Lovers and Liars Trilogy

by Sally Beauman

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Lindsay interrupted hotly. ‘You scarcely know Markov. He’s changed a lot since he met Jippy. He’s a good, clever man, and I’ve known him for fifteen years, Rowland. I adore Markov, so you can just stop this…’

  ‘I don’t deny any of that,’ Rowland cut across her. ‘Will you listen? I said Markov is irresponsible, and if you think for ten seconds, you’ll know I’m right…You’ve always been blind to Markov’s faults—’

  ‘Shall we have some more wine?’ Colin interrupted, signalling to the waiter. ‘Rowland, why don’t you calm down? I—’

  ‘Just stay out of this, Colin. Listen to me, Lindsay. Markov loves nothing better than stirring up trouble; he’s an inveterate meddler, and he loves a drama. Is Markov going to worry if a job falls through? If you’re out of work? All he’s interested in is gestures and schemes…’

  ‘Just a minute, Rowland. Could I speak?’

  ‘And you, for some reason I’ll never damn well understand, actually listen to Markov. He comes to you with some hare-brained plot and you buy it. He says “Jump”, and you jump. That man has an irrational, disproportionate influence over you, Lindsay, and I can hear him talking now. California-speak. “Fulfilment”? “Challenges”? Give me a break.’

  ‘Damn it, Markov has nothing to do with this,’ Lindsay snapped. ‘And yes, I will have some more wine, Colin, thank you. Amazing as it may seem to you, Rowland, I made this decision on my own—without your help; without Markov’s help. I didn’t need your advice then and I don’t want it now. Stop being so damn pompous. What gives you the right to run my life?’

  The final question silenced Rowland, who had been about to interrupt. Possibly her remarks hurt him, Lindsay thought, at once regretting them. Rowland coloured, then turned away. From inside the hot swell of anger within her, she felt misery and shame welling up. Why, why, why did I do this, she thought. For several reasons, as Rowland had implied, she owed him a better explanation than this. Now, at a table with three other people present, and with a pleasant lunch irretrievably ruined, she could see no way of retracting that last unjust statement, or making amends. Then she realized that the reactions of the three other people present were rather different to her imaginings. Tom and Katya, she saw, were suppressing smiles; Colin Lascelles, who had seemed somewhat anxious, was refilling glasses; catching Tom’s eye, he winked.

  ‘Cat and dog,’ Tom said. ‘Tooth and claw. Argue, argue, argue. Sorry, Colin, they always do this.’

  ‘They never agree on anything,’ Katya put in. ‘Not a movie, or a play, or a book.’

  ‘She tells him he’s interfering…’

  ‘And arrogant, Tom. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘He accuses her of—What does he accuse her of, Katya?’

  ‘I’ve lost count. Not listening. Not thinking. Talking too much. Being a typical woman—that’s certainly come up.’

  ‘Wasn’t he domineering? Blind? Insensitive?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Katya made a delicate pause. ‘And there, of course, Lindsay was right.’

  ‘He had a point too; Mum does talk. Never draws breath.’

  ‘Oh, Rowland does as well,’ Colin said, joining in with a smile. ‘He may take time to warm up, and he may choose his company, but once Rowland starts talking, there’s no stopping him. Opinions too. When I first met Rowland, he was insufferable. If you coughed, he had an opinion. If you sneezed, he had an opinion. My sister, who was once very much in love with Rowland, used to say that…’

  ‘Enough. That’s it. Stop it right there…’ Rowland raised his voice. ‘We get the point.’

  He hesitated, then smiled, then extended his hand to Lindsay across the table. His green eyes rested thoughtfully, but no longer coldly, on her face.

  ‘I was wrong. I’m sorry, Lindsay. I wish you every possible good in anything you may do. I hope you know that.’

  ‘I’m sorry too. I take back what I said.’

  Lindsay clasped his hand; the handshake that then followed was so warm, so friendly, so fraternal, that Lindsay wanted to weep on the spot. Since she could not weep, she drank another glass of wine, and since that made her feel extraordinarily strengthened, another after that.

  She waited until conversation resumed and the atmosphere eased. She waited until Rowland, Katya and Tom became embroiled in an argument first about books, then Thomas Court’s Willow Song, its connections to Dead Heat, and the significance of the spider sequence.

  Katya was speaking with force; Lindsay sometimes suspected that Katya felt challenged by Rowland’s Oxford first; always trenchant, she tended to become more so when Rowland was present; indeed Tom had once accused her of showing off. Now, she whipped Othello into the argument, then harnessed Freud; she crunched Tomas Court’s view of women under her chariot wheels, then quoted some German philosopher Lindsay had never heard of, at length. Rowland listened patiently enough until Jung’s aid was also marshalled, at which, seconded by Tom, he launched a counterattack.

  The air in the room was altering, Lindsay thought; cigarette smoke, perhaps; anyway, it was now eddying pleasantly, and was assuming a mauvish hue, wafting like mist. Realizing there was a key question she needed to ask, she turned back to the amiable, blue, innocent eyes of Colin Lascelles, and interrupted him.

  ‘Tell me all about your sister, Colin,’ she said.

  Colin did tell her all about his sister, and very interesting it was. This subject, and variations upon it, opened a door, she found. Through that door, Lindsay began to see a younger Rowland McGuire, a different Rowland McGuire. She was busily inspecting these Rowlands, and trying to work out how they related to the Rowland she knew, although, of course, she did not know him enough, when she realized that other, less metaphorical doors must have opened, since they were no longer in the restaurant, but walking past glorious buildings, in a now darkening street. She was arm in arm with Colin Lascelles; he was leading her through a gateway, advancing into a large, misty quadrangle; there were lighted windows, dark-gowned, hurrying figures; a chapel bell was tolling.

  ‘It was here! It was on this exact spot!’ Colin, releasing her arm, waved his own like a windmill, ‘Chateau Margaux 1959! Two and a half bottles! And I was still standing up. Then I started to topple—very slowly, like a great pine; an eight-hundred-foot pine. I’d braved the storms for thousands of years, and then some giant took an axe to my roots. One blow! That’s all it took. It took me a century to fall. I could see the paving-stones coming up…and then Rowland caught me. He saved me! He’s been saving me ever since. It’s thanks to Rowland that at this exact moment my life makes perfect sense! I have to thank him. Where is he? He was here a second ago…’

  Colin whirled about, arms semaphoring. Rowland, who was standing two feet away, watching this performance with Tom and Katya, moved forward and caught hold of his arm firmly.

  ‘Tom, we may have a problem,’ he said.

  ‘That was a wonderful speech, Colin,’ Lindsay said, with warmth. ‘I can see it. I can imagine it. Was it a cold night?’

  ‘Cold? Bitterly cold. The witching hour! It was three o’clock in the morning. The night was pitch-black…’

  ‘It was June. You take his other arm, Tom,’ Rowland said.

  ‘A pilgrimage!’ Colin shrugged off these arms and took Lindsay’s instead. ‘I have to explain! Oh, God, God. Lynne, there’s another place I have to show you. It’s not far. It’s on the way back. It’s just round this corner and up the street…’

  It was neither around the corner, nor up the street, but they eventually found it. In an ecstasy, Colin paused on a bridge.

  ‘Lisa,’ he said, clasping Lindsay’s hands, ‘you have wise eyes, d’you know that? You have these beautiful wise, sad, grey eyes. I could look at your eyes all night.’

  ‘Thank you, Colin.’ Lindsay hugged him. ‘I think they’re grey too—in certain lights.’

  ‘They’re brown,’ said Tom. ‘Give me strength.’

  ‘Or hazel,’ said Rowland, his manner med
itative. ‘Tom, you know that sofa in your room? Well, I rather think…’

  ‘Down here, darling!’ Colin plunged towards some steps. He helped Lindsay down them with great gallantry. Lindsay found herself on what might have been a tow-path. It was very dark. She could smell river water, and then see the gleam of light on its surface.

  ‘This is the canal! Do you see those barges, Linda? Can you see the barges up ahead?’

  Lindsay found she could see them.

  ‘People live on these barges, Lynne. It’s just along here. It’s this one. No, that one! That’s it! The one with poppies painted on it. Well, on this barge here, lived a most beautiful woman. She was a painter, I think. My Lady of Shalott. She had long golden hair. What was her name, Rowland?’

  ‘I forget.’

  ‘This was a long time ago, Lisa—you do understand that?’

  ‘I do. Years and years ago, Colin.’ Lindsay leaned over the water. Rowland pulled her back.

  ‘Exactly. Decades. And this beautiful girl—I was mad about her. Completely mad. Obsessed. This was when I was an undergraduate—before I met you, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I wrote sonnets! Songs! I dreamed about her every night! If I saw her for two seconds, I was happy for a week…’

  ‘A month.’ Lindsay gave a deep sigh. ‘Longer, sometimes…’

  ‘You understand! I knew you would.’ Colin embraced her tenderly. ‘I wrote her letters, Lindsay…’

  ‘But you never sent them…’

  ‘You’re right! It felt like spring!’

  ‘It did. April. Did it feel like April, Colin?’

  ‘Like April. Like the darling buds of May. I could do anything. I had all this energy…’

  ‘You wanted to dance? Sometimes you wanted to dance?’

  ‘I did. Then I’d weep. Just once or twice.’

  ‘Occasionally, Colin. You wept occasionally, when despair hit.’

  ‘That’s it! Despair! Oh God, God. I’d forgotten that. But I despaired all the time, because she didn’t love me; she loved someone else. It was hell. Unmitigated hell, now I look back.’

  ‘Oh, Colin.’ Lindsay put her arms around him. She looked at him very closely. The tow-path was beginning to ripple pleasantly. Colin put his arms around her waist. ‘Colin, that’s so sad. I know exactly how that feels. Tell me, did you get this sort of ache?’

  ‘In the heart? Yes, I did. But none of that matters now, Lindy, because…Oh God. You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. What shall we do? Shall we sit down? Walk? Talk? I want to talk to you all night. There’s something I have to tell you…’

  ‘Time to go, Colin.’ Rowland had been listening to this exchange with the closest attention. Now, as Lindsay and Colin began to sit down on the edge of the barge, he took Colin’s arm in a firm grip. He led him towards the steps.

  ‘Up you go, Colin. No, no arguments. Tom, if you pull him, and Katya, you push…That’s it. Well done. Your room’s not far, luckily. You go on ahead with him…Now, Lindsay, these steps are a bit slippery.’

  ‘They’re not.’

  ‘It’s deceptive. The light here’s not too good. If I just took your arm, perhaps? There. You see? Now, take hold of my hand…’

  ‘You have very nice hands, Rowland. They’re warm. I noticed your hands the first time I met you; they’re strong. Strong hands.’

  ‘It’s the climbing, I expect.’

  ‘I worry about the climbing.’ Lindsay came to an abrupt halt on the bridge. ‘Where’s Colin?’

  ‘He’s gone on ahead. Don’t worry about Colin.’

  ‘All right, but I do worry about the climbing. I was worried last night, that’s why I called, I think…’ She frowned, shook her head, raised her face and inspected Rowland closely.

  ‘I could see you, Rowland. The rope broke. You were tumbling over into this chasm…’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s happened to me once or twice.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, not really. Maybe if you lean on me a little, Lindsay.’

  Lindsay leaned on him; it felt pleasant. She gave a small shiver of delight. Rowland put his arm around her waist and they began walking again. Dimly ahead of them, on some other planet, Lindsay could see her son and his girlfriend, and someone else. The someone else was singing; Lindsay liked the song the someone else had chosen; it was a sweet and melodious lament. Neither she nor Rowland spoke; they advanced along a heavenly road; its paving shone; the dark air was necklaced with lights. Rowland sighed. ‘Lindsay, Lindsay,’ he said gently. ‘Whatever’s wrong? You never do this.’

  ‘My life’s changing…’ Lindsay emitted a sobbing sound which startled her. ‘My life won’t lie down, Rowland. It won’t obey the rules any more. I can’t…I can’t…’

  ‘What can’t you?’

  ‘I used to know where north was. Now I don’t. It’s moved, Rowland. Sometimes it’s in the south, or the east…’

  ‘That happens.’

  ‘I hate it. I hate it happening. Rowland, it makes me afraid. Does it happen to you?’

  ‘Sometimes. Yes, it does.’

  ‘I might cry, Rowland. I can feel it coming on. Oh, damn.’

  ‘I don’t mind, Lindsay. Truly. Cry all you like.’

  Lindsay did so. She wept piteously for several streets. Then she found they were standing outside a house which looked familiar; its front door was open. Lindsay leaned against Rowland, who put his arms around her. She watched this door; from it, eventually, emerged her son and someone who proved to be Katya. This confused Lindsay, who had been expecting someone else.

  ‘He’s out cold, on the sofa. Dead to the world,’ said her son.

  ‘Tom, I’m sorry about this—’

  ‘It’s cool. No worries, Rowland. Cressida-from-upstairs did it the other week.’

  ‘Now listen, Tom. He may feel he wants to fight you. If he does, say you’ll fight him in the morning—then he’ll go back to sleep. Coffee when he wakes; lots of it. Oh, and Katya, one thing…’

  ‘Yes, Rowland?’

  ‘He may propose, at a certain stage; he’s been known to do that…’

  ‘So I gather.’

  ‘It’s a good idea to accept him; that way you avoid the maudlin stage, which generally comes next. I’ll take Lindsay’s car and drive her back to London. Meanwhile, just to be on the safe side…Lindsay, lean on Tom for just a minute, would you? Oh, she’s asleep. Hang on…’

  There was a pause while Tom propped his mother up and Rowland opened the bonnet of the Aston. He removed the rotor arm and handed this and the car keys to Tom.

  ‘That’s usually the best solution. He knows how to put it back, but he can’t manage it until he’s completely sober. I’m very grateful to both of you. I’ll call you in the morning…’

  There was movement and Lindsay began to wake up. Someone soft, who smelled of rose petals, kissed her. This was comforting, although a small voice in Lindsay’s mind kept insisting that there was something wrong with that kiss. She was still trying to puzzle out what that might be while her son reproved her, and possibly lectured her, but appeared to forgive her. She had the sensation that this son of hers found something amusing; she was hugged, heard footsteps, then a door shut.

  Immediately, as the door closed, two very strong arms encircled her and she found her damp face pressed against wool; the voice in her head now spoke with clarity; a clarion call. Of course, it was not the nature of that kiss which had been wrong, it was the identity of the person who bestowed it. She lifted her head and inspected Rowland’s features for some while. He did not appear to be angry; he might have been amused. He looked puzzled by something. He had the greenest eyes she had ever seen. She looked at the lamplight on his hair. She looked at green affection, green regret.

  ‘Lindsay, Lindsay,’ he said, and smoothed back her hair and looked at her face. ‘You really are terribly drunk, you know…’

  ‘I am,’ Lindsay agreed. ‘It feels wonderful, Row
land. Wondrous. Your eyes are very green. Astonishingly green…’

  ‘And yours are hazel; not brown, not grey. Around the iris, they’re darker. I’ve never noticed that.’ There was a pause. ‘What are you doing, Lindsay?’

  ‘I’m kissing your sweater,’ said Lindsay, who was. ‘I think I might kiss you. Yes. You’re so tall. If you could just bend down a little bit, Rowland…’

  Rowland did. Lindsay gently kissed his cheek, then his nose, then, as her aim improved, his mouth. Rowland did not appear to resist. They kissed chastely, in the lamplight, and when they drew apart, Lindsay saw that Rowland’s expression was now sad. She made no comment on this.

  Her handbag was found, and her keys, and her little car. One minute Rowland was lifting her into it, the next second he was lifting her into what she recognized as her bed. He removed her shoes and neatly aligned them next to the bed. He turned her on her side and covered her with a duvet. He switched off the bedside lamp and then stood in the stripe of light from the hall, looking down at her, his hair ruffled, his hands in his pockets. Lindsay, opening her eyes, then closing them again, thought he still had that puzzled, thoughtful expression on his face. During the night, at some point in the night, negotiating a dream, then a nightmare, Lindsay woke. She did not know where, when, who or what she was: she gave a little cry, swung her legs out of bed and felt her way into the shadows of her sitting-room. At first she thought that it was empty, then she saw it was not. Arms folded, Rowland was seated on the sofa, frowning into space. Lindsay came to a halt in the doorway.

  ‘Would you talk to me, Rowland?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ He held out an arm. Lindsay curled up on the sofa next to him and rested her head against his shoulder. Rowland put his arm around her; minutes ticked.

  ‘So, what shall I talk about?’ Rowland said after some while.

  ‘Anything. Ordinary things. I just like to hear your voice.’

  ‘Well, let’s see.’ She thought he smiled. ‘I’ve been useful. I’ve washed up one cup, one saucer and one plate—I’m used to washing up ones of things. I checked your answerphone for you, because the light was driving me mad—flash, flash, flash.’