“Okay, then.” She added, looking around, her gaze taking in Ophelia and Clerihew, among others, “Shouldn’t we ask—?”
“No,” said Andrew hurriedly, pulling the sort of face she imagined he might pull should a nineteen-stone Turkish masseur produce the house’s antique anal dildo.
The Mitre, the usual venue for Friday drinks, was an old-fashioned sort of pub, replete with inglenooks and etched glass and complicated lighting arrangements, vaguely suggestive of, without being remotely connected to, gas. The whole thing dated to 1997. Alice hadn’t been through its swinging doors for a long time. She’d forgotten how strangely comforting a place it was, as long as you avoided the toilets.
“What’ll you have?” asked Andrew, bending companionably toward her, before adding, “Holy ger-shite, you really couldn’t wait, could you?”
Startled, Alice looked at Andrew and then followed his line of sight to the bar, where a darkly dressed, slightly hunched man was sitting. The figure turned from his beer and bent his face into what Alice assumed was a smile, although the arrangement of features could almost as easily have stood in for a range of other expressions: horror, rank disgust, rage, coital disappointment. The voice, when it came, changed her perception entirely. It was like cello music.
“Now there is only one person in the entire world that you could be, given that this is the world of concrete and plastic and junk food and aerosols and boy bands and Lycra. If we were in the world of poesy, you could, of course, as readily be HéloÏse or Laura or the divine Francesca.”
As the man spoke he slid along the bar slowly toward Alice, without standing up, his motion curiously but not creepily serpentine, his black eyes fixed intently on hers, threaded, she suddenly thought, upon one double string. And then he broke off the gaze. “Will that do you, Andy, old chum?” He turned back to her again. “He said to lay it on thick.”
“I was thinking more of tempera than stucco. Poesy? Christ, Leo, sometimes I wonder.”
Alice found that she was smiling. “So you’re the famous Leo. Nice to meet you.”
Alice stuck out a hand, which Leo, looking amused, took.
“As I seem to be nearest the bar,” he said, “why don’t I get the drinks in?”
In the hour before the others began to arrive, Andrew and Leo engaged in the sort of competitive male bantering that Alice had only seen before from a distance. Most of their jokes were barely penetrable to an outsider, and they made few allowances for the fact that she might not be intimately acquainted with the triumphs of Leo’s love life or the disasters that seemed comically to litter Andrew’s. It was expected that she would have read (or at least heard of) the books that they had read, and equally expected that she would find their insights into these works appropriately insightful. At no stage did it appear that she was expected to contribute anything beyond admiring gasps, enthusiastic nodding, or appreciative laughter.
Although it was far from boring—indeed, flattering, as she could sense that the performance was for her sake—her mind did begin to wander, not so much away from the boys as above them. She decided to try to think scientifically about the phenomenon, and thinking scientifically was a habit she had lost during her time at Enderby’s, so it took some effort. She considered the enchanting bower birds, where the male, rather than dressing himself in gaudy plumes, will make intricate structures from stones and twigs and woven grasses that the female, like a cultured critic, will study and assess before tipping the wink to the winner. She thought about lions, killing and devouring the young of their deposed rivals to ensure that the lionesses will come into heat and allow them to further their genetic ambitions. She thought about the frantic promiscuity of chimps, and the contrasting melancholy brooding of male gorillas, never quite sure when their nuclear family will be hijacked by a bold nephew or an interloping silverback from the next valley.
But it was all no good. How did it help her to understand these two men, so companionable and yet so competitive, each prepared to ridicule and embarrass the other just to gain her favor? All you could ever find in nature were analogues: bits of behavior that looked similar and might tempt you into seeing a common cause at work. But what you really needed were homologues—evidence of the related genes doing the same job across the two species.
And then, as her mind ran through the alternatives, racing back through her deliberations to fill in the complicating and contradictory arguments, Alice felt the sudden burning wish to be back in the sphere of scientific research, back in a world where knowledge mattered, where problems could be solved if only you devoted enough time and effort, where there were more important things than empty titles and country houses and exquisite old books. It hadn’t happened for a year. Pain and longing and anguish had suffocated her science, but here it was, gasping and stuttering back to life.
SHORTLY AFTERWARD, THE office began to arrive. The secretaries and support staff were moderately glammed up but most of the experts were still tweeded and frowsty, except, of course, for Ophelia. Most had not, in fact, brought partners. Oakley’s wife appeared, walking like an ostrich, almost to the point of her knees going the wrong way. Her face wore the expression of someone about to be given an award she hadn’t expected and didn’t want, and her hair looked like yellow cotton candy molded by a KGB operative.
“Phwoar!” said Leo, frothing his beer. Andrew had begun to do a little initial circulating, leaving Alice and Leo temporarily alone. Alice wasn’t sure if the phwoar had been a comic one aimed at Oakley’s extraordinary spouse or a real one intended for Ophelia but given a comic camouflage.
“Andrew told me you carry a knife.”
“Really? I must be more discreet with that boy. Did he also tell you about my flame thrower and collection of Victorian pornography?”
“It seems rather a rash thing to do. The knife, I mean. Isn’t it illegal? Can I see it?”
“Look,” he said seriously. “It’s not a switchblade or a hunting knife or any kind of stabbing-people-in-a-pub-brawl kind of knife. It’s a rather beautiful Renaissance stiletto, and I carry it around because—” Leo stopped, and then went on. “Because it’s just a nice thing to have.”
“Okay,” said Alice, aware she had trampled on some unsuspected area of sensitivity. She’d assumed that so odd a thing as going around armed might be something Leo would want to talk about. She supposed he’d have a funny story about it.
“Who’s that vain-looking woman over there, ignoring poor old Andy?”
“Oh, her. That’s Ophelia. Nominally our art-books expert. I expect you’re in love with her already. It’s usually the way.”
“So that’s the fatal Ophelia. Yes, I think I probably am. Why not introduce us?”
Leo had been sitting on a bar stool, and Alice was amazed to find he was no taller than she when he stood up. Sitting over the bar had also gone some way to disguising the fact that he was strangely ill knit, not twisted or handicapped in any way, just somehow not quite optimally put together. Had he been less fierce, less caustic, or moved with less swagger, Alice might have pitied him.
Andrew had been talking animatedly to Ophelia, an animation she passively absorbed, reserving movement for one arched eyebrow. As they approached, Andrew said excitedly, “Ah, Leo, I was just talking about you. Why don’t you meet Ophelia. You’d never guess it, but she’s actually one of our experts.”
Ophelia looked sharply at Andrew, before deciding that he had probably meant it as a compliment.
“So, an expert,” said Leo, looking up into Ophelia’s wonderful eyes. “Isn’t that someone who’s made all the mistakes there are to be made in a very narrow field?”
“I know that, I know that!” said Andrew, making little jumps. “Niels Bohr, the physicist, right?”
“Or is it someone who knows more and more about less and less? I forget.”
There was a strange little silence after that, as Andrew searched in vain for the origin of the quote, and Ophelia looked at Leo, her face as blank and
fearfully beautiful as a pharaoh’s.
Even Alice, who had only just met Leo, could sense that there was something false about Leo’s display of borrowed wit. It didn’t fit at all well with his otherwise menacing originality of thought. Ophelia surprised her by speaking.
“And what do you do, little-friend-of-Andrew?” As she said it, a lovely smile shimmered across her face, taking, Alice thought, much of the sting away from the little. Perhaps Ophelia was going to be nice.
“Oh, I’m—er—” Leo stumbled slightly over his words.
“Let me see,” cut in Ophelia. “yes, I have a . . . hunch.”
Leo’s lips had been about to frame something, Alice assumed, witty and appropriate, triumphantly regaining lost ground. She didn’t think he had any chance with Ophelia, but she wanted him to keep his dignity and even, she hoped, in an unaccustomed spurt of playful malice, knock Ophelia down a peg or two. But at the word hunch, Leo’s mouth froze.
“Nothing rings a bell,” continued Ophelia, the smile still lingering but its true meaning now apparent.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Ophelia?” said Andrew, clearly a little too drunk, even this early in the evening, to realize what was happening.
Again Ophelia spoke. “You’ve come a long way for a drink, haven’t you—er, what was it? Leo. Is Notre Dame on the tube these days?”
Two or three other people who’d been standing around chatting began to pay attention, aware that something interesting might be happening.
Still Leo did not reply.
“I’m sorry, perhaps I was being a little vague,” said Ophelia, sweetening her smile once more. “If only I had one of my ponies here, perhaps you’d allow me to swap it for your kingdom?”
At last Leo spoke, slowly and quietly, but with total clarity: “No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.”
“If you’re calling me a beast, O little-friend-of-Andrew, perhaps you should look in the mirror.”
It was the immense girlishness of this last comment, its very lack of sophistication or polish, that made Alice see clearly what Ophelia was doing. She had assumed that Ophelia’s spite—what might be called her humor—had been for the benefit of those around, a public display of offensiveness intended in some way to enhance her reputation or at least diminish another’s. This was, of course, no defense, but it gave the wickedness a human face; it was part of the long bitter wrangle of mankind. But no. This was something different. This was not intended to amuse or to affect, in some way subtle or crude, the public perceptions of the onlookers. This was a totally private spite, the simple and efficient delivery of pain with a sublime purity of malice: hurt for hurt’s sake. It was then that Alice decided to hit Ophelia. She took a step forward, with every intention of slapping Ophelia as hard as she could, and then her eye caught Leo’s. She found there not anger, or even sadness, but a look of resignation and defeat, a look that said this was what he expected from life. Ophelia had already dismissed Leo from her mind and was turning to talk to one of her handmaidens, a secretary called Anita.
Acting on impulse, Alice placed her fingers quickly on Leo’s wrist and, putting her lips close to his ear, whispered, “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”
He spun away as if she’d yelled an obscenity in his ear and then paused, blinking. Alice saw the courage and strength with which he regained a measure of control.
He smiled a smile like a fissure in a rock and said, “What, my round again? What is it about you book people? Still, as the old poof said, ale’s the stuff to drink, for fellows whom it hurts to think.”
Andrew, who’d remained motionless throughout the exchange with Ophelia, suddenly flew into action, sweeping both Leo and Alice back to the bar.
“Well, that was fun, eh?” he said, looking carefully at Leo.
There was a silence, perhaps only three seconds, but long enough to make its presence felt, before Leo replied. “Quite a girl. Just the sort of challenge I appreciate.”
Despite the bravado, Alice could tell that Leo had been cut deeply by Ophelia’s words. She guessed that his stature and his slight crookedness would have made him an easy target at school, but as an adult it must be rare for him to encounter that kind of attack. His black eyes had acquired a deep-blue iridescence, like the wing cases of a beetle, although the clinical side of Alice knew that must be a reflection from the blue neon behind the bar. She could taste the dull metallic tang in his mouth, feel the tightening of his scalp, the tingling at his fingertips. Drinks came, and Leo drank back a pint of beer and a vodka chaser before she or Andrew had swallowed more than a mouthful.
The pub was now packed. Apart from the odd City type, everyone seemed to be from Enderby’s. Many of those who hadn’t brought partners had invited friends from other departments, so there was a smattering of half-familiar faces: the nasty old lady who dealt with ancient teddy bears and battered toy cars, a large woman in long earrings from Fabrics, a Porcelain man.
People kept waving and gesturing to Andrew, and he obviously felt it was time to circulate. He said to Leo, “Come on, old chum, let me introduce you to someone who isn’t a bitch. There’s a mate of mine from Paintings who’d actually enjoy hearing your theories about art, unlike the rest of us poor shags.”
“Just give me a minute or two to get properly shit-faced, will you, Andrew? I’m being summoned by Bell’s at the moment.”
Andrew looked uncertainly at his friend. “Okay. Why don’t I leave my esteemed colleague with you to catch the overspill?” He glanced quickly at Alice but managed to convey to her a reasonably complex message, along the lines of If you keep an eye on him and try to be nice and don’t let him get falling-down drunk, I’ll owe you a favor the size of Alaska.
ALICE WAS ABOUT to introduce Leo to some people she knew when she suddenly caught sight of Odette, whom she’d completely forgotten about, coming tentatively through the door. She caught her eye and waved, summoning her over, but also went to meet her halfway. They kissed warmly.
“Thank God you’re here,” said Alice. “This is already the most complicated social event I’ve ever been to, and it’s only seven o’clock. I think I need some of your clarity of thought and unflappability. There’s a fellow I need some help with. I’ve never met him before tonight myself—he’s a friend of Andrew, who you already know about, and I’ve been sort of taking care of him, which is a bit like the rabbit taking care of the fox. He’s—oh, God, come and see for yourself!”
“Well!” said Odette, with enthusiasm. “This all seems very interesting. I was expecting a quiet glass of sherry with the tweedies, where the most avant-garde happening would be someone buying a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps, rather than plain. But by the sound of it I’ve walked into a battlefield.”
By the time Alice led Odette back to the bar, Leo had gone, and the pub was too crowded for Alice to spot him immediately.
“Oh,” said Alice. “I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. I’m sure you’ll get to meet him sooner or later. In the meantime let’s have a nice girlie chat.”
“I’d love a quick rundown on this lot,” said Odette, nodding toward the crowd. “I can’t quite figure them at first glance. One of the things about working in the City was that everyone looked exactly the same, but here—well, without going overboard on the individuality, there at least seems to be more than one tribe.”
“That,” said Alice, with something of the refined Edinburgh lilt of Mr. Crumlish, “is because we have, displayed before us, the Toffs, the Tarts, and the Swots, not to mention our solitary Oik.” She cured Odette’s puzzled look by explaining about her initiation, all those long months ago.
Meanwhile, Andrew was trying hard to charm Mrs. Oakley, who, disappointingly, was called not Annie but Dorothea. She was giving a very good impression of thinking he was an escaped serial killer or at the very least someone likely to give her low-hanging breasts a quick tweak should she drop her guard. In his battle for hearts and minds, Andrew
had tried flattering her person but got no further than “Oh, I think your dress really is awfully . . .” before radio silence descended on his creative faculties. He then switched to being nice about Oakley, which was even more of a challenge to his ingenuity. “Yes, no one has ever disputed his . . . erm . . . er, watchfulness. Um . . . his tremendous sense of—” Of what? How to combine being a stickler for the irrelevant minutiae of office life with a complete inability to grasp what was significant? His way of inciting both fear and pity? How to mix a metaphor like a martini? (Who could forget his injunction that they should all be singing from the same level playing field?)
Thankfully, Clerihew arrived just then to relieve him of the need to complete his sentence. “On the stump, eh, Andy?” he said, beaming. “And trust you to pick on the pretty ones.”
Andrew made an audible scoffing noise, but slightly misjudged his airway management procedures and expelled a small amount of mucus from one nostril. Luckily he had a hanky, and was fairly sure that no one had noticed the accident, until he saw Dorothea Oakley’s face, half of which was given over to evident disgust at his display and half to a tittering, hideously girlish appreciation of Clerihew’s fawning compliment.
“Oh, Cedric,” she said, fanning herself with a heavily ringed hand, “you really mustn’t be so gallant. What would Colin say?”
“Well, Dorothea,” Clerihew replied, standing to a sort of attention, which involved an attempted redistribution of body mass from abdomen to thorax, “so long as he doesn’t say I can never again eat your simply wonderful food, he can punish me as he pleases. Your Sunday roast is the finest I’ve ever tasted, and I stand by that even though it would break Mother’s heart to hear it.”
So, thought Andrew, the little shit’s wormed his way into the Oakley family home. Christ, that’s what I call ambition. Well, if the gloves are off, let’s see what we can do.
“I thought, Clarence, that you were a vegetarian? Didn’t you make some big fuss about the canteen not having any tofu?” he said, clutching at straws.
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