Sextet

by Sally Beauman

  He left the food in front of him unfinished. With deliberate care, he aligned his knife and fork on the plate. Slowly and reluctantly, Lindsay raised her eyes to his face; his expression at once made her want to look away, but she found she could not.

  ‘I see,’ he said finally, in a quiet voice. ‘Is this definite? Have you talked to Max?’

  ‘I’ve given Max my letter of resignation, and talked to him. Yes.’

  ‘When did you do that?’

  ‘Last week. One day last week.’

  ‘While I was away?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens. That—that has nothing to do with it. I don’t work with you any more, Rowland.’

  ‘No, indeed not.’

  Rowland’s displeasure was very evident. His expression was cold; his tone was cold. Upon the convivial table a frost settled. Lascelles glanced at Lindsay, then at Rowland, his brow puckering, and his blue eyes puzzled.

  ‘Well, I say good luck to Lindsay…’ he began.

  ‘I’ve no doubt you would.’ Rowland’s cold green gaze turned in his direction. ‘Since you know nothing about the situation, that’s easy enough.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Rowland, what’s the matter with you?’ Lascelles frowned. ‘I’m in favour of change. What’s Lindsay supposed to do—stick it out for the pension plan and the gold watch? Nobody does that any more. If she doesn’t feel fulfilled working in fashion, she ought to move on…’

  ‘Is that the problem?’ Rowland’s gaze returned to a hot-faced Lindsay. ‘You don’t feel fulfilled?’

  He pronounced the final word with distaste. Lindsay glared at him.

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes. And there’s no need to be so supercilious. “Fulfilled” is as good a word as any other. Colin’s right. Lots of people change jobs at my age; they have to, these days. I’ve been doing this too long. I’m sick of offices and deadlines. I’m sick of all the bitchiness and neuroticism. I’m sick of trying to find something new to say about some damn stupid dress. I’m sick of studios and crazy locations, and planes and hotels. I want to be in one place, and above all, I want to do something else.’

  Rowland heard her out in silence. He frowned.

  ‘This isn’t one of your snap decisions then? You’ve been considering it for months? You never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘You never asked,’ Lindsay retorted. ‘And I don’t make snap decisions.’

  ‘Oh, but you do.’

  ‘Well, this isn’t one of them. Listen, Rowland, if we were still working on the same paper, yes, I probably would have asked your opinion, but we’re not. You edit the Sunday now; you’re stuck up in that vast editor’s suite, having meetings morning, noon and night…’

  ‘We work in the same building; we work for the same group. What is this? I see you virtually every day. Three weeks ago, I was round at your flat and I raised this very issue; I got no response. You could have discussed this any time you wanted, Lindsay…’

  ‘Well then maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe I just wanted to make up my own mind, Rowland. I am capable of that. And you may find it hard to imagine, but there are other things I can do besides edit fashion pages…’

  ‘I’m aware of that, as you have every reason to know.’ This remark, quietly made, produced another silence. Katya, who had been watching this exchange with close attention, saw that Rowland’s words seemed to distress Lindsay. Her face had been bright with defiance; she began some defiant reply, then something in his tone, perhaps a note of specific reproach, made her reconsider. She turned to Tom, who had also been watching with growing indignation.

  ‘Tom? I haven’t done the wrong thing, have I? I had to decide.’

  ‘Whatever you decide’s OK with me.’ Tom shot Rowland an angry glance. ‘Mum’s had lots of other job offers,’ he went on. ‘People are always trying to poach her…’

  ‘Oddly enough, I’m aware of that too.’

  ‘There was that TV company, last year. They wanted her to work on a big series—a history of fashion. That American magazine was chasing her. That publisher’s been pursuing her for ages. Markov told me…’

  ‘Markov. I see. I might have known it.’ Rowland’s expression hardened. ‘Is he privy to all this? Is he behind this decision? That’s bloody typical.’

  ‘Who’s Markov?’ Colin Lascelles interrupted, swiftly. ‘Can someone explain? I don’t understand any of this. Why is there a problem? Lindsay—’

  ‘Who’s Markov? Well now, let me see.’ Rowland leaned back in his chair, a dangerous glint in his eyes. ‘Markov is a fashion photographer—a very gifted one; a somewhat subversive one. Markov is, without a doubt, one of the most affected men I’ve ever met in my life. However, he’s clever. I even like him—up to a point. The trouble is, Markov is wildly irresponsible…’

  ‘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 war
m 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 meditative. ‘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.