His absence wasn’t noticed as the group was led up a short flight of stairs into the drawing room. Nor was he missed as they explored the library and the sitting room. “The sitting room,” the guide explained, “is sometimes known as the boudoir. Does anyone know what boudoir means in French?”
No one did.
“Well, boudoir is the French word for ‘to sulk,’ so this room was the place where the ladies of Easley House came to sulk about the wretched behavior of their husbands.” He chuckled manfully. “I expect many of you ladies know a thing or two about that, eh?”
A chorus of giggles. Michael glanced anxiously down the corridor, but Wilfred was nowhere to be seen. He was ready to murder the kid.
The group was herded into an open space behind the house, where the guide pointed out the stables, a formal topiary garden, and a pyramidal folly capping the hill above the estate. “Please feel free to wander a bit,” he told them, “but do not go back into the house. We shall reassemble in the car park in thirty minutes. I trust you will all be prompt. Thank you very much.”
Michael loitered in the topiary garden, keeping a close eye on the house. He began devising emergency plans to minimize the embarrassment in the event that Wilfred never showed up. The least troublesome scheme was set into motion in the parking lot, live minutes before departure time.
“I won’t need a ride back to Moreton-in-Marsh,” he told the guide. “I’ll be staying in Easley-on-Hill tonight.”
“What about your chum?”
Shit. He had noticed. “Oh … he walked into the village about twenty minutes ago. He wasn’t feeling well … thought he’d catch a nap at the inn.”
“I see. Then you’ll be riding with us as far as the village?”
“Well … it’s just across the meadow. I’m sure I’d enjoy the …”
“Just the same, sir …”
“Right. Great. That would be fine. Sure. Thanks.”
So he look the bus back to the village.
“There,” he said, pointing at the first believable-looking inn. “That’s the one. That’s where we’re staying. Just let me out at the corner.”
The driver grunted and brought the bus to a stop.
Michael could feel their eyes on him as he climbed down from the bus and marched purposefully into the pub adjoining the inn. Once inside, he embraced the absurdity of his plight and bellied up to the bar for a cider.
Fifteen minutes later, feeling much better, he left the pub and looked both ways down the road. The bus had gone. The only vehicle in sight was a green Toyota parked next to the inn. It was late afternoon now, and a cider-colored haze had settled on the distant meadows. A row of plane trees cast long purple shadows at the edge of the village. He felt quiet and peaceful and alone for the first time all day.
He set off toward the manor house, whistling with the Michael Jackson song wafting from the pub. She says I am the one, but the kid is not my son …
The lane lost its mossy walls and climbed into the meadow. He stopped for a moment and said idiotic things to a sheep, enjoying himself thoroughly. His view of the house was obscured by a clump of oaks, so he pressed on until the woods had given way to meadow again.
The windows of Easley were ablaze with the sunset, and the ancient limestone blushed magnificently. He had always loved that color, that pinkish orange which seemed to change with every shift of the light. Once upon a time, he and Jon had painted a bedroom that shade.
There was clearly no way to sneak up on the house. His approach could be observed from dozens of windows, not to mention the crenellated parapet which ran the length of the building. He would confront the place as any legitimate guest would, striding confidently.
You bet. And tell them what? Pardon me. I seem to have misplaced a small, gay aborigine.
Them? Who was in charge there? There had been some signs of life in the house—current magazines, postcards in mirrors—but much of the place had seemed uninhabited. Was Lord Roughton alone except for Mona? Did he even live there?
And what if—just what if—that wasn’t Mona?
He decided to declare his legitimacy by presenting himself at the front door. He realized the absurdity of that when he tried to lift the knocker, a rusted iron ring almost the size of a horse collar. The door had been nailed shut; no one had used it for years.
He retraced his steps and passed under the archway linking the manor house to the brewhouse. He approached the kitchen door and rapped on it. In a matter of seconds, he heard someone stirring inside.
The woman with the Princess Di haircut opened the door and glowered at him.
“You’re an asshole,” she said. “I hope you know that.”
Ethelmertz
WHEN MARY ANN RETURNED FROM HER AEROBICS class at St. Peter & Paul’s, she found Simon stretched out in the sunshine of the courtyard. “Well,” she said, “I see you’ve discovered Barbary Beach.”
“Oh … hello.” He raised himself on his elbows, squinting into the sun. “Is that what it’s called?”
She nodded. “Michael named it that.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t get too much now. You look a little pink already.” He pressed the flesh on his forearm. “Well … it’s proof, at least.”
“Of what?”
He gave her a gentle, bemused smile. “My defection to sunny California.”
“Oh … right. Sorry it hasn’t been nicer for you.”
“Quite all right.”
“It’s been just as bad in London, according to Michael.”
“So I hear.”
She sat down on the courtyard bench, several feet away from him. “I can’t believe you’re leaving in two days. It seems like just yesterday. Olive Oil’s, I mean.”
He looked puzzled.
“The bar where we met,” she explained.
“Oh … yes, it does.”
“What will you do … when you go back?”
He shrugged. “Something civilian, I daresay. Publishing, perhaps. I rather fancy the idea of that. My Uncle Alec works at William Collins. I expect he’ll put in a word.”
“That’s a publisher?”
“Mmm. They do the Bible. Among other things.”
“I see.” She smiled at the thought. “That sounds a little … dignified.”
He smiled back at her. “I am a little dignified.”
She giggled. “I guess you are.”
He was quiet for a moment, his dark eyes boring into her. Then he said: “Your friend … uh … Connie stopped by earlier today.”
“When?” Was there no shaking that woman?
“When you were exercising. She seemed disappointed to have missed you.”
“Oh … well …” She didn’t really give a damn, and she didn’t care if it showed.
He smiled. “I take it you aren’t disappointed?”
“Well, she’s kind of a pest, actually.”
He nodded.
“She’s one of those childhood friends who won’t go away. She’s all right, I guess, but we don’t have very much in common. Did she … uh … want anything in particular?”
“No.”
“Is she still pregnant?”
“Very.” He smiled.
She rose. “Well … I’ll leave you in peace. Are we still on for tonight?”
“Dinner?”
“Right.”
“Lovely,” he said.
She headed toward the house, then stopped. “Watch that sun now.”
Three hours later, as they sat at a table overlooking Washington Square, she remarked on how easily he tanned.
“Yes,” he replied “It’s rather odd, I must say. Both my parents were quite fair.”
“It’s very becoming,” she said.
He looked out the window, seeming faintly ill-at-ease. “I like this place. You come here often, do you?”
She nodded. “Usually for breakfast. It feels almost like home.”
“Well … the name helps, I suppose. Mama’s.
”
“Yeah. Only my mother wasn’t much of a cook.”
He smiled at her. “Nor was mine. And no one had the heart to tell her. We lived for the limes when Nanny would cook.”
She remembered suddenly, “Shit,”
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I forgot to give you your messages.”
He didn’t seem particularly distressed.
“Michael said to tell you he’s leaving the keys with your nanny.”
“I know,” he said. “I talked to her yesterday.”
“Oh.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. Somebody named Fabia stopped by. She’s gotten married, and she wants you to come to a party this summer.”
His lip flickered sardonically. “Did he say who she married?”
“Uh … a guy named Dane who makes potato chips.”
Another flicker.
“You know him?”
He nodded. “Poor bastard.” He seemed to acclimate himself to the idea as he sipped his wine. “Well … he has the money she’s after, if not the breeding.”
She hesitated, then asked: “Was she after you?”
“She was after everyone. She all but went into mourning when Prince Charles announced his engagement.”
“Well,” she teased, “Michael got the impression you had broken her heart.”
“Fabia? No one has ever mistaken that for a heart.”
She laughed.
He smiled warmly at her. “I know about hearts,” he said.
She felt herself reddening. What did he mean by that? She scrambled to change the subject. “You … uh … have a nanny, huh? I mean had.”
“Have, actually. She’s still very much around.”
“I guess that’s pretty common in England. I mean … not common, but …”
He chuckled. “Widespread.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s not. actually. It’s gotten frightfully expensive.”
“It’s a nice tradition,” she said.
His dark eyes squinted as he summoned something. Then he began to recite; “ ‘When the world was but a cradle, Nanny Marks, when our jelly faces called within the dark, it was you that made us happy—shook the rattle, pinned the nappy. It was you we really cared for, Nanny Marks.’ “
“How sweet! Who said that?”
“Uh … Lord Weymouth, I think.”
“Do you feel that way about your nanny?”
He nodded. “She didn’t pin any nappies, mind you. I was a little boy when she came to us. She still treats me like one. She fusses over me dreadfully.”
“Good,” she told him. “I’m glad you have someone who fusses over you.”
He studied her for a moment, saying nothing.
Abandoning subtlety, she reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I hate this,” she said.
“What?”
“Your going.”
“Do you?” He hadn’t squeezed back yet.
She nodded, trying not to panic. “I think we’re … a lot closer than we allow ourselves to be.”
His eyebrow jumped ever so slightly.
“If it’s not mutual, I won’t be hurt, Simon. I just had to say it.”
“Well, I …”
“Is it, Simon?”
“What?”
“Mutual.”
Finally, he returned her squeeze. “It’s not as simple as that.”
“Why?”
“Because … you have a husband. And he’s my friend.”
She regarded him soulfully. “Do you think I would hurt him?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Then … what?”
“I’m leaving in two days,” he said.
“And Brian is gone until tomorrow afternoon.”
He peered out at the square. Chinese children were sailing frisbees in the gathering gloom. His eyes became glazed, unreadable. He turned back to her. “Would one night make that much difference?”
“It would to me,” she answered softly.
He hesitated, looking down at his plate.
“We’re both grownups,” she said. “We know what we’re doing.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. I do. I know what I want.”
He regarded her for a long time, then glanced down at the remains of her hamburger. “Is that why you told them to hold the onions?”
She laughed nervously.
He reached for the check, giving her a vague, ironic smile. “C’mon,” he said.
They walked home beneath a royal purple sky. She was relieved when they reached the steep slope of Russian Hill, since the ascent made conversation difficult, and she was hardly equipped with small talk for the occasion. Simon seemed to feel the same way.
As luck would have it, Mrs. Madrigal was smoking her evening joint in the courtyard. Her outfit was anything but motherly—paisley tunic over purple slacks, dangly Peter Macchiarmi earrings, celadon eye shadow—but Mary Ann felt oddly like a wayward teenager caught in the act by a watchful parent.
“Lovely evening,” said the landlady.
“Isn’t it?” Simon replied.
“Beautiful,” said Mary Ann.
Mrs. Madrigal took a toke off her joint, then waved it in their direction. “Would anyone care …?”
They both declined.
She smiled at them. “Early to bed, eh?”
Mary Ann felt her cheeks catching fire.
Simon salvaged the moment. “Can you believe it? Five o’clock in the morning! It wasn’t this bad in Her Majesty’s Navy!”
“You won’t be sorry,” said the landlady. “It’s a lovely service. More pagan than Christian, really.” The mischief surfaced in her huge blue eyes. “I guess that’s why I enjoyed it. Well … I won’t keep you, children. Run along. Have a good one.”
Inside, as they climbed the stairs, Simon asked: “Am I just paranoid, or does that woman read minds?”
“I’ve been wondering that for years,” said Mary Ann.
Simon stopped at the second-floor landing. “Forgive me for this, but … my place or yours?”
She was ready for that. “Yours, if you don’t mind.”
He nodded. “Fine.”
As he slipped the key into the lock, she reminded herself that this was really Michael’s place, but she must never, ever tell him about tonight. The thought of that made her just a little melancholy. She had no secrets from Mouse.
Simon headed for the brandy as soon as the door was locked behind them. “How about you?” he asked, holding up the bottle. “A small one.”
“Oh … sure. Thanks. I’m gonna use your bathroom, O.K.?” Under the circumstances, the request sounded awkward, overly formal.
Simon saw that. “My house is your house,” he said.
She found what she was looking for in the bathroom: that familiar sticky discharge, the telltale tears of her mittelschmerz. She fixed her face hastily, checked for food in her teeth, and returned to the living room.
Now wearing only his brown corduroy trousers, Simon handed her a glass of brandy.
“Thanks,” she said. She downed half of it in one gulp, pausing until the burn subsided.
“Take your medicine,” Simon said. And there was something faintly resentful about his tone.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Good. So am I.” She polished off the brandy and set down the glass. “Could we … uh … go to the bedroom?”
He shrugged. “What’s wrong with here?”
“I don’t know.” She cast a quick glance at the chrome-framed poster across the room. “Bette Midler is watching.”
Simon smiled at her. “Christopher Isherwood is watching in the bedroom.”
She grinned. “You’ve had this discussion before.”
“A few times.” His eyes were half-lidded and playful.
“I’ll just bet.”
He looked at her a moment longer, then took h
er by the hand and led her into the bedroom. When they were naked on the bed and Simon was upon her, she cupped her hands against the small marble mounds of his ass and tried like hell to think of Brian. It seemed the very least she could do.
Mo
AS USUAL, THE KITCHEN WAS COLD AS A TOMB, SO Mona lit the butane heater and rolled it over to the corner nearest the sink. She could see blue sky through the diamond-shaped panes above the draining board, but the unexpected sunshine was no match for the marrow-chilling damp of Easley House.
She found two chipped bowls amongst Teddy’s motley collection of china and filled them with cereal. Opening the refrigerator, she came face to face with a bowl of greenish kidneys growing fuzz. She winced and dumped them into the trash, then doused the cereal with milk and arranged four pieces of toast in Teddy’s tarnished silver toast rack. She shifted everything onto a Chinese lacquer tray—along with marmalade, teacups and a pot of tea—and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Finding the right door, she set down the tray and knocked three times.
“It’s not locked,” was the petulant response.
She opened the door, picked up the tray and went in. Mouse was propped up in bed like a pasha awaiting his concubine. Seeing his surly expression, she did her best to keep her own anger under control. “Happy Easter,” she mumbled, laying the tray on the chest at the foot of his bed.
“Thanks,” he answered blandly.
She walked to the window. “It’s a nice one. At least the rain has stopped.”
All she got was a grunt.
“Look, Mouse.” She turned around and faced him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you last night.”
He wouldn’t look at her. “If I’d known you would take it like this …”
“But you didn’t,” she said as calmly as possible. “You didn’t know anything and … you thought it would be a lark to come here. I understand that.”
He fiddled with a loose thread on his quilt.
“What I’m trying to make you understand is … I’m a guest here too. Not even that, really. I’m here on business. I’m flying back to Seattle day after tomorrow. I can’t have friends just … showing up. Defecting from a tour, for Christ’s sake.”
He shrugged. “We could have left last night.”
“Mouse … there’s one cab in the whole fucking county.”
“What about that car?”