s like. She reads all these fucking books. She thinks she’s
in
a book half the time…’

‘I’m sure Rowland will cope with that. I know exactly what he’ll do. He’ll give her one of his ticking-offs—and they’re not pleasant, I can tell you. Then he’ll put her on a train and send her packing, which will almost certainly bring her to her senses…’

‘It won’t make her love me again though, will it?’ Tom bent his head. He wiped the back of his hand angrily across his eyes. ‘She doesn’t fucking care any more. She said…’

He glanced towards the bed and began crying again. Colin put his arm around Tom’s shoulders. He produced one of his Thalia-scorned handkerchiefs and handed it across.

‘Start at the beginning,’ he said, ‘and remember, people don’t always mean what they say in these circumstances.’

‘They don’t?’

‘I certainly hope not,’ Colin replied. ‘Considering some of the things that have been said to me in the past. Now, how did this begin, Tom?’

‘When I got back from Edinburgh, she just went mad—totally
mad
. She’d written this mad note…’ He blew his nose. Looking at Colin fiercely, he drew in a steadying breath.

‘I’ll never love anyone else, you know,’ he said. ‘
Never
.’

Colin was careful not to disagree. ‘Of course that’s how you feel,’ he said. ‘Now, you talk and I’ll just sit here and listen. And then we’ll find a way to sort this out, I promise you.’

‘Rowland, I love you,’ Katya said. She cleared her throat. ‘I want you to be very clear about this. Of course, I still love Tom. In many ways, I shall
always
love Tom, but I love Tom in this quiet, peaceful, everyday sort of way, whereas, with you…’

Katya paused. She had been rehearsing this difficult speech the whole way to London on the train. Now she was actually here, in Rowland McGuire’s strange, spartan house, it seemed more difficult to say. She had hoped that, by this point in her speech, Rowland might have
done
something.

He had done and said nothing. She had been admitted into the house with considerable reluctance, and only after she had burst into tears on the front step. She had been shown up to this cold, unwelcoming room with these photographs of ugly mountains. She had been in it less than five minutes before she realized that unless she embarked on her speech, she was going to find herself out on the pavement again. Rowland was now leaning up against the mantelpiece, his arms folded; his green eyes rested on her face in a manner that was not encouraging. Katya flushed.

‘With you,’ she continued, ‘it’s
different
. It came to me very suddenly. It was that day I met you in Oxford. It was something Miriam Stark said. Learn to
read
, she said. So, after you left, I started reading this novel.’ She paused again, half hoping Rowland would ask her which novel; he did not.

‘I found I could read it—and I could also read myself. And you. I know what you
need
, Rowland. I know what you
want
.’

‘Really? You have the advantage of me there.’

‘I want to go to bed with you, Rowland.’ Katya’s colour deepened. ‘You may not realize that you want to go to bed with me yet, but you will. I want you to understand…’ She paused, trying to recall her script. ‘I know it won’t be
permanent
; it will just be an affair. And when it’s over, I’ll go away quietly; I won’t pester you, or anything like that. I know that in your case it will be just—you know—
sex
, but from my point of view, it’s something I
need
—at this moment in my life.’

Katya paused again. Rowland, she felt, must surely now speak. There was a second part to her speech, much concerned with the nature of love, its dynamics and Katya’s theories on these dynamics—which were numerous. There was a coda to this speech that dealt with such questions as twin souls, fate, sudden attraction, and the consequences thereof: looking at Rowland’s green eyes, Katya decided to skip this section. While it had made great sense on the train to tell Rowland that she had realized he was the love of her life, it now did not.

She looked more closely at the expression in those eyes, which might have been lazily amused.

‘Are you laughing at me?’ she said. ‘This isn’t funny. It’s not easy, you know, doing this.’

‘I agree it’s not funny, and I’m certainly not laughing at you. Have you finished? I did say I’d hear you out.’

‘Look.’ Katya struggled. ‘Look—I know you’re a lot older than I am. I know you won’t be used to this kind of thing, but I think a woman should say what she
feels
. What’s the point of going through life covering everything up? I
love
you. I came up today to tell you that. If you like, we can go to bed now, and then I’ll go back to Oxford. You’ll never hear from me again. I’ve got a day return ticket, just in case.’

Rowland gave a sigh. He wondered if Katya could possibly imagine the number of times this had happened to him before. The women were different; the words were different; the intention was the same. This, of course, was the very last thing to mention.

He looked at Katya. She was wearing the workman’s donkey jacket again, a man’s shirt, jeans and a pair of Doc Marten boots. He found himself both moved and amused by this. He was moved and amused by the combination of posturing and sincerity in her expression and voice. She was now examining him closely with her large, blue, short-sighted eyes. Her hair, which was beautiful, the colour of a fox, was loose on her shoulders. She had freckles on her nose and cheekbones; her hands, he saw, were unsteady. He could see that what she said she both meant and did not mean.

He glanced away towards the windows. It was mid-afternoon, and the light was already beginning to fade. Three nights ago, he had been at the Conrad; he had spent most of the following day, the Friday, on a plane, and the whole of the following day, yesterday, seeing his newspaper to press. He felt as if he had not slept in a month, and he had realized, shortly before Katya’s unannounced arrival, that, without doubt, a Sunday was the cruellest day of the week. Most people spent Sundays with their families. In the past, he had often spent this day, or part of it, with Lindsay. Such meetings would now cease. This prospect pained him; he found himself at a loss. In a familiar city, in his own home, he felt as if he were distanced and disoriented; whatever planet this was, its atmosphere was alien.

On this planet, it seemed, anything could happen at any moment; its rules were arbitrary. Temptation could turn up at three in the afternoon, in the shape of a girl wearing Doc Marten boots, a girl with a return ticket and a wish to seduce him. This apparition, he found, made him feel very tired. He had the sensation that, if he turned away, then looked back, Katya would vanish in a twinkling. He looked back; she had not vanished; speech was necessary.

‘Katya, I’m sorry,’ he began, ‘I’m touched by what you say, and flattered, obviously, but you must know—it’s out of the question…’

‘Why?’ Katya became pale. Before Rowland could answer, she undid the man’s shirt she was wearing and began crying. She hesitated, then parted the shirt to reveal a black, lacy, seductive brassiere.

‘You won’t
look
at me,’ she cried, tears welling. ‘You never do. Well, I’m going to
make
you look at me, Rowland. Oh, God, I’m so bloody miserable. I can’t work. I can’t
think
. Tom said I looked mad. I
feel
mad. I might as well go and jump in the Thames. I nearly did, this afternoon. I went and stared at the Thames for
hours
, but I couldn’t find the right place to jump, and it was low tide and there was all this
mud
…’

She made a wailing sound; large tears fell down her face. Rowland found that somehow—he was never sure how it happened—he had put an arm around her. The next thing he knew, Katya’s tears were being wept against his shoulder.

‘I want to
die
,’ she said, indistinctly. ‘I could die of
shame
. You don’t fancy me, do you? I’m fat. I’m undesirable. I’ve made an idiot of myself. Oh, this is horrible. Why did I come here? Why was I so horrible to Tom? I threw all these books around. We stayed up all night, arguing and arguing, and I drank all this wine and said these horrible, cruel things…Rowland, I could feel this
storm
—there wasn’t a storm, but I could hear
thunder
. I kept seeing these flashes of
lightning
…’

Rowland made a sympathetic noise. In an awkward way, he patted, then stroked, her back. He found himself in a quandary. He was in no doubt as to how he should now behave: he should calm Katya down, talk to her in a kind, fatherly way, and, with the utmost firmness and tact, get her out of his house and back to Oxford. This course of action was totally clear to him; however, on this planet he was presently visiting, other factors seemed to be influencing him. He was finding himself distracted by the warmth and proximity of Katya’s body, by her tears, and—not least—by her breasts. He couldn’t quite forget that glimpse of the black, lacy brassiere. Katya was neither fat, nor undesirable; the bared skin of her chest had proved to be pale, beautiful and dusted with freckles. She had a slim waist, a strong young back, and her skin had a faint, pleasant nostalgic scent to it, which Rowland thought might come from talcum powder.

Despite her words, she had contrived to put her arms around his neck, and her breasts were pressing against his chest. It was some while since Rowland had slept with a woman; the misery of the day was acute, and he was, he thought, only human. Katya had truly beautiful hair, he realized, laying his hand against it, hesitating, then beginning to stroke it.

He was just about to tilt Katya’s face up to his when he had the sensation—the very odd sensation—that someone had just tugged his sleeve. So strong was this sensation that he looked down; but no, as he had known they were, Katya’s arms were clasped about his neck. There was, of course, no-one else in the room and no-one standing next to him.

He found he was now looking down at Katya. She had stopped wailing and crying as suddenly as she had begun, and was now regarding him in an alert, desperate way. Her eyes were lovely, Rowland thought; her mouth was lovely.

‘I wish you’d kiss me, Rowland,’ she said. ‘Just a very
brief
kiss. Just
once
…’

It seemed to Rowland that, indeed, one brief kiss could do no harm. He hesitated. The telephone began ringing. On its third ring, understanding that he had been rescued, Rowland gently released Katya, told her to do up her blouse, crossed the room and answered this timely call. The caller proved to be Colin Lascelles. He did not mention alcohol or pills, but he explained where he was; he spoke for some time and he spoke with emphasis.

‘Quite,’ Rowland said, several times. He glanced across at Katya, who was buttoning up her shirt. ‘No. She got here about half an hour ago, Colin. We’re just leaving now. I agree. Yes, she is rather upset. I’ll drive her back to Oxford. I think that would be best.’

Rowland replaced the receiver. He looked at himself and disliked what he saw. ‘That was Colin,’ he said, ‘calling from Tom’s room.’

Katya blushed scarlet again. There was a silence. Katya, who as Rowland well knew, was by no means unintelligent, gave him a look which gradually became considering.

‘I do love Tom, you know.’

‘Then learn to behave accordingly.’

Katya’s colour deepened. ‘OK, OK. I deserved that. I’ll go. You don’t have to drive me.’

‘No, I will. I don’t want any detours to the Thames.’

‘I’m not really the suicidal type.’ She paused. ‘One question—how close, Rowland?’

‘Too close for comfort.’

‘I thought so.’ Katya’s face lit up in a brilliant smile. ‘Well, that’s
some
consolation.’

‘Not for me it isn’t.’

‘So what do we do now, Rowland?’

‘Now, Katya, you come downstairs, and you get in my car, and I drive you back to Oxford—which is an interruption I could well do without. While we’re on the motorway, I’ll give you a sensible fatherly talk. And you will behave yourself.’

‘All right.’ Katya frowned. ‘I did mean what I said to you, Rowland.’

‘No, Katya. I don’t think you did mean it.’

‘I shall feel awful tomorrow. I’ll want to die of embarrassment and humiliation.’

‘Don’t. I should concentrate on Tom, if I were you. That’s rather more important. Now get your coat. And Katya, be more careful which books you read in future.’

‘All right, Rowland. I’ll stick to Trollope.’ Katya gave a small smile. ‘All those clergymen. I should think that would be safe…’

‘Out.
Now
,’ said Rowland.

In his car, true to his word, Rowland provided sensible fatherly advice. He produced Kleenex from the glove box when Katya hit another weeping phase. He drove at exactly the speed limit for the entire route—not his usual practice—and by the time he dropped Katya off at her college, he realized he had never felt so hypocritical and so ancient.

‘Do you think I ought to go and see Tom now, Rowland?’

‘No, I don’t. I think you should give it a few days, Katya. Colin’s taking him back to his place, anyway. Lindsay’s there. Give yourselves a few days to think, and calm down a little…’

Katya gave him a sidelong glance; she departed.

Rowland drove around Oxford, feeling a curious reluctance to leave the city. He thought of how easy it was to give advice to others in such matters and how peculiarly difficult it was to act on such advice oneself. He thought of the time he had spent in this city, and of what he had done—and left undone—since he had lived here. He tried not to think of the fact that Lindsay was close by, yet out of his reach.