A Splash of Red

  Piano? A memory of Chloe at Cambridge: 'My mother actually wanted to send the piano along with my trunk. A chastity symbol I can only suppose. Certainly it would keep anything more tactile from entering this fearful room.' So the piano waited for Chloe in Folkestone. Like its owners. There would be much waiting done in that house. Waiting for Dollie.

  In Chloe Fontaine's new Bloomsbury apartment on the other hand no waiting had been done at all; Chloe had not even waited to tell Jemima that she intended to visit her parents. She had hardly waited to move into the flat itself before setting off for the Camargue. Jemima heard again the light clack-clack of her high heels and her characteristic rather breathy voice: 'No, no, down the stairs, there's no lift. I'm in a hurry.' A further pang of pity for the unvisited voices on the other end of the telephone seized Jemima; an atavistic pang perhaps for those dead parents of her own, dead before Jemima took her first steps into another world. Might they too have become the unvisited? 'Look, Mrs Stover—'

  'Mr Stover here. The wife's gone into the kitchen to make us some tea. All this is very upsetting to her, Miss Shore. Her nerves have been all to pieces, I don't mind telling you.' He sounded reproachful and on the verge of rehearsing the events of the night before all over again. Jemima was once more engaged in cutting him short when she heard him say:

  'One thing directly following upon another if you understand my meaning. First Dollie's call out of the blue, quite unexpected, equally unexpected, and then she doesn't make an appearance—'

  Jemima with a sinking feeling heard the story all over again - all this still before her first cup of coffee (a time when Jemima always felt that the whole world should know that she was to be treated with circumspection).

  'I'll call the hospitals in London,' she proffered. That could no longer be avoided. She did not mention having checked with the police the night before. 'You call them in Folkestone and Dover. I'll call Chloe's editor at Taffeta if I can find her home number. There's probably a perfectly simple explanation for all this. If not, it's up to you to decide whether you call the police. What with Mrs Stover's nerves,' she added in a slightly less crisp tone.

  All this took some time although Jemima, uncombed hair flowing over her navy blue silk kimono, did at least manage to drink a mug of coffee while dealing with the little white telephone. She also took time to feed Tiger. But Tiger's presence, golden and expectant, was not as comforting as it should have been to a confirmed cat-lover. He crouched in the middle of the carpet, haunches raised, paws forward in the attitude of a slightly aggressive sphinx. His eyes were half closed, as if he did not want her to know he was watching her and regarding events of which he did not approve. When he did abandon this stance, it was only in order to stalk through the wide balcony windows, inspect Adelaide Square or perhaps the tops of the giant trees where inviolable pigeons might be expected to lurk, and then return to the same sphinx-like position. Once only he mewed at the front door of the flat.

  Tiger did not coil himself or curl up with his paws under his cheek or slumber like a thrown-away toy as Colette would have done at this hour in the morning, dreaming of the night's adventures. Jemima, efficiently telephoning the hospitals - no, no one of that name admitted since yesterday evening - was vaguely disquieted by Tiger and tried to remind herself that the animal was not only new to her but comparatively new to the Bloomsbury flat. All the same, Tiger's restlessness perturbed her. She began to have a feeling of something not altogether explained quite near them both, the woman and the cat.

  She went through to the large light bathroom with its shadowy flowers on walls and shutters, as though projected imperfectly by an unfocused lens. When she returned to the sitting room she reckoned that it was finally late enough to telephone Isabelle Mancini, the editor of Taffeta, without sounding a note of panic.

  Isabelle Mancini was a notorious gossip. The trouble was that she liked to spend her night hours in company - when taxed on the subject, she was wont to point out that chic loneliness was hardly becoming or even useful to the editor of Taffeta. Gossip was Isabelle's personal contribution to these night marathons. She would certainly regard Jemima's present venture into loneliness as 'utter madness, dulling.'

  This gossip was never intended to be malicious. On the contrary, the creation of legends (living) - that was Isabelle's business, and the business of Taffeta. If trouble was the outcome, no one was more distressed and even injured than Isabelle Mancini. But her very loyalty to Chloe might lead her to broadcast in Tasha's or Dizzy's or one of the other ludicrous smart discos for the young that she affected, that Chloe Fontaine was burdened with aged, tiresome parents 'to whom she was quite wonderful'.

  Isabelle would never have heard of Chloe's parents and so would know nothing of their characters; nevertheless to Isabelle all her geese were swans, and since Chloe had parents, aged parents, apparently poor parents, it must inevitably follow that she was 'wonderful to them'. Jemima thought that Chloe would probably prefer to be spared Isabelle's loyalty on the subject of her parents.

  Isabelle Mancini's private life, or to be more exact, her sexual inclinations, were like those of Valentine Brighton, a subject of occasional amused speculation among her friends. It was generally believed that she had been married, once, long ago, in Paris or possibly Rome, and that Mr Mancini had been abandoned along with residence in these capitals; nowadays she was resolutely Miss Mancini in public.

  What Isabelle patently did admire both in the pages of Taffeta and her own conversation, was the female sex.

  At Taffeta, she patronized women writers, particularly talented women writers who were photogenic, with enthusiasm. Chloe, for example, owed a great deal to Isabelle's encouragement, particularly when her finances were low as in the present instance. So for that matter did Binnie Rapallo, a deliciously pretty photographer who had begun a successful career by celebrating these same writers in Taffeta. Were Isabelle's 'little passions' ever reciprocated? Or did her continuous emphasis on 'loyalty' - 'All my friends are completely loyal to me and of course I'm so loyal to them' - hide an aching heart because 'loyalty' was never equated with love?

  It was Saturday. It was while looking for the telephone directory with Isabelle's home number that Jemima first noticed the piece of bright red paper lying on the carpet near the door. It was square, garish, made of card. Tiger had moved and was crouching near it. For one instant Jemima imagined that he had pushed the card to that position with his paws, had somehow delivered it.

  She picked up the card rather gingerly and turned it over. 'A Splash of Red' was printed in black letters on the other side. Above it the words Aiglon Gallery, directors Crispin Creed, Peter Potter, and below: 'Recent pictures by Kevin John Athlone will be shown at the Aiglon Gallery February 1-28.' It was now August. With relief Jemima realized that she was merely holding an official - and out of date -announcement of an exhibition. It was printed, formal, innocuous. She turned the card over again and saw for the first time that there was a message scrawled along the bottom in bold handwriting: 'Care for a visit?'

  It was by now far too late for any London post. Indeed no letters had arrived that morning; the flat was both too new and too cut-off for that. Letters and circulars, if any, were probably mouldering downstairs in the empty hall with its freshly cut marble floor where a 'grand porter', Chloe had assured her, was shortly to be installed. The thought of this impending porter was not much consolation now, if in the meantime Kevin John Athlone was to be paying her unsolicited visits as and when he wished.

  It struck her that the card must have been delivered while she was in the shadowy bathroom; she could hardly have missed the little red flag on the pale sea of the carpet while she contemplated Tiger's aggressive crouch. The coincidence made her both uncomfortable and angry.

  Jemima would endure no more of this. The Stovers struck some chord in her heart; Kevin John Athlone nothing. Grimly, she went to the door to fling it open and if necessary confront him - only to be checked by the second lock. Jemima remem
bered too late that she needed a key to get out of the flat as well as into it.

  Tiger sidled forward and gave a little plaintive mew beside her, something more like the cry of a baby in distress than the conventional cry of a cat. She was reminded unpleasantly of the cautionary tale of Harriet who played with matches: 'Miaow, Mioo, we told you so.' Perhaps after all it was better to dispose of the Stovers first; undoubtedly they were waiting anxiously by the telephone to hear from her. That meant calling Isabelle Mancini to get some kind of address in the Camargue for Chloe. She only hoped she was in England and not on a Greek island or in the South of France or somewhere else where at this time of year in Isabelle's opinion it was all happening.

  The telephone was answered immediately - but not by Isabelle. 'Miss Shore, Isabelle would just love to talk with you,' said a voice at the other end of the telephone warmly. Either its owner had just visited the United States, or she felt that only this kind of voice was appropriate to one who answered the telephone for the editor of Taffeta. The accent was not quite perfect but the expression of impersonal rapture at the mere sound of Jemima's name was well done - that she, Jemima Shore, should somehow have managed to get through to Isabelle Mancini's number without succumbing to the nameless perils which lay in wait for users of the telephone system! So was the sincerity of the disappointment which followed: 'But I'm afraid Isabelle is not available right now. May I take a message? This is Laura Barrymore, Isabelle Mancini's personal assistant. As of now, I am also her house guest. I am between apartments. I should be so happy.. .'

  'She's in England?' Jemima spoke with relief. It was after all August.

  'Why no, Miss Shore, she's not in England.' For a moment the voice sounded just a little disappointed in Jemima, as though the daring act of telephoning must have slightly blunted her sensitivity. 'Isabelle has been in Paris for the Collections. I meant that she's not available to speak with anyone till noon. She's at L'Hotel, in conference with Princess Wagram, then she would be available to take your call, then she expects to lunch with—' a Japanese name followed. 'She plans to return on Sunday.'

  'Of course,' cried Jemima hastily. Then with all her television warmth, 'I should so hate to bother Isabelle personally at such a critical moment. In fact I naturally did not expect to speak to her. It's just that I'm trying to contact Chloe Fontaine rather urgently. Something to do with the autumn series—'

  'Chloe Fontaine?' The voice was suddenly raised several tones higher and much sharpened; its native South Kensington origin was audible. 'I hardly think that Isabelle would be able to help you with Miss Fontaine's address, Miss Shore.' Warmth had also fled, along with transatlantic softness.

  As sweetly and as rapidly as possible, Jemima explained her mission. The result was surprising. Coldness in the voice gave way to genuine astonishment.

  'A piece on the Camargue? Chloe Fontaine for Taffeta, Miss Shore?' The implication of the last remark was clear: have you, Jemima Shore, made the unforgiveable mistake of confusing Taffeta with Vogue or Harpers & Queen, or Cosmopolitan, or Woman's Journal or - beyond that the possibilities were too horrendous for one such as Laura Barrymore to contemplate. But Jemima knew that she had not made a mistake. She had an excellent memory for that kind of thing. She could hear Chloe's breathless voice: 'Good old Taffeta ... commissioning me', and then: 'Taffeta Schmaffeta, but at least it never lets you down . ..' What interested her was the implication in Laura Barrymore's rapidly rising tone that the very combination in itself of Chloe and Taffeta was unthinkable.

  Jemima had to concede that a commission to Chloe Fontaine, involving both a handsome sum of money advanced and a subsequent rendezvous abroad with a leading photographer, was hardly likely to be quite unknown to Isabelle's personal assistant, one close enough to the editor to be her 'house-guest' while she was 'between apartments'. However, for the sake of the Stovers, she persevered. Laura Barrymore was adamant.

  At the end of Jemima's enquiries, however, Laura clearly felt it necessary to round off the conversation in her warmer manner. 'I should just love to take this opportunity to tell you how I adored your last programme, Miss Shore,' she murmured. 'That twilight home. The old lady and the old gentleman, both knitting, it was his knitting which just reached out to me. Like a Dutch picture sprung to life.' Jemima remembered that particular phrase since it had occurred in the Guardian review, and the paper had also referred to the programme in the third leader. 'A Dutch picture sprung horribly to life, showing the despair masked by an outwardly harmonious composition.' That was how it had actually read.

  Still, it might just be worth making some use of Miss Barrymore's enthusiasm.

  'You've been so kind . . . hardly worth bothering Isabelle with all this ... quite, quite, so busy at this time of year.' She took a breath. 'Just one thing ... I was contemplating, you know, an in-depth profile of Isabelle, allied to the development of Taffeta, in my autumn series. You know, the serious side of fashion ... people never quite realize ... the part played in the British economy, why exports alone ... social significance.' Jemima murmured on, and ended quite quickly: 'The only thing is that I was proposing to invite Chloe Fontaine to write the programme, so much her style in a way, and she brings her own elegance to these things. But if by any chance that would be unacceptable to Isabelle - this conversation is quite between ourselves, naturally.'

  'Believe me,' said Laura Barrymore, 'Miss Fontaine would be quite unacceptable to Miss Mancini. There are some trusts which if betrayed—' She stopped, aware that she had abandoned the swanlike supremacy of the perfect friend and assistant. My God, thought Jemima, so Chloe had quarrelled with Isabelle - the fool, and then to suppose that Taffeta would give her a commission - no, wait a minute, had Chloe ever indeed really tackled Taffeta for work?

  'Particularly from a writer who had been such a very close friend. Isabelle had been so good to her.' Laura Barrymore was continuing as if her indignation would not quite let her stop, despite her better judgement. 'And a writer of Chloe Fontaine's stature. Her previous stature, perhaps I should say. Why did she need to draw on her friends' private lives? Surely her own provides quite enough ... It was so terribly disloyal. And then the letters - Isabelle felt she had been nurturing a viper.'

  My God, thought Jemima again, the novel; the libel which Chloe had dismissed as petty but which worried Valentine Brighton. Chloe's new book must in some way have impinged upon - if that was the right word - the Mancini sensibilities. Disloyalty. No wonder the ultra-loyal Laura Barrymore, the faithful assistant, had frozen at the very notion of Isabelle commissioning Chloe.

  'I am of course Chloe Fontaine's house guest,' Jemima put in as diplomatically as possible at the end of this tirade. The reminder had the desired effect. Laura hesitated.

  'You're actually in her flat? Her new flat? I hadn't quite appreciated—'

  'Exactly.'

  For a moment the honey returned. 'In that case, Miss Shore, it occurrs to me that it might be helpful if I came by, maybe I could talk with you on the subject of Isabelle and Miss Fontaine, put you in the picture—'

  'No, no!' cried Jemima hastily. 'Really, it's of no consequence.' She had absolutely no wish to be further embroiled in Isabelle Mancini's row with Chloe. The solution to what she was rapidly beginning to rate as the Chloe Mystery, certainly did not lie in the files of Taffeta magazine.

  Jemima must now put that mystery away from her thoughts. Easy now to sign off her brief relationship with the Stovers. Clearly Chloe was in some enigmatic way in control of her own destiny. She had lied to Jemima about the Camargue, or at any rate misled her. Undoubtedly for the same strange reason she had also misled her parents. In fact, Jemima reflected wryly at the end of her long-drawn-out telephone call to Isabelle's flat, if anyone had succeeded in disappearing in London without trace, it was Chloe Fontaine rather than Jemima Shore. But that was no longer her concern. It was time to gather a notebook and depart for the British Library.

  When she telephoned Mr Stover and told him that Taffeta ha
d no trace of Chloe's whereabouts, and he must use his own judgement whether to summon the police, Jemima made it clear from her tone that she thought the step unnecessary. Mr Stover too sounded heavier and almost resigned.

  'The wife always said I was too fierce to her on the phone', was his first comment. 'Thank you, Miss Shore, we'll look out for you on television in the autumn. If she does phone you—' He stopped. 'Mrs Stover, she does worry, in spite of everything, she can't help it. But she's led her own life for too long, Dollie, we don't really know her any more. That's what I tell her mother. Now if we'd had one of our own—'

  It seemed an appropriate moment for Jemima to bid them a polite goodbye. She did not expect to hear of or from the Stovers again; she retained a tiny flicker of interest in what would happen to that old, unvisited couple, that worrying old woman, that old man who felt now that he had been too fierce and driven off the golden bird who was their only link with youth. Concentrated study would soon extinguish even that flicker.