Sextet

by Sally Beauman

  Thalia, who, despite her surname, was an Italian-American who hailed from the Bronx, looked Colin up and down. Colin bore her scrutiny humbly; the usual sirens, ceaseless in this city, wailed and whooped in the distance; the beat of some Rasta sound pulsed from a loft across the street. Colin had never felt more English, more inadequate, more out of his depth.

  He was longing to ask Thalia if she knew about the slashed picture, but his antique code of honour prevented him. Was Court some kind of pervert? This idea distressed him terribly. What did it all imply? What did it all mean! he wanted to shout. He began pacing up and down, making inarticulate noises; when these gave no relief, he banged his forehead hard with his fists.

  ‘Oh, God, God, God,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll get used to it. Hang on in there,’ Thalia replied, her manner kindly for once. Colin rounded on her, pulling at his hair so it stuck up in auburn tufts.

  ‘December!’ he cried. ‘December! We’re supposed to start filming in under a month. Postpone, I said. Wait until the spring, I said. But no, he says it has to be after Thanksgiving, and it has to be December. It’s a twelve-week schedule. Does he know what Yorkshire’s like in December? January? Does he care? It rains. It pisses with rain the entire time. It snows. Villages get cut off…’

  ‘Cool it,’ said Thalia.

  ‘We have a start date! My sanity depends on that start date. We’re never going to start—I see that now. If he moves the whole shoot to California, I won’t be surprised. California? What am I saying? Why not Indonesia? Anne Brontë in Ecuador? How about the Zambezi? We could shift the whole fucking thing to the Amazon basin, how about that?’

  ‘Relax. He likes you,’ Thalia said.

  ‘Likes me? Likes me? He’s destroying me. He’s ripped up months of work—’

  ‘He always does that.’

  ‘That bloody man is driving me insane. Nuts. Twelve hours—nearly twelve hours I’ve been sitting there, and what’s been my contribution? Buts. But, but, but, but…’

  Colin kicked a trash can violently, hurting his foot.

  ‘Listen,’ said Thalia, when the echoes of his anguish had died away, ‘if you’re going to survive this, just remember one thing. I’ve worked with him ten years, and I know…’

  ‘What?’ Colin cried. ‘What?’

  ‘He’s the best, OK?’ Thalia patted his arm. ‘Super-cunt, obviously—but still the best…’

  ‘He’s playing games with me! I know it! I can feel it!’

  ‘So?’ Thalia gave a little smile. ‘Play some fucking games back. Ciao, Colin.’ She gave him a matronly wave. ‘Have a nice evening. See you tomorrow. Oh—he wants us an hour earlier. He’s altering the end. Seven a.m., all right?’

  In her bedroom at the Pierre, Lindsay was getting ready for her dinner with Colin. She was sitting on her bed in her bra and underpants while her friend and senior assistant, Pixie, applied some peculiar pungent gel to her hair. Pixie had taken a liking to Colin, and was exhibiting great interest in the imminent dinner, which she referred to as a hot date. She had decided that, in honour of the occasion, Lindsay needed a complete make-over. This make-over, involving a bath, then the application of various potions, unguents, scents, restorative creams and foot-sprays, had been going on for some while. Lindsay, who had covered six fashion shows that day, was too tired and dispirited to argue. Pixie, born bossy, was taking full advantage of her uncharacteristic passive state.

  ‘Keep still,’ she said, dragging a comb painfully across Lindsay’s scalp. ‘I’m transforming you, sod it, and I can’t do it properly if you keep jiggling about…’

  ‘Give it a rest, Pixie. Who cares what I look like anyway? I’m trying to read my goddamn phone messages, and it’s not easy when I’m being scalped.’

  ‘Colin cares. You’ve read those messages five times already. Look left, I need to check the back.’

  Lindsay sighed and obeyed. It was true, she now knew these messages by heart. During her absence, Markov and Jippy had called (they were now in Crete; ‘Off to the Minotaur’s lair any minute,’ the message read). Gini Lamartine had called about Thanksgiving arrangements, as yet undecided; some sad person from Lulu Sabatier’s office had called (for the seventh time in seven days); various dull, work-connected people had called, and Lindsay’s mother had called to suggest a few thousand purchases Lindsay might like to make for her in Saks.

  Rowland McGuire had not called. He had not called once in the past week. He was, presumably, not interested in testing her intuition after all, or perhaps he had simply forgotten, been distracted. Lindsay’s intuition, ever acute, could put a shape to that distraction. Given Rowland’s past conquests, it was likely to measure 34, 24, 34; it would be a great deal younger than she was, and would in a short while be discarded—such was life.

  ‘I don’t even know why I’m doing this,’ she said snappishly.

  ‘You’re just nervous. You’re having dinner with this very handsome, sexy man. You’re about to get lucky. Relax.’

  ‘Handsome? Sexy? Who is this?’

  ‘Are you blind?’ Pixie giggled. ‘One glance from those blue eyes and my nipples go hard…He’s delicious.’

  ‘He’s nice,’ Lindsay corrected. ‘Kind, gentlemanly, rather old-fashioned…’

  ‘He won’t be old-fashioned in bed. I can always tell. Ah well, you older women get all the luck…’

  ‘I don’t even want to go out.’ Lindsay sighed. ‘I want to stay in, eat chocolates and lie in bed. What’s in that hair stuff anyway? It smells weird.’

  ‘Magic’ Pixie sniffed. ‘Yams, actually. And don’t worry, the smell wears off after a bit. It’s absolutely the latest thing. Eco-friendly, one hundred per cent pure natural ingredients, and it attacks the free radicals…’

  ‘I have free radicals in my hair?’

  ‘At your age, Lindsay, you have free radicals lurking everywhere. Face facts.’

  Lindsay faced them. She could sense the free radicals crawling around. They had long given up on such minor targets as her complexion, she thought; they were now infesting her head and heart; they were swimming up and down in her blood.

  ‘Turn your head this way…’ Pixie examined her. ‘Oh yes,—excellent. I’m aiming at a soignée look, très 1930s debutante, with Berlin nightclub undertones. Think Dietrich, then think Nancy Mitford. I want sultry and debonair…’

  ‘I’ve never looked sultry in my life, and I’ve never felt less debonair. Get a move on, Pixie, I’m fed up with this. My feet feel sticky…’

  ‘They’re meant to feel sticky. It’s the papaya juice in that foot-spray. Just wait awhile—you’ll feel you’re walking on air…Hey, your skin is really good, you know that? You on HRT by any chance?’

  ‘Will you give me a break, Pixie? Pay attention: no, I’m not. And the menopause is a long, long, long way off.’

  ‘Only asking. I didn’t really think you were. There’s no need to be so sensitive.’

  Pixie made a face at her and continued her ministrations. Lindsay sank deeper into the slough of despondency. The menopause, with luck, should be a decade away; on the other hand, as women’s magazines never ceased to remind her, it could strike at any time, for like all her sex, she was at the mercy of hormones. Hormones, chemicals, free radicals; why, within her own body a nasty civil war, a guerrilla war was taking place. Pixie, of course, believed that war could be won—but then Pixie was such a believer. She believed in tofu and aerobics and mantras and collagen injections and miracle creams that cost 200 dollars for a very small jar. She believed in the beauty industry, where science and ju-ju interlinked, and she believed in clothes. In the gospel according to Pixie, there were very few problems in life that could not be solved by intelligent shopping, and spiritual fulfilment could be bought for the price of a new dress.

  Pixie’s religion, as Lindsay was aware, had once been her own. If she had never been quite such a born-again evangelist as Pixie was, she too had bowed down before fashion and worshipped at the high altar of cou
ture. Now, finally, finally, she could admit at long last that she had lapsed. Farewell false gods, Lindsay thought, feeling virtuous.

  Pixie stepped back, her task completed, and Lindsay turned to the mirror, examining her handiwork. The new hairstyle, more intricate than her usual one, was surprisingly effective. Lindsay’s gloom diminished.

  ‘You know I think that papaya stuff is actually working?’ she said. ‘I feel quite refreshed.’

  ‘Sure you do. Now we have to find you something to wear.’

  Pixie moved off to the closets and began rummaging about. Lindsay stretched and examined her ringless hands, the nails of which Pixie had painted a curious but interesting purplish-black. How revealing that Pixie should consider Colin Lascelles handsome, she thought; could she be right? She must look at him more carefully tonight.

  ‘Tell me, Pixie,’ she said, looking at her with affection, ‘will you ever get married, d’you think?’

  Pixie was twenty-one. ‘No way,’ she said.

  ‘What about children? You’d like children one day, I expect.’

  ‘Maybe. But only if I’m rich enough. Having kids finished my mother. That’s not going to happen to me.’

  ‘And what about love, Pixie—how d’you feel about that?’

  Pixie straightened up with a hiss; she held up her two index fingers in the shape of a cross, as if warding off a vampire.

  ‘Bad magic,’ she said.

  Lindsay was impressed. She did not altogether agree, but she was impressed. Pixie, one of six children, born in Liverpool and brought up in some hardship, had already come a long way. Lindsay, who had given her a start five years before, intended to help her go further. Accordingly, when she resigned, she had advised Max very strongly to promote Pixie to Fashion Editor. Max, who did not consort with lowly fashion assistants, but who had glimpsed Pixie—she was hard to miss—in the elevators and corridors at the Correspondent, had groaned.

  ‘She has green hair,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, that was years ago. Now she looks like Susie Parker, supermodel circa 1958. You must have seen her—tailored suits, a little hat with a veil, high-heel shoes, stockings with seams, gloves and a Queen Mother handbag

  ‘That was her?’ Max had wavered, then entrenched. ‘She’s a child,’ he said.

  ‘She’s twenty-one. Fashion editors need to be young. Hire her.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Max.

  Lindsay had continued her promote-Pixie campaign ever since. Before leaving London, she had conceived a cunning plan which, she had been certain, she could slide past Max. She and Pixie would spend roughly a week covering the actual collections, then roughly ten days in New York on fashion shoots. Over Thanksgiving, Lindsay would take some vacation time and Pixie would return to London. During Lindsay’s absence, Pixie could nurse these fashion stories through to press, and Max could see how she progressed.

  Lindsay kept these dates and plans somewhat vague, and was careful to present them to Max late on her last day in London, when he was in the middle of a news crisis.

  ‘Fine, excellent,’ Max had said, when he finally had time to see her. He smiled a small feline smile. ‘In other words, Lindsay, I pay your air fares and your hotel bills at the Pierre for around three weeks, during part of which period you research the American end of your Chanel biography—a biography that has nothing to do with this newspaper. Am I right?’

  Lindsay cursed under her breath. ‘I’m being paid peanuts for this biography,’ she said. ‘I won’t be able to afford air fares. It would only be the odd hour off, Max.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. You intend to hole up in some archive and let Pixie handle those New York fashion shoots. Then, when I congratulate you on how good they are, you’re going to inform me that Pixie did them, thus clinching her appointment.’ He sighed. ‘Lindsay, you make a lousy Machiavelli; I can read you like a book. This is out of character; you’re the only journalist I know who doesn’t fiddle her expenses. I’ve always felt you lacked creativity in that respect.’

  ‘I’ll bet Rowland doesn’t fiddle them either.’

  ‘Rowland?’ Max shrugged. ‘Oh, Rowland’s probity wears one out. Ah well, I’m really quite fond of you, I’m feeling charming today. OK. Done.’

  He scribbled his initials, authorizing these plans with a speed that made Lindsay suspicious at once.

  ‘What about Pixie?’ she said. Max’s manner became opaque.

  ‘I’m still thinking about it. I’m consulting. I haven’t ruled out the idea. Not yet…’

  Lindsay had informed him tartly that this was wise, since he knew nothing whatsoever about fashion, whereas she knew a great deal and was always right. Max acquiesced to this pronouncement with his customary grace. Lindsay continued to mull this over, to plot and plan, and had finally decided, in New York, the previous day, to inform Pixie. ‘The job’s yours, Pixie,’ she had said, ‘if you play your cards right.’

  Pixie had blushed beneath her layers of perfect 1958 maquillage; then the story came out. As Lindsay well knew, Pixie said, she had a brilliant career plan. She intended to be editing English Vogue by the time she was thirty, and American Vogue as soon as was feasible after that. Accordingly, half an hour after Lindsay resigned, Pixie had marched upstairs to the sanctum of Max’s offices. There, his trio of stuck-up secretaries had first ignored her, then told her to shift. Pixie had not shifted; she had sat there for two and a half hours until finally, at eight o’clock in the evening, Max had taken pity on her and agreed to see her for three and a half minutes.

  ‘Very Max,’ Lindsay said, thoughtfully, working out the time scheme of these events.

  This was fine, Pixie continued, since she only needed two minutes anyway. Inside the sanctum, she had informed Max that she had earned promotion, that if she didn’t get it she would go to Vogue, who had been chasing her for months, and that if she did get it, she would want to make changes.

  ‘Changes?’ Lindsay said, in a faint voice.

  Pixie had presented Max with a list of these changes, fifteen in number. Max read it, laughed, and offered her a drink. They had then discussed his five children and Pixie’s budgerigar. Pixie had decided that, despite his suit and his posh accent, she could do business with Max. The upshot of all this was that, provided Lindsay did not change her mind, the position of Fashion Editor was within Pixie’s grasp.

  ‘Oh, and I raised him five thousand,’ Pixie added, in a nonchalant voice.

  ‘Five thousand? That bastard. That lying, devious…’

  ‘It was easy, Lindsay. You could have done it any time. You never push hard enough on the money front. Max is a sweetie, a pussy-cat…’

  ‘Yes, with very sharp claws. Make sure he doesn’t claw that five thousand back from your budget, Pixie, because he’ll certainly try…You actually discussed salary?’

  ‘Sure. On a putative basis, of course.’

  Lindsay, by then coming out of shock, had begun to laugh. She laughed at Pixie’s ambition and Max’s poker-game skills, and she laughed at her own vanity most of all. Fond as she was of both Max and Pixie, it had not truly occurred to her that she was dispensable. She had assumed Max would fight to keep her, and that Pixie, with luck, might find her a hard act to follow. Her disillusionment hurt at first. She had been dispensable as a wife, Lindsay thought; now she was dispensable as a mother and as an editor. She felt a flood of self-pity at this realization, which she was wise enough to indulge to the full for an hour or two. Then, gradually, her natural optimism reasserted itself. Such lessons were salutary; the little rehearsals life organized for everyone—in the final analysis, after all, death ensured every one would be dispensable, she told herself.

  Now, watching Pixie sashay back and forth between closets and drawers, selecting a costume for a meeting that, alas, was not the hot date Pixie supposed, it occurred to her that Pixie’s revelations were doubly useful. Not only had they induced a saintly state of forbearance and wisdom, they had also ensured that there w
as now no going back. The luxury of changing her mind, a luxury Lindsay was aware she indulged in too often, was ruled out. This was good—now the bridges were burned, the Rubicon was crossed. She at once felt a surge of energy and bounced off the bed.

  ‘That red dress,’ she said, ‘that’s what I want to wear—the red dress.’

  Pixie rolled her eyes. ‘Per—leaze,’ she said.

  ‘What’s wrong with it? It’s great. People like it. Rowland McGuire likes it.’

  Pixie thrust the red dress to the back of the closet. She pulled out a black suit, a white silk T-shirt, a pair of stockings, black shoes with kitten heels, and some fake pearls that looked like Chanel fake pearls in a kind light.

  ‘Take the bra off,’ she said. ‘I want subtle. Just the occasional hint of nipple, for Colin’s sake. Don’t argue—trust. And never quote Rowland McGuire on clothes to me. I may lust after Rowland, but he knows nothing about what makes a woman look good. Rowland should concentrate on women’s underwear…’ She paused, smiling. ‘As, of course, one gathers he does…’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Lindsay said very fast, removing the bra and diving into the T-shirt. She knew Pixie was about to launch herself on the subject of Rowland’s physical charms, alleged sexual prowess and past amatory exploits. This recitative, of which Pixie was fond, and which might or might not be accurate, could continue at Homeric length. Lindsay did not want to hear about Rowland’s putative past amours, and she certainly did not want to hear the details of any present ones. Pixie’s reading, in any case, was useless; she came at the subject of Rowland from the wrong philosophic and moral viewpoint. As far as Pixie was concerned, Lindsay thought crossly, it was a truth universally acknowledged that any man in possession of a woman’s company must be in want of a fuck.

  She closed her ears to Pixie’s lewd commentary and emerged from the T-shirt red-faced.

  ‘So tell me truthfully now,’ Pixie was saying. ‘Am I right? Did you and Rowland ever…’

  ‘What? What?’ Lindsay said. ‘Certainly not. For heaven’s sake…’