Sextet

  ‘I’m going to try, yes.’

  ‘And move to the country too, I hear? Delightful.’

  ‘It’s what I’m hoping to do,’ Lindsay began, now feeling guilty and embarrassed. Emily was morphing again, she could sense it. They were now inching towards duchess, and there were symptoms of Lady Bracknell, too.

  ‘Lindsay thinks the country would be more economical, Em.’

  ‘Economical?’ Emily stared. ‘In my experience, the country is always vastly expensive. All that nature to tame. One never stops writing cheques…’

  ‘I’m only looking for something small,’ Lindsay said, edging towards the door. ‘Just a hovel, really, with…’

  ‘A novel?’ Emily frowned. ‘You’re looking for a small novel? Well, there are plenty of those these days, my dear. I have novels here—you’re very welcome to borrow them. I prefer history—Gibbon, you know. I rarely read fiction, except on airplanes, when I like to get my teeth into something plump and juicy, with lots of that very vulgar gold lettering. Ah, here’s Frobisher. Just trot along with her, my dear, and she’ll help you find your coat. Perhaps you’d like to see the library on your way out? We’ll discuss novels, small or otherwise, some other time. I would value your opinion on Edith Wharton—a great friend of my mother—and Barbara Taylor Bradford, who never fails to amuse, I find…Now, I must just have a brief word with Colin…’

  Game, set and match, Lindsay conceded, as with thanks and courtesies she escaped. Frobisher closed the door firmly, and for some while there was silence in the drawing-room beyond.

  During the silence, Colin walked around in a complete circle. He returned to the chair in which Lindsay had been sitting and sank down in it, clasping his head in his hands. Emily, who had been rocking with silent laughter from the moment Lindsay left, now laughed aloud. She sat down on the sofa, still laughing; she kissed her pug on its crinkled snout, settled it on her lap, and took a congratulatory swallow of bourbon.

  ‘My Lord, I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in ages,’ she remarked. ‘The last time I had that much fun was at Maud Foxe’s funeral. And you enjoyed it too, you wicked boy—so don’t pretend otherwise and don’t glower.’

  ‘Enjoyed it?’ Colin groaned. ‘I was in torment. Torment. Why couldn’t you stick to the script?’

  ‘Because it was too darned boring, and a whole lot less effective than my approach. That was inspired to ask her about the Lawrence woman. I gave a virtuoso performance. I deserve an Academy Award.’

  ‘It was several miles over the top. It was way up in the stratosphere. Why did I let you talk me into this? I should have known you couldn’t be trusted. You know what she’s going to think now? She’s going to think insanity runs in my family. It didn’t occur to you that might be a little counter-productive? Oh God, God, God.’ He rose and began to pace up and down. ‘I was in agony. Poor Lindsay—how could you be so unfair?’

  ‘Poor Lindsay coped very well. Her footwork could have been a little faster, but she has grit. I approve.’

  ‘I told you that. Courage, a kind heart and the most beautiful eyes in the world. Oh God. Give me the verdict. Have I a hope, Em?’

  ‘Fossilized!’ Emily laughed again. ‘I did so enjoy that. She was outraged, you know—quite pink in the face. And I’d put my argument so well.’

  ‘You were intolerable. You put her in an intolerable position. Why, why, why couldn’t you stick to the lines I wrote?’

  ‘Because I’d have learned nothing. Instead of which, and entirely thanks to me, I’ve learned everything I need to know.’

  ‘Oh sure, and she’s learned to hate you. Bloody great. That’s really going to help me. Well done, Em.’

  ‘Nonsense. She’ll come around; she has a generous nature, and next time I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise…’ She paused. ‘Thanksgiving?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Their eyes met. ‘But I’m not sure yet. I’m having to be very, very careful. I’m not going to mess this up, and none of it’s easy. I want…’

  He hesitated. ‘I just want to take her in my arms all the time.’

  ‘So I observed.’

  ‘Oh God, God. You can’t have done. You don’t think she noticed? When I took her hand?’

  ‘Oddly enough, no. But then she doesn’t know you as well as I do…Could you stop walking up and down, Colin? It’s making me quite dizzy.’

  ‘I’ll have to go; she’ll be waiting. Come on, Em, I want to know what you think.’

  ‘We have a couple of minutes. Frobisher will keep her well out of earshot. Why can’t I tell you when you get back from the Pierre? Always assuming, of course, that you do get back from the Pierre…’

  ‘Because I have to know now. Em, please—’

  ‘Have you given her the envelope yet?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. But I’m about to…’ He stopped pacing and his whole demeanour changed. ‘Come on, Em,’ he said, more quietly, ‘put me out of my misery. I’ve made so many bloody mistakes, and this time it really matters. Am I right—yes or no?’

  Emily found herself moved by his pallor and by the expression in his eyes. She knew the answer he wanted, for it was written in every line of his handsome face. Her expression became serious, and she looked at him in silence for some while.

  ‘You’re sure?’ she asked at length.

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘You’ve considered the question of her age?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start on fertility again. It was inexcusable when you did that…’

  ‘Colin, your family have lived at Shute for over four hundred years.’

  ‘I don’t bloody care.’

  ‘There is the entail to consider, Colin.’

  ‘Fuck the entail.’

  Emily sighed. She saw the flash in his eyes as this statement was made and it affected her, since she had a weakness for passion and iconoclasm; she was also devoted to Colin and wished to see him happy, though in her experience, romance and contentment rarely went hand in hand.

  ‘Colin, someone has to say this to you, so I will. She has a son approaching twenty; she may look much younger, but she must be forty at least. You are aware of the biological clock, as I believe it is called these days? Colin, do I have to spell this out to you?’

  ‘No, I’ve already done those calculations.’

  ‘And it doesn’t alter your view?’

  ‘It couldn’t.’ The blood washed up into his face. ‘I love her, Em.’

  Emily sighed. She found her nephew hard to resist when he looked as he did now, and she felt, looking at him fondly, that many women, perhaps even Lindsay, might have shared this view. Colin was indeed chivalric; he rode to the lists careless of the fact that he was vulnerable, and deeply so.

  ‘Well, well—I begin to see that,’ she said quietly. ‘Colin, don’t say any more, it will make me sentimental, and to be sentimental, at this juncture, will be of no assistance at all.’ She sighed again. ‘I’m not going to give you advice. Young men in your condition rarely listen to advice, however wise. And I have to admit, I liked her. The age is a very definite drawback—though, of course, even at forty, or forty-one, there is hope…But in many ways, she is just what you need, and I am not blind to that. She is honest—not an ounce of calculation, I thought. Also quite smart, amusing…Your father would adore her, and I think she would adore him. I can even see her at Shute…’

  ‘So can I.’

  ‘You’re going to have to confess. A palace is a rather different kettle of fish to a hovel, Colin dear.’

  ‘Shute isn’t a palace; it’s my home. And I’m going to explain all that to her…’ Colin, recovering somewhat, gave her a glance that was half-anxious, half-amused. ‘I have it all planned out, Em. I told you, I’m not going to risk losing her. This is a campaign.’

  ‘So I see.’ She laughed. ‘I also see my verdict doesn’t make two cents’ worth of difference. If I’d said the opposite would that have changed your mind?’

  ‘No.’

  ?
??So resolute! Well, well, you’d better go.’

  ‘Do I have a chance, Em?’

  Emily smiled, then sighed. ‘As to that, I never make predictions. She likes you, which can be a good start. I wonder—have you any rivals, though?’

  ‘Oh God, I don’t know. I don’t think so. I can’t believe there aren’t, but she claims there’s no-one…’

  ‘Does she indeed?’ Emily gave Colin a small glance. ‘Well, you’ve always been good at getting your way when it mattered, Colin. You’ve been smart so far, I think…’

  ‘I intend to go on being smart.’

  ‘But I’m not too sure about the platonic approach; I wouldn’t overdo it. Interesting what she said about men who dithered…I’ve always felt that the great secret of seduction is knowing when to make your move. Now, kiss me goodnight, you wicked boy, and don’t keep her waiting any longer. Full speed ahead—’

  ‘Festina lente,’ Colin corrected, the glint of amusement returning to his eyes. ‘Festina very lente for at least the next two weeks. So I’ll be back in half an hour.’

  In the taxi-cab—and Colin proved as expert at summoning cabs as he was at summoning waiters—Colin established a most gentlemanly three inches of seat between them. Lindsay admired this.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so long,’ Colin said. ‘I just had to calm Emily down a bit. She really is worried about the decision tomorrow.’

  ‘She’s obviously going to vote against—’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Ah well. I hope I didn’t upset her. I’m feeling guilty now. I hope I wasn’t too sanctimonious. She’s not young, and it’s predictable she’d feel as she does.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve given her a far harder time. She doesn’t mind, and she loves a good argument. In any case, she liked you. She’s just been singing your praises…’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘No, no, you’re wrong. She thought you were very pretty. She thought you had extraordinary eyes, truly beautiful, candid eyes.’

  ‘Heavens,’ said Lindsay, secretly gratified.

  ‘And then, she admired your dress sense…’ Colin gave her a sidelong glance, suppressing a smile. ‘She particularly liked that white T-shirt thing you’re wearing…’ Lindsay, remembering Pixie’s comments on that T-shirt, blushed in the darkness of the cab.

  ‘She said she liked your voice. She said it had a most attractive catch in it. Your sense of humour, she mentioned that…’

  ‘Stop. Stop. I’ll get swollen-headed.’

  ‘Oh, and when you stood up to her, held your ground—she adored that.’

  ‘Are you sure, Colin? I didn’t get that impression at all.’

  ‘I warned you she was odd—you mustn’t be misled by her manner. Once you know her better, you’ll begin to see—’ He broke off. ‘That is, if you meet her again. I hope you’ll come to like her. She’s a very good judge of character—of everything, in fact. I never make an important decision without consulting her…’

  ‘And do you take her advice?’ Lindsay asked, struck by his tone.

  ‘Not always, but I listen to her views.’ He took Lindsay’s hand in his. ‘So, all in all, she was very glad to have met you.’ He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, then released it. ‘Very glad,’ he repeated.

  Lindsay, thrown by that kiss on the hand, stared at him. Colin, who had been gazing out at the passing streets in an abstracted way, glanced back with a smile.

  ‘And so, in conclusion, she hopes you weren’t too bored by a crotchety octogenarian, and that you’ll visit her again before you leave New York…Ah, the Pierre. Here we are. I’ll just see you safely in. I’ll tell the cab to wait, if I may.’

  Lindsay preceded him into the Pierre. She felt flurried and dazed as a result of that kiss on the hand. The cab actually was waiting, she noted, as Colin completed his negotiations with its driver; that meant that Pixie’s predictions were very wide of the mark.

  Realizing this, Lindsay felt a certain disappointment. She did not want Colin Lascelles to make any advances to her—of course not—and she would certainly have repulsed them had he done so; but after three years of being invisible to Rowland McGuire, it might have been pleasant, she thought, if just one man had found her desirable in a mild way, now and then.

  This evidence of her own triviality and vanity alarmed her; she advanced on the front desk, reprimanding herself. She collected her key, picked up her messages, glanced through them, came to a halt, and made a small moaning sound as Colin Lascelles, appearing agitated, reached her side.

  ‘You’re worrying about the cab,’ Lindsay said, noticing that he looked edgy, even pale. ‘You mustn’t keep it waiting. Thank you, Colin, for a marvellous evening and a delicious dinner—but don’t imagine I’ve forgiven you yet for paying that bill. You broke your word.’

  ‘I said, “It’s a deal”. I didn’t give you my word.’

  ‘Even so, it was cunning and underhand. I shall take you to a burger bar in revenge.’

  ‘I shall keep you to that. Meanwhile, I meant to give you this earlier…’

  He produced an envelope from the breast pocket of his masterly suit.

  ‘For me, Colin? Whatever is it?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Just some photographs that might interest you. I’ve added a note. Let me know what you think. I’ll call you tomorrow. Oh, damn and blast that man…’

  The driver of Colin’s cab had just punched his horn hard, on cue, and exactly as this weird Brit had just tipped him ten dollars to do. As the sound died away, Colin’s blue eyes rested upon Lindsay intently. Drawing her towards him, he kissed her cheek in the most decorous manner possible, thanked her, then turned and disappeared.

  Lindsay retreated to her room, which still smelled of magic unguents, of yams and papaya juice. She leaned against the closed door for several minutes, until her heart rate slowed down. A short while later, she permitted herself to read the only one of her messages of any significance. It informed her that Mr McGuire had called at 11 p.m., and would call again the following morning, at nine, New York time.

  Lindsay kissed this message several times and rescheduled her next morning’s activities in her mind. She reminded herself that, when this call came through, she would rigorously observe her new womanliness and sweetness of tongue. She paced about the room in a fervour; then, discovering that only two minutes and not a lifetime had passed, she examined Colin’s mysterious envelope and opened it.

  Inside was a brief note, in large writing she found difficult to decipher. Eventually she made out the words: ‘This place belongs to someone my father knows,’ she read. ‘It needs a loving tenant, I gather. Rent low. Maintenance negligible. Available now. Terms negotiable, but long let preferred. Could this be of interest? Colin.’

  The style of this note surprised Lindsay, who would not have expected terseness from Colin. Having read it carefully twice, she turned to the enclosed photographs. She stared at them in disbelief, then gave a gasp of delight. They showed an old, beautiful house, of medium size, which might once have housed a farming family. It had a steep lichened roof and walls of honeyed stone. Next to it was an ancient stone barn, in front of which chickens pecked in a perfect courtyard. It had a perfect cottage garden, with hollyhocks and lavender. There was a perfect stream, flowing through a perfect orchard, and the boughs of the trees there were weighted down with ripening apples. Beyond the garden and the orchard, lay the green serenity of English fields, bathed in the gold of an English summer afternoon. ‘Shute Farm,’ Colin had written on the back of one of the pictures. ‘Twenty miles from Oxford.’

  Lindsay could not believe her eyes. It was uncanny how closely this resembled the house of her dreams, as described several times to Colin. When she saw that, although it was not by any manner of means a hovel, it did have a rose, a crimson rose, trained around its door, she surrendered her heart to it.

  She went to bed thoughtful and lay in the dark, suddenly fearful that she might drea
m of those ghosts at the Conrad. But her sleep was benign: she dreamed she was living in the magical house, writing an inspired biography, enjoying frequent visits from those two good friends, Colin Lascelles and Rowland McGuire. One afternoon, under those boughs of ripening apples in that orchard, Colin proposed to her again. This time, he was sober, and this time the proposal was witnessed by a silent Rowland McGuire. Lindsay was plucking an apple, and just about to give Colin her answer, when the dream took a new turn.

  At the Conrad, Colin Lascelles did not even attempt sleep; in a fervour from that kiss on the cheek, in an agony of suspense as to Lindsay’s reaction to the photographs, he felt it unlikely he would ever sleep again. He left Emily, together with Frobisher, to watch a late movie on television—it was one of their favourites, Terminator II. He retired to his own rooms at the far end of Emily’s very large and labyrinthine apartment. There, he paced up and down, tried to work, failed to work, discovered an urgent need to express himself, and picked up paper and pen. He wrote a long and impassioned letter to Lindsay Drummond, baring his heart. He covered six pages in his large sprawl, reread them, found them ill-phrased and inadequate, and decided instead to write to Rowland McGuire. He penned five pages to Rowland, explaining how grateful he felt to him for bringing the miracle of Lindsay his way, then decided in mid-sentence that this confession might be premature.

  Rowland was discreet, it was true; indeed, he was one of the most discreet men Colin had ever known, remaining as reserved and silent on the subject of his own affairs as he was on those of his friends. He was, however, an old friend and colleague of Lindsay; it was not impossible they would be in communication during her stay in New York, and not entirely impossible that Rowland might let something slip in conversation. Better to wait and apprise Rowland of his hopes, fears and joys later, he decided, remembering that he had already, some days before, sent Rowland a postcard that was somewhat over-emotional in tone. He reread what he had written and found both letters weighty with adverbs. They had tried to cure Colin of adverbs at his public school; now a rash of them had broken out. There was ‘deeply’ and ‘tenderly’ and ‘unbelievably’ and ‘eternally’ just in the space of two lines.