Sextet

by Sally Beauman

  ‘Stop this, Em.’ Colin moved across to Lindsay and took her hand. ‘Stop it. You’re making Lindsay’s blood run cold.’

  ‘I am? I did nothing at all.’

  ‘Lindsay, this is my fault. I shouldn’t have told you those ghost stories at dinner…’

  ‘Perhaps. I’m susceptible to stories. I’m fine now—it’s passed, whatever it was. Where were we?’

  Colin released her hand. Lindsay could sense his unease. As he crossed back to the sofa, a long silent look was exchanged between aunt and nephew; as a result of that look, and for the first time that evening, Emily was quelled. She retreated back into her nest of cushions and Colin, to Lindsay’s great relief, took charge.

  ‘I doubt if you’ve followed half of this,’ he said. ‘Emily can have a rather circuitous approach. Listening to you, Em, is like driving blindfold down a chicane. In fact, it’s straightforward, Lindsay. The Conrad building is a co-operative—there’s really no equivalent in England. Its board decides whether or not someone can acquire an apartment here. At the moment, one of the apartments, number three, which is directly underneath this one, is available. It used to belong to one of Emily’s oldest friends, and she died earlier this year. The woman who now wants to buy it—and we won’t name her, I think, but she’s an actress and she’s very well-known—has been pressing for a decision, because she wants to move in as soon as possible; in fact, she wants to celebrate Thanksgiving here.’

  ‘We’ve been given a deadline,’ Emily piped up. ‘We are not used to ultimatums. We don’t like them at all.’

  ‘I’d have given you an ultimatum, Em,’ Colin said, with impatience. ‘This has been dragging on for months. Bankers, stockbrokers, the IRS, references—it wouldn’t surprise me if you had her medical records. It’s absurd.’ He turned back to Lindsay. ‘Tomorrow, the decision has to be made, one way or the other. Emily is on the committee…’

  ‘Along with four dithering males!’ Emily cried.

  ‘And the Henry Foxe she mentioned chairs it. But don’t listen to Emily when she says “dithering”; two of those men are carved in granite, and as for Biff Holyoake—well, can you describe him as a man?’

  ‘I adore Biff!’ Emily protested. ‘Biff is a sweetheart. Biff is Peter Pan on his fourth divorce…’

  ‘Precisely. Say no more.’

  ‘Biff’s very pro her anyway. When the subject of orgies came up, Biff was charmed. He said, in that case she’d certainly get his vote. Dear Biff! Two martinis for breakfast these days, I hear, but dry in most other ways

  ‘Orgies?’ Colin and Lindsay said in unison. Colin sighed. ‘I don’t need to ask who raised that possibility, do I? It was you, wasn’t it, Em?’

  ‘I might have mentioned it, in passing.’ Emily, showing signs of resurgence, gave a gleeful smile. ‘One has to consider the worst. Remember her profession! I foresee parties, alcohol, substance abuse…people coming and going day and night…I know what goes on, you see! Frobisher fetches me the gutter press, and I pay it the very closest attention. I fear the worst! What about cocaine? Angel dust. Snow. Nose candy—I know all the terms! I think nose candy is on the cards, myself.’

  ‘Em, please.’ Colin sighed. ‘In the first place, she doesn’t live like that—as I’ve told you a thousand times. In the second, what about Biff? Biff Holyoake, to everyone’s certain knowledge, has a four-hundred-dollar-a-day coke habit, and he’s had it since 1952…’

  ‘Biff’s mother was at Chapin with me. Biff’s grandfather was your great-grandfather’s best friend. They founded…’ She stopped short, glancing from Colin, who was frowning, to Lindsay, who was amused.

  ‘They founded a firm friendship,’ she continued, her manner somewhat flustered. ‘A loyal friendship. They were lifelong friends, like you and poor dear Rowland McGuire. So, so—where was I? Ah yes, Biff. Biff may be a lost soul, but he is one of us. He is a fine good man, and I will not have a word said against him…’

  ‘Christ,’ said Colin indistinctly.

  ‘What was that, Colin?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Colin, who had sunk his head in his hands at some point during the peroration on Biff Holyoake’s ancestry, now raised it. He gave Lindsay a look of blank misery.

  ‘You see?’ he said. ‘You see what I’m up against here?’

  Lindsay considered. She indeed saw what Colin was up against in an obvious sense, since Emily’s views were a swamp of prejudice, and arguing with her was like mud-wrestling. But she suspected Colin’s words had a deeper meaning. She was still trying to work out what that might be, when Emily stirred, preened, emerged from her nest of cushions, and fixed her with a very intent look indeed.

  ‘So, my dear,’ she said, ‘now you know everything, and I want your considered opinion: Should we admit her to the Conrad, yes or no? I feel you can help me here. I’m not young any more—but you, you also have a child, you’re also divorced. You’re a modern young woman, and Colin thinks you have excellent judgement…’

  ‘He does? Thank you, Colin.’

  ‘Of course. He admires it no end. It was Lindsay’s judgement you were admiring, wasn’t it, Colin? Just the other day?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin, somewhat fixedly.

  ‘So there you are then. You must tell me how to vote tomorrow, Lindsay. I rely on you entirely, my dear.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s very simple,’ Lindsay began. ‘It seems to me that you’re proposing to blackball this woman for the most appalling reasons. How can you reject someone for being a woman? Or divorced? For having earned a lot of money? For having a child?’

  ‘Orgies, rumours, fans,’ said Emily. ‘Don’t forget those.’

  ‘Have your sources—I think you called them your spies—produced any evidence of anything remotely resembling orgies?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Emily replied, with deep regret. ‘There remains a lack of evidence, although the enquiries have left no stone unturned.’

  ‘I know those stones,’ Lindsay said, with some asperity, ‘and I know what comes out from under them when you lift them up. Surely…’

  ‘I remain suspicious of the fans myself.’ Emily bridled. ‘And of journalists who, in my experience, are unprincipled people capable of insinuating themselves anywhere. Even here.’

  ‘I am a journalist.’

  ‘So you are, my dear, but of a very different kind. I was referring to seedy little men in mackintoshes. Scandalmongers. I’m sure you know the breed.’

  There was a silence. Lindsay began to see that Emily was very far from mad—and she played a mean game of conversational tennis. The harder Lindsay hit the balls, the harder they were returned. Emily also had a rich variety of stroke play. Lindsay’s volley on ‘stones’, low and well angled, she had thought, had been sliced back with a lot of topspin. She was losing all sympathy with Colin’s Aunt Emily, Lindsay decided; amusement at her antics was ebbing fast.

  In particular, she disliked the way in which Emily insistently coupled her with this unknown woman seeking admission to the Conrad. Where were the similarities between them, beyond the fact that they both had children and were both divorced? Why all that stress on fertility, on breeding? The sensation was growing on her that, for some incomprehensible reason, it was she herself who was now on trial.

  ‘Have you met her?’ she asked now. ‘You must have met her, presumably? Did you like her?’

  ‘I have met her once. I thought her a consummate actress. As to whether I liked her, I couldn’t say.’

  ‘But you found nothing to dislike? Or distrust?’

  ‘Not on that occasion, no.’

  ‘Then you must admit her,’ Lindsay said. ‘You must see, you can’t let prejudice and rumours influence you here.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Emily.

  ‘I knew you’d say that.’ Colin revived. He gave Lindsay a warm smile. ‘There you are, Em. Maybe you’ll listen to Lindsay, since you won’t listen to me.’

  Lindsay at once felt encouraged; she warmed to her theme
. ‘The only thing is,’ she continued, ‘it’s no good wasting your vote. So, if the other four are opposed to her, you’d have to find a way of bringing them round to your view. You only need two additional votes…I wonder, are the granite men against?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Then could you influence Biff, perhaps? I’m sure you could, by the sound of him…’

  ‘Of course she could!’ Colin rose, with an air of excitement. ‘Biff always listens to Emily; he does whatever she tells him to do. She can twist him around her little finger. He’s putty in her hands…’

  ‘Colin, you are mixing your metaphors.’ Emily said. ‘Calm down.’

  Lindsay gave Emily an appraising look. She could see it would be more productive to appeal to Emily’s power-lust—well-developed, she felt—than to her sense of fair play.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could influence Henry Foxe,’ she began, in a doubting tone. ‘No, almost certainly not. That’s a shame…’

  Emily drew herself up, resentful of this slight to her powers. ‘Not impossible,’ she said, eyeing Lindsay in a thoughtful manner. ‘A woman of ingenuity might find a way…’

  ‘Really?’ Lindsay gave her an innocent look. ‘He’s not decisively against then?’

  ‘My dear,’ Emily drawled, ‘Henry Foxe is on the fence—which is where he’s been for most of his life. One of the problems in 1932, and if you’ll forgive my being frank, not the only one, my dear…’

  Emily gave a slow, ribald, reptilian wink. Lindsay, startled, decided to take this as a sign of encouragement.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you could get him off the fence,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you could persuade him…’

  ‘Possibly.’ To Lindsay’s delight, she saw that the light of battle had begun to dawn in Emily’s eyes. ‘Henry Foxe is the kind of man who likes having his mind made up for him…You know the type, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately, and I can’t bear them. I hate men who dither around…’

  ‘For the first thirty years of Henry’s life,’ Emily continued, still eyeing Lindsay in a thoughtful way, ‘Henry’s mother made up his mind for him, then his wife took over, for the next four decades. His wife, a tedious woman, not one of my dearest friends, is now dead…However, like many men—and I’m sure you’ll be equally familiar with this phenomenon, my dear—Henry Foxe requires the illusion that he has made up his own mind without assistance, especially from a mere female. So any persuasion has to be undertaken with stealth…’

  ‘Difficult.’ Lindsay frowned. ‘I do know the type—only too well. I work with at least ten of them. I wonder, does he have any sense of gallantry? A spark of chivalry? That could help…’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ cried Colin, animated again. ‘That’s brilliant, Lindsay. The white knight rides to the rescue of the beleaguered woman…’

  ‘Chivalry, my eye,’ said Emily, somewhat grumpily. ‘Henry Foxe’s instincts are not yours, Colin. He is not chivalric; he is cautious—as I discovered in 1932.’

  ‘Reasoned argument?’ Lindsay ventured.

  ‘You jest, my dear.’

  ‘Then I give up.’ Lindsay gave a sigh and a smile. ‘There’s only one thing for it, you’ll have to use your womanly wiles.’

  This remark, not intended with any great seriousness, produced in Emily a sudden and dramatic change. Her expression became cold.

  ‘Really? Isn’t that somewhat underhand? I have never approved of such manipulations myself—one of the feminine characteristics I least admire…’

  ‘Em.’ Colin rose, his expression suddenly anxious. ‘Don’t be absurd. Lindsay didn’t mean…’

  ‘Besides…’ Emily, ignoring him, pressed on. ‘Besides—do I want to change Henry’s views? I’m not at all sure that I do. Henry will almost certainly come down against her, in the end, and I feel he is right.’

  She gave a small fretful gesture and rearranged her pug. Her feathers were ruffled, Lindsay realized, and there was now disapproval in those cold, blue, raptor eyes.

  ‘Forgive me, my dear,’ she continued, ‘but I feel you are being more than a little hasty here. You seem to assume I agree with you. I don’t recall saying that. This is a serious issue, after all. I have lived in the Conrad building all my life. I plan on dying in this building…’

  ‘But I thought—you asked for my view…’

  ‘My dear, you have been trying to railroad me—you, and this nephew of mine here.’

  ‘Persuade, Em, not railroad. Look, it is getting very late, and I really think…’

  ‘Am I not to be allowed my say?’

  ‘Of course you are, Em, but…’

  ‘Festina lente,’ Emily pronounced, magnificently, turning that blue-ice gaze back upon Lindsay. ‘That is and always has been the motto of this building. Do you know what it means? Colin will translate, since he had a classical education…’

  ‘It means “Hasten slowly”,’ Colin said, his tone now openly mutinous, ‘and everyone knows that. Emily, it’s time for us to go…’

  ‘Hasten slowly. Precisely.’ Emily, still ignoring him, swept on. ‘A very wise dictum, as you will appreciate, Lindsay, should you ever reach my age. Change should always be gradual—especially so in a place such as this. The Conrad is an institution, one of the last of its kind in Manhattan. It has its traditions and its standards. You can buy or manoeuvre your way into most places these days, but neither money nor manipulation will gain you admittance here. We do not lower the drawbridge without the most careful consideration, and we are not taken in by sweet talk and feminine wiles…’

  She fixed her eyes on Lindsay even more intently as she made this final remark, and Lindsay found she was becoming angry.

  ‘Consider,’ Emily continued, gesturing at the room, crammed with all its costly spoils. ‘This is a safe building. There may be crime on the streets of this city, but it never infiltrates here. People lead quiet lives in this building; they honour its traditions, because that is and has always been our way. It is staffed by a loyal group of people, retainers, one could say, most of whom, like the residents, have been here many, many years. They know their place. They are well remunerated, and well cared for, and they love this building as much as I do…That is why, as my nephew will no doubt have pointed out to you, it is run with supreme efficiency and remains so well-preserved…’

  ‘I endorsed this building from an architectural point of view, Em,’ Colin interjected, his manner now also cold. ‘I didn’t endorse these views of yours—and you know that perfectly well.’

  ‘I haven’t finished, Colin. Please have the goodness not to interrupt. Wait your turn.’ Emily fixed her gaze upon Lindsay again. ‘I want your friend to understand the issues here. You see, my dear, we are like a little state here…or you could say, perhaps, that we are like a family. We have to be very careful not to admit the wrong element. By admitting into our circle the wrong type of person, we could sow the seeds of our own destruction. I have seen it happen so many times. We have to be sure that anyone we admit to our little family, not only understands our ethic, but shares it. For anyone seeking admittance, there really is only one question: Are you one of us? Do you belong?’

  Lindsay, unlike Colin, had listened to this speech quietly and without signs of impatience. It had left her very angry indeed. She had heard this argument, or variations upon it, many times; it shored up a variety of causes, and she was in sympathy with none of them. She was now in no doubt as to why Emily had raised this whole issue; Emily evidently still suspected her of designs on Colin, and she was being told, in no uncertain terms, that if she wished to be acceptable to his great-aunt, she had better tow the line.

  She looked at Emily carefully and saw that a game had been being played with her throughout the evening. Emily had treated her to an odd rag-bag of personae: there had been the Miss Havisham hauteur, the dotty aunt diversion, the dragon-lady, and the sibyl. Now Emily had morphed—and morphing was what it resembled—yet again. She understood that Emily had been play
ing a game of several sets with her; now, having tested her, and manoeuvred her, and finagled her into some unwise net-play, she seemed convinced that these final hard base-line drives had won her the game. Lindsay was not sure which aspect of all this angered her most: Emily’s assumptions as to her own marital intentions, or her calm conviction that, having stated her case thus, Lindsay would promptly back down.

  Lindsay rose. ‘We obviously think very differently,’ she said, with great politeness. ‘I’m sorry, but you asked for my opinion, and it hasn’t changed. Now it’s very late, and I’ve stayed far too long…’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Emily, with a sidelong glance at Colin. ‘I suspect you think I’m a dreadful old reactionary, my dear.’

  This was a well-timed lob; Lindsay decided to go for the overhead smash in return.

  ‘Mistaken,’ she said, ‘unjust, and probably unwise.’

  ‘Unwise, my dear?’

  ‘Of course. All institutions have to adapt; even the Conrad. If they don’t, they ossify. They become—fossilized.’

  She paused. Emily had not taken either ‘ossify’ or ‘fossilized’ too kindly—and indeed, they sounded backhanded, Lindsay realized, given Emily’s age. She at once regretted the terms; however strong her own feelings, she had no wish to upset a woman of eighty-five.

  ‘Can we not agree to differ?’ She held out her hand with a smile. ‘I’m very glad to have seen the Conrad, and it was good of you to invite me…’

  Good manners failed to conciliate. Emily stretched out her ossified and arthritic fingers, so the magnificent diamond flashed against the light.

  ‘Do you know, Colin,’ she remarked, her manner peevish, as she briefly took Lindsay’s hand, ‘I feel rather tired. All this idealism must be exhausting me. Ring for Frobisher, will you? I think I must retire, and you must show this charming young woman back to her hotel…No, no, my dear, I insist. New York can be a very unsafe place at night. You need a man at your side…’

  She took Lindsay’s arm and began to guide her towards the door.

  ‘So nice to have met you, my dear. I do hope we meet again.’ She peered at Lindsay, as if trying to remember who she was. ‘So many things I wanted to ask you—and I forgot; my age, you know. Let me see…Colin tells me you’re going to write a book, I think?’