'Why didn't you ring me?'
'I needed to do it on my own. Everyone's grief is different, I think. Mine felt private.'
I nodded that I understood. It was consistent. Lucas would talk about the things that bothered him until they reached crisis point and then he would disappear. At college, towards the end, worried that he hadn't worked hard enough for finals and was going to let his mother and Patrick down, he vanished for four days without telling anyone, even me, where he was going. I hadn't been too concerned, knowing there would be a simple explanation, as in the end there was: he had booked into a guest house in Torquay to calm down and read Vergil's
Georgics.
'Your cheeks are rosy,' said Lucas, reaching over and pressing the back of his finger on my face. I felt the blush deepen in response.
'It's the wine.'
'Not the company?' He smiled.
'Are you like this with all your girlfriends?' Once I had started the word rolling, there was no reclaiming it. It fell off my tongue like a stone. I had gone too far, too fast in my destabilised, confused frame of mind.
He didn't blink. 'No, just you.'
We left without having any green tea. Lucas wouldn't let me go Dutch on the bill; after a discussion, he let me put my card with his in the silk folder and then, after the waiter had gone off to swipe them, he handed mine back to me. 'You can get the cab if you feel so strongly about it,' he said.
Upstairs on the pavement, he took my face between his hands and kissed me. I didn't care that the street was still busy and people were walking past us: I wanted all those strangers to see. In the taxi, I pressed into his side, enjoying the feel of his arm around me. The idea of going to bed with Lucas was unreal, in the way that something imagined over and over again can become. But I wanted to, I knew that. The rain had just stopped. Everything was slick and noirish and the wheels of the taxi fizzed in the water on the road as we wove quickly through Soho and into Bloomsbury. We pulled up outside Lucas's building and I paid the driver.
'I'll make some coffee,' he said, walking ahead of me to turn on the table lamp in the sitting room then doubling back to the kitchen. 'Put some music on.'
I skimmed along the rows of his CD collection, noticing the recent purchases. There were new records by a couple of bands he'd told me about, but now wasn't the time. I chose the Cowboy Junkies'
The Trinity Session,
which we'd listened to together over and over again.
Lucas's flat had been expensively furnished about thirty years previously and as a result reminded me of a beautiful woman for whom the impact of ageing was made bearable by good underlying bone structure. The leather on the arms of the sofa was worn through almost to the horsehair underneath but it was still the burnished brown of autumn leaves. He'd had the flat since we graduated and it had acquired a feel of home that my flats never did. Like Patrick, he had books everywhere, on shelves, in piles on the floor, open face-down on the armchair and by the phone, hardbacks, paperbacks, books I'd lent him, books he'd bought or borrowed from the library. Unlike Patrick, he only read fiction. We had a theory that serious non-fiction was something one grew into.
The walls were covered with old movie posters, originals that he bought and framed. Outside the bathroom door, the closest he could get it to the shower without steam damage, was a genuine
Psycho,
the most expensive of the collection.
Lucas brought the coffee and settled next to me on the lumpy sofa. He stretched out his arm and I slid along so that I was inside it. I heard the clock from the church two streets away gently chime midnight and thought to myself that I knew the room as though it were a person in its own right, from the draught under the door to the way the radiators ticked as they cooled. I slid down and lay along the sofa, putting my head on his lap. He stroked my hair, smoothing it back from my forehead. We listened to the album all the way through. I'm not sure but I suspected that as we listened Lucas was doing the same as me, remembering all the other times we'd heard it. When it ended, he bent down and kissed me. 'I'll get you a cab,' he said.
I hope I managed to control my face sufficiently to mask the storm of emotion that broke out in me. Even though a small part of me breathed a sigh of relief that the nerve wracking event wasn't going to happen now, I still felt cheated, as if the promised end of the evening had been suddenly snatched away.
The next few minutes were a blur. He made the telephone call, helped me on with my coat and held my hand as we walked downstairs. Now I was anxious. Though Lucas didn't set great store by his own powers of attraction, I knew several pretty girls who would love to go out with him. Perhaps he'd had second thoughts about me. Perhaps now, when it started to become a reality, he didn't actually find me sexually attractive. Misery swept over me.
We were on the pavement before the cab arrived. I stamped my feet both to warm them and to create a distraction. Lucas was looking at me. Maybe he had been waiting for me to make the first move, to show that I wanted him. After all, he was the one who had kissed me first at Stoneborough. Perhaps he needed me to show him that I wanted him, too. Again I wondered about the protocol for getting together with your closest friend. Did all the years of friendship that went before cancel out the point of delaying sleeping together? After all, we hardly needed to get to know each other, did we? I pulled him close to me and kissed him but it was too late: the cab pulled up beside us. Lucas opened the door for me and kissed me again, another proper, passionate kiss. He stood and waved until we turned the corner.
The driver was listening to some pop music with lyrics in what sounded like Greek. He had a crude glass evil eye hanging from the rearview mirror on a piece of cord and I watched it swing as we made our way quickly back to West London. He didn't try to engage me in conversation, for which I was grateful.
Perhaps I was out of practice. After all, it had been almost a year since I had slept with anyone, my previous boyfriend, Rob. We'd met at a barbecue at Rachel's house. He was one of her sister's friends and we'd started talking and got on like a house on fire. Lucas had left early, I now remembered, though I hadn't thought anything of it at the time. Rob taught media studies and at first we'd had a lot to talk about, including music and films. After about six months, though, the conversation began to run dry. One evening when I was putting on my make-up before going out to supper with him, I realised that I was rehearsing things to talk about. I decided to give it a week or two to see if it improved but the same evening he told me that he had fallen in love with his flatmate, Sarah. Even though I'd known it wasn't right, I had been surprisingly shaken. I'd done what I always did, retreated into the group and waited for the pain to go away.
Lucas wouldn't hurt me, I knew. He would do everything in his power to make sure he didn't, even if things didn't work out between us. I told myself that that must have been why he hadn't asked me to stay. He didn't want to rush me or create pressure. It was typical of him. And it was a big step. There couldn't be any going back once we had been to bed together. But the impulsive side of me was disappointed that he had been able to do it. That side wished that he had dragged me to his room the moment we set foot in the flat. However much I tried to rationalise it, I couldn't dispel the feeling that if he'd really wanted me he would never have sent me home.
When I woke at Stoneborough that Saturday, Lucas had moulded himself against me so that my body fitted inside the curve of his larger one as neatly as a layer in an onion. It was early. I could tell from the slow pattern of his breath on my shoulder that he was still sleeping and I shifted gently so that I could lie more comfortably without waking him. He murmured something uninterpretable and settled again.
It had been just five of us the previous evening, as Greg and Rachel had had to stay in London for dinner with one of Greg's new clients. We'd had supper in the kitchen and then taken our drinks through and sat around the fire in the drawing room. It was still early when Lucas and I made an exit.
'Be gentle with him, Joanna.' Danny hadn't been able to resist. Although I knew it was stupid, I flushed with embarrassment and couldn't think of a response.
'Please, Danny,' said Lucas. He squeezed my hand as he pulled the drawing-room door shut. 'Just ignore him.' I waited nervously in the hall while he set the burglar alarm, shifting my weight from foot to foot.
His room was next to mine on the top floor. He hadn't shown it to me when we did the grand tour. It was plain, done in white with white sheets on the bed, but taking up almost the whole of the wall opposite the bed was a painting that I recognised.
'Lucas, isn't that ... ?'
'Not now.'
His hands moved over me surprisingly. At Stoneborough things were different, as if his personality changed subtly when he stepped over the threshold. I felt as if I were with someone bolder. There was no question about what was going to happen. His hands slipped into the back pockets of my jeans and held me hard against him as we kissed. After a while he pulled away and pushed me gently back on to the bed. My heart soared with relief at his obvious desire. He did want me and the knowledge turned me on, too. When we had taken off all of each other's clothes I took a second or two to look at him. His nakedness made the parts of his body I was familiar with from days at the beach and in the park look different. I could see the weight loss around his chest and stomach and it moved me, as if I could read his sadness on his body. He looked vulnerable.
I had fantasised - I was embarrassed to admit it even to myself - of how it would be with Lucas, whom at times I had allowed myself to think of as a soul mate. I had imagined all the closeness of our emotional relationship would transfer to the physical and there would be none of the awkwardness or fumbling around that reminded one of what a strange thing it was to have sex with someone. Instead it would be seamless, both of us knowing exactly what the other liked, and there would be none of the usual self-consciousness at being naked and utterly revealed to someone else. In fact, there had been a very awkward moment when Lucas had had to stop to find a condom and the pause had broken the spell. I caught his eye as he was putting it on. We looked at each other as if we were suddenly realising what we were doing and questioning whether we should. I winked at him then, to make him smile and dispel the tension. Things got a bit better after that and the second time had been an improvement again. I was sure it would be different as we got used to the idea.
I lay awake now for a while watching the morning brighten the window, enjoying the warmth of the bed and of his body behind me. After ten minutes or so, he stirred and I wriggled round so that we were facing one another. He opened his eyes and smiled at me. 'Morning,' he said, pushing a strand of hair out of my eyes. 'It's true then.'
'What is?'
'That you should never touch your idols. If I'd known you looked like this without make-up ...'
'Bugger off.' I kicked him under the quilt.
He laughed and rolled over so that he was on top of me. He held my arms back above my head and kissed me; I worried for a moment about not having cleaned my teeth. 'I like waking up with you,' he said, pulling back. 'I'll make some coffee. Don't go anywhere.' He put on jeans and a jumper and padded out of the room. I watched his broad back disappear round the door.
I waited until the sound of his footsteps faded away then got out of bed and went to look more closely at the painting over the mantelpiece. It was a Goldstein, a piece that I had seen exhibited at Patrick's gallery some years before. Lucas, Danny and I travelled together from Oxford to London on the bus to go to the opening. Even though I had picked up a bit of self-confidence at university I remembered feeling gauche that night. We got the tube to Bond Street station and walked down. It was October and chill. The shop windows exhibited models wearing outfits of untouchable sophistication. Lucas was walking fast, excited about the paintings. He knew Goldstein from meeting him at Patrick's and had heard that the show was particularly good.
Cork Street was dominated by galleries. The majority of the ground-floor windows were plate glass, each embossed with the name of the artist currently on show there. There was traditional English and Islamic art, posters from Japan, some striking modem sculpture that loomed stonily behind the darkened window of the gallery next to Patrick's. Light spilled out from the Heath field on to the pavement. The place was full of metropolitan people, well-dressed men and women in elegant middle age, younger people, some of them artists, I guessed, in ensembles so outlandish they were walking installations in themselves. One woman was wearing a hat with a long green feather that trailed behind her, reaching almost to the floor. She had a quick, sharp way of turning her head and the feather flicked sinuously with her, like a whip. I was acutely conscious of my cheap black trousers and plain jumper.
Lucas had opened the door for me and ushered me inside. Patrick was near the back talking to a short man in an expensively cut suit, stooping gently to catch what he was saying. He saw Lucas almost immediately, excused himself and came over to swamp him in a bear hug. Lucas was over six foot but Patrick dwarfed him. He shook Danny by the hand and kissed me on the cheek.
'Good to see you again, Jo,' he said. 'Have a glass of wine and take a look around. It's extraordinary work, even by Goldstein's own standards. I'll be interested to hear what you think of it.' His naturalness put me at my ease at once.
That evening was like visiting a foreign country and I drank it all in, the paintings, the people, the gallery itself. It was a large white space, very bare. Even the doors looked like part of the walls, without detail and painted white to cause minimum distraction from the exhibits. Goldstein lurked in a corner, smoking incessantly, eyes inscrutable under enormous black brows. Patrick came over to talk to me later in the evening and explained in an undertone that he hated shows and only attended his openings under duress. Lucas told me that, in fact, even though he was American, Goldstein only came to his openings at Patrick's; he never turned up for his New York shows.
I remembered another conversation from that night. I had been standing a little apart, near the wall at the back, to allow Lucas to speak to Patrick on his own. They were about fifteen feet away. Annoyingly, Danny hadn't seemed to realise why I'd moved; he had been carelessly chatting up a confident girl with a club-cut black fringe but as soon as he saw Patrick talking to Lucas he excused himself from her and joined them.
The room was hot and busy and I felt as if I had perhaps had one glass of champagne too many. I was about to seek out a chair when I heard a woman behind me ask her neighbour in a low voice, 'Isn't that Lucas Heath field?'
'Yes. Not quite as beautiful as his father was, is he?' came the response, prompting me to a fierce protective surge.
'No, but I always preferred Patrick of the Heathfield brothers. Oh, I know Just in was the golden boy and beautiful in that very ephemeral way but the famous Patrick magnetism ... I don't know many people who could have resisted if he'd turned his beam on them. And being the less handsome of the two didn't seem to cause him any problems when it came to women. God, do you remember?'
'But none of it mattered when he met her, though. Do you remember that? As soon as she came on the scene that was it for anyone else. Eclipsed was the word ... Oh, there you are, darling. Did you buy it?'
The woman's husband had returned. I turned round and made to cross the room, eager to see who had been talking last. She was, I guessed, in her fifties but still very pretty. Her well-cut blonde hair and slight air of mischief gave her a look of Honor Blackman and she was wearing a cream pussy-bow shirt and dark suede trousers. I wondered if she had ever had a fling with Patrick. I wouldn't have blamed her. I wondered who they had been talking about, this woman who had eclipsed everyone else. I knew Patrick had had affairs with some very glamorous women. Lucas told me that he had seen the actress Marie St Jacques for a while, which impressed my father when I told him.
The paintings on show had been extraordinary. Huge oblongs of colour, they dominated the place. They were landscapes in oils and the texture of the paint was like nothing else I'd seen. Modern in style, they showed seas and fields and woods under siege from weather. The one that now hung on Lucas's wall had been my favourite. It showed a wood in a storm but its focus was tight on the trees. The artist was right up against them, so that the bark on the individual trunks was visible. The thickness of the paint, almost a centimetre in places, gave an impression of the force of the storm. The picture looked wet with rain and it was as if the physicality of the artist had transferred to the canvas and showed in the way the branches bent tight against the wind. The palette was dark, a hundred shades of muted green and grey and brown.
I heard Lucas's footsteps on the landing and quickly got back into bed. He put two mugs of coffee on the bedside table and slid in next to me.
'I loved that painting,' I said.
'Patrick bought it for me.'
'Bought it for you?' I was shocked. I didn't know how much Goldsteins cost but I knew that he was extremely expensive.
Lucas looked at me. 'You know Mum wouldn't ever let him give us any money, even when we were really broke? He used to buy me things instead and then present it as a fait accompli.' He sipped his coffee. 'This was something else though. Most of his gifts were practical and usually I knew what he was planning. I didn't know about this until I came up here one weekend and then he made me promise never to tell her about it.'
'Why wouldn't she let him give her any money?'
'She was very proud. You should understand that. You'll never even let me buy you a cup of tea without a fight. You'll have to get used to it now, though.'
I pulled a face meant to convey indignation and independence and he laughed, put his cup back on the table and pulled me down with him into the bed.
Later that morning Lucas took Danny, Martha and me round to the back of the house where there was a group of outbuildings around a small second driveway. A fringe of leafless beech trees filled the gaps in the skyline and had dropped a crust of seed cases that crunched underfoot. The earth under the gravel was frozen hard. The largest of the buildings was a barn with wooden double doors that reached almost up to its roof, but there were two lower buildings, one of which was open on one side and had old orchard ladders hanging horizontally on its wall. Parked under its cover was Patrick's car, a navy Jaguar XJS. Danny gave a low whistle and circled it, running his hand down the long sleek bonnet and peering through the driver's door at the dash.
'His car. Jesus, mate, why are you still driving the Renault 5?' he said.
'It doesn't feel right. Not yet.'
'It's yours now, isn't it?'
'I'm not ready.'
'Can I look inside?'
Lucas hesitated and then passed him the keys. 'Be careful, won't you?'
Danny opened the door and lowered himself into the leather driver's seat. Lucas moved to say something but stopped himself. Danny traced his fingers along the mahogany dashboard, examining the various knobs and dials. Suddenly the engine started and the white reversing lights came on. A gentle cloud appeared at the end of the exhaust pipe, as if the car was taking its first breaths of the January air.
'Danny, don't,' said Lucas over the hum of the engine.
'Just a quick one.' He turned to look over his shoulder and reversed the car out of the shed at speed. Martha and I hurried out of the way as he turned through a tight circle in the little yard.
'Danny,' shouted Lucas. 'You haven't passed your test.' He ran to block the way. I heard Martha gasp. We both thought that his legs would be broken. Somehow Danny stopped the car. Lucas angrily indicated to him to open the window. 'For God's sake, can't you listen to me? I said not yet.'
'All right, all right. I'll put it back.' Danny pressed the button and disappeared behind the glass again. He drove the car gently back into the shed. 'She was in safe hands. I don't know what you were worried about,' he said, getting out and throwing Lucas the keys. He stalked off back to the house.
'Was I being unreasonable?' Lucas asked me, after he locked the Jaguar up again. 'I just don't feel right using some of Patrick's things yet. The house is OK: I used to come and stay anyway. But driving his car ...' He took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He looked a little shaken. 'It's a question of respect, you know?'
I raised it with Danny later that afternoon, when I found myself temporarily alone with him in the drawing room. I chose my words carefully; there had been occasions in the past when I had suspected him of wilfully misconstruing me.
'Danny,' I said, pretending to flick through the newspaper, 'Lucas is quite sensitive about Patrick's things, you know.'
'Really?' His face showed polite concern but his voice was sarcasm distilled.
'I mean, the car ...'
He laughed. 'Aren't you sweet? You've only been going out five minutes but already you're trying to protect him and from me, of all people. Don't worry, Joanna, I'll always think about what's best for Lucas.'
'I didn't mean ...'
He flung his paper down on the seat behind him. His eyes were glittering with anger. 'He's my best friend too, don't forget. I'm just as important to him as you are. If you do anything to hurt him, I'll make sure you hurt, too - and far worse.'