‘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 Mar
kov’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.
‘Good news, Col,’ he announced, glancing away from Gini for a second. ‘I’ve been on to that maid of Emily’s, what’s her name? The dragon woman…’
‘Frobisher. And she isn’t a maid. She—’
‘Dear heart, I’m joining you for dinner—isn’t that splendid? Can’t wait. Ah, the champagne. Waiter, well done…Who wants my autograph? What, that young woman over there? Of course. Tell her I’ll be delighted. I’ll pop over in a second and have a word. Fans!’ He gave the silent group a look of humble resignation. ‘Can’t escape them, I’m afraid. Terrible nuisance—still, grin and bear it, eh? What was I saying, Gini? Oh yes, your piece on Natasha—awfully good. You lady journalists terrify me…What? Yes, we start filming any day now…No, not the husband, rather a dreary role, the husband, I think…I’m playing Gilbert Markham—the lover. Fascinating character. Difficult. Tremendous challenge. Rather dark. Sensitive. Immensely complex, of course. I wasn’t too sure it was me, but Tomas twisted my arm…’
From across the table, Colin caught Lindsay’s eye. He put his hands around his own throat, stuck his tongue out, rolled his eyes and gave a graphic impression of a man dangling from the end of a hangman’s noose. Nic Hicks, moving into overdrive, with his name-dropping rate up to three a minute and accelerating, did not notice this. Markov shot Colin a look of sly amusement; Rowland gave a chilly smile, and Lindsay, who wanted to scream or cry, began to laugh instead.
It was Jippy who finally procured Lindsay’s release. He had remained silent since Lindsay’s arrival, his anxious gaze moving slowly around the group, a sickly greenish pallor settling upon his face. Markov, attuned to his responses, could sense his growing agitation. He saw him look from Rowland to Pascal, and then, fixedly, at a space to the right of Pascal’s chair, where nobody stood. Jippy looked at this space for some while, his expression sad; then, as if following the movements of some invisible person, his gaze travelled around the group, coming to rest upon Lindsay. Markov saw his lips move and leaned closer to him, taking his hand. ‘What is it, Jippy?’ he whispered. ‘Try and tell me…’ Jippy fixed him with a beseeching gaze. His lips and tongue fought the word, and the word would not be said. It began with a ‘p’, Markov could hear that much; Jippy struggled.
‘P-p-para—’ he whispered. Markov squeezed his hand, trying to decode this. Paranormal? Paratrooper? Parasol? Parasite? Parapet? Paradox? He could think of nothing that made the least sense. He looked at Pascal Lamartine’s tense figure; he too had said virtually nothing; his cool grey gaze rested on the figure of Rowland McGuire, seated next to Lindsay. Rowland, who appeared blind and deaf, looked as if he were standing on the edge of some cliff, undecided whether to leap from it or step back. Next to him, Lindsay was making a frantic and nervous attempt to prevent conversation from flagging. She had been discussing the weather for the last five minutes, in the desperate manner of one who, if need be, could discuss its minutiae for the rest of the night. Jippy’s hand gave a small jerk.
‘Paracetemol,’ he said, to Markov, in a low clear voice. Markov gave him a startled look, then, interpreting this as best he could he leaned across to Lindsay.
‘Darling,’ he said, ‘I think I’m going to whisk Jippy away. He has a migraine—and it’s getting worse…’
Lindsay embraced Jippy, to whom she had never felt more grateful, and sprang to her feet.
‘We should go too,’ she said hastily, looking at Gini.
‘Colin, I’ll just fetch my coat…’
Gini also rose. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said.
They left before anyone else could argue or intervene; crossing the crowded room, Lindsay glanced back once. She saw Rowland McGuire rise and then, in a deliberate way, move across and sit down next to Pascal Lamartine. Gini also saw this, and came to a halt in the entrance; Lindsay, agitated and distressed, caught hold of her by the wrist and pulled her into the lobby.
‘Let Rowland speak to him,’ she said. ‘Gini, don’t go back. Rowland will explain—he’ll tell him he had no idea you were going to be here tonight. Oh, Gini, I’m so sorry. I’m so terribly sorry. I didn’t know Rowland was coming—I promise you. I’d never have let this happen…Quick, let’s go upstairs. My coat’s in my room anyway…’
Lindsay ran up the stairs to the first floor, Gini following her more slowly. Entering her room, Lindsay saw with relief that the maids had been in during her absence; the tumbled bed was remade, at least. It had been turned down for the night, but two chocolates had been laid out on the two pillows, Colin’s shirt was draped across the back of a chair and a pair of Lindsay’s stockings was dangling from the back of another. The room still sang of intimacy, and Lindsay began to blush.
Gini followed her into the room, her manner tense. She looked at the ridiculous chocolates, the pillows, the bed. Without saying a word, she moved across to the windows, parted the curtains and looked out.
‘It’s still snowing,’ she said, in a flat voice. She drew in her breath and turned around. Lindsay saw that her hands were unsteady and her eyes unnaturally bright.
‘So—Rowland must have told you about Paris then?’ she said.
‘No, of course not.’ Lindsay’s colour deepened. ‘He would never do that, Gini. I was there. It was obvious.’
‘Was it?’
‘Oh, Gini, you know how it is. One look at his face; one look at yours. Don’t let’s talk about this. It’s none of my business. It was a long time ago…’
‘I loved Rowland. In a way, I did. I haven’t seen him since then—not once.’ Gini gave a helpless gesture of the hands. ‘And now—Pascal will be so furious. He’s never really forgiven me, you see. It was all so fraught. Pascal found out—did yo
u realize? He walked in on us in our room at that hotel…’ She hesitated. ‘There was this terrible scene; I thought they were going to fight one another. It was I who had to decide in the end. I broke it off, not Rowland. Rowland was devastated. Devastated. And now, tonight—he scarcely said one word to me…’
‘Please, Gini. I don’t want to hear this. I—Look, I’m just going to try Tom in Oxford once more. I’ve been trying to get him all evening. Then I’ll have to go…’ She moved past her friend and began dialling. She listened to the number ringing in Oxford—it was one o’clock in the morning in Oxford now. She let it ring and ring, then gently replaced the receiver.
‘It was all so complicated. And so painful. The worst moment of my whole life…’ Gini said, as if there had been no interruption. Tears had come to her eyes; Lindsay looked at her uncertainly, wishing she could have reached Tom, knowing that just the sound of her son’s voice would have eased her confusion and distress.
‘Oh, what am I going to do now? What am I going to say to Pascal?’ Gini covered her face with her hands. ‘He can be so jealous, Lindsay…’
‘Just tell him the truth,’ Lindsay said. ‘There’s a simple explanation, Gini. He’ll understand. Look, I’m sorry, but I must go—’
‘I still don’t know why I let any of it happen,’ Gini continued, as Lindsay opened the closet and took out her funereal coat. ‘I look back, and I can’t understand—I must have made a decision, there must have been a moment when I thought “Yes”…But why? It caused so much harm. Was it just because he was there at that particular time? Maybe it was just his appearance…’ She paused. ‘I hope it wasn’t that. But he is so—I’d forgotten how handsome he is…’
‘It isn’t just his looks.’ Lindsay turned away. ‘You know that as well as I do. Gini, don’t pursue this—’