Sextet

by Sally Beauman

  ‘I made her cry?’ Rowland sounded both bewildered and shocked. ‘That’s the last thing on God’s earth I’d have wanted to do. I thought—we argue, Lindsay and I. We’re always having some fight. I lose my temper, she loses hers, and then the next day—’

  ‘Well, don’t lose your temper with her!’ Colin cried. ‘I love her. I won’t have you talking to her like that. I saw you do it in Oxford, and I wanted to punch you then. Lindsay’s right—anyone would think you were her father, the way you talk to her…’

  Rowland, who had begun to speak, was brought up short.

  ‘Her father. I see. Were there any details of my private conversation with Lindsay that weren’t reported back?’

  ‘No, since you ask. She told me the whole miserable story from beginning to end. She tried to hide it, when I first arrived, but I knew there was something wrong, and then she just broke down. She started crying and she couldn’t stop. I put my arms around her, and—’ He broke off. ‘And, anyway, I calmed her down, eventually. I explained you didn’t really despise her. I told her how you’re always bawling me out. We agreed in the end that you were right rather too often, but you weren’t such a bad sort and we both quite liked you. None of which means that you shouldn’t be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘I’m certainly ashamed to have made her cry. Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell her that,’ Rowland said curtly. ‘Meanwhile, if there’s anything worse than the thought of the two of you discussing my defects in that particular cosy, nauseating way, I don’t know what it is, so—’

  ‘Oh, we forgot about you after a bit,’ Colin said, in a cheerful, consoling tone. ‘We never mentioned you again, funnily enough…’

  ‘I’m hanging up, Colin.’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait. Rowland—just one question.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you be my best man, Rowland?’

  Rowland considered this question for what seemed to Colin an unnecessarily long time.

  ‘No,’ he said eventually, his tone altering. ‘No. I’m very fond of you, Colin, but I don’t think I will. Goodnight.’

  TWO LETTERS AND FOUR FAXES

  XII

  THROUGHOUT THE FOLLOWING WEEK, the telephone lines between Lindsay at the Pierre, and Colin, staying at Tomas Court’s ranch in Montana, were kept very busy. It was a week of correspondences, and in more than one sense, Lindsay was later to decide. During it, fax lines, the international mail, and in one case a courier service, were kept busy as well.

  The first missive, its formality of tone perhaps explained by the fact that it was the last of six drafts he had written, came in the form of a letter from Rowland McGuire.

  My dear Lindsay,

  It is early on Saturday morning, and I have been trying to find the right words in which to write to you since I spoke to Colin on the telephone, some hours ago now. The conversation with him left me profoundly shaken—I cannot tell you how much it distressed me to learn that I had caused you un-happiness, indeed had made you cry. My immediate instinct was to call you, but when we speak on the telephone, I always feel we are missing one another in some way; this leads to misunderstandings. So I am writing now because I want to apologize to you, and beyond that, make certain things unmistakably clear.

  I have had several hours—and they’ve not been pleasant hours—in which to contemplate my own stupidity, arrogance and lack of insight. For those failings, and my inability to curb my temper, I seek your pardon—how stilted that sounds! Lindsay, I’m so sorry and so sad to have caused you pain.

  The conversation with Colin has made me realize that I have to be very careful how I express myself. I am not finding it easy to write this, and I want to be sure I avoid ambiguities, so will you forgive me for any awkwardnesses here? Everything I say, however clumsily expressed, is written from the heart.

  I don’t want to make excuses for myself, but I do want you to know that almost everything I said to you yesterday stemmed from my anxiety on your behalf. Lindsay, I look on you as a close and dear friend, for whom I feel an unwavering concern. I want you to find happiness and, yes, fulfilment in everything you do. That is why I question and argue as I do. I now realize just how badly I put my arguments yesterday. You were right to resent the way I spoke, but I would like you to understand that I don’t mean to interfere, or snipe from the sidelines. I just can’t bear to think that, as a result of all these recent changes and uprootings, you might experience difficulties, hardship, or unhappiness of any kind.

  Colin has made me see how inept I am at conveying that concern to you. I’m grateful to him for that. Talking to him was a chastening experience; he made me see—well, many things for which I feel the deepest regret.

  He also made me see that I’ve made one great error, an error I want to correct. I see I’ve always been quick to criticize, and that I have never told you how much I like, respect, value and admire you. So I say it now—without reservations. I hope you will believe that.

  We have worked so closely together, and seen one another so often, that I realize I have assumed, in my usual arrogant way, that you knew this. I’ve assumed you would understand the unspoken, and I see now just how mistaken that was. Colin said you felt I despised you—Lindsay, nothing could be further from the truth. I feel for you the very warmest admiration and regard; I rely on your friendship to a far greater degree than you perhaps realize; but then, I trust you completely—and I’m not good at trusting; I trust very few people indeed. I feel the deepest affection for you, Lindsay, even when I am insulting you, even when I have lost my temper, and especially when you are being, as you often are, one of the most provoking, most impossible women I’ve ever known.

  You have great generosity of heart, Lindsay, and despite what I said yesterday, when I was angry for a hundred other reasons that need not worry you, I realize that your intuition and instincts are much sharper than mine. Yes, you jump to conclusions, but they are often the correct ones, whereas I am often too slow to acknowledge a truth, and try to argue it away. Something very obvious can be staring me in the face, and yet I refuse to see it until it is too late and an opportunity has gone. I don’t know why I do that: obstinacy, perhaps, or I could blame caution. I think I sometimes fail to act for fear of mistaking the circumstances, or for fear of causing harm.

  Well, I won’t dwell on these very male defects, and I know I can rely on you to mock them. The point is, I accused you yesterday of acting first and thinking afterwards. I now see that’s not always a vice, and can be a virtue. It is a virtue you possess—to act on the impulses of the heart—and I wish it were more often my own.

  There are many other things I would have liked to say to you, but now is not the moment; besides, this letter is already too long. So, will you forgive what I said yesterday? There will be no more lectures; I give you my word.

  I wish you happiness, joy and success with your book, with your new life, and perhaps with your new home. In respect of property, Colin is a very good guide and advisor—far better than I could ever be. You can be confident that any proposals he makes are made with your best interests at heart. Colin can be as exasperating as you can be—and as I know I can be—but he is a good and utterly trustworthy man.

  If you do go to live at Shute Farm, I hope it will fulfil all the dreams you spoke of—I’m sure that it will. Meanwhile, I’m not certain when you are returning to London—perhaps after Thanksgiving? Perhaps when you return we could all three of us meet? I’d like to see you and try to begin making amends.

  I can’t stop thinking about your tears. I wish to God this had never happened. I realize that now I’ve said only a few of the things I wanted to say, and no doubt said them ill. Lindsay, I trust to your generosity of heart to read between the lines and see the degree of regret I feel.

  Damn! More time has gone by. I’m not writing as coherently as I’d hoped, and I’ve now discovered it’s almost impossible to courier a letter to New York over a weekend. I’ve finally found a firm t
hat swears it can do this, so my letter can go off today and will, I hope, reach you tomorrow, Sunday morning.

  I shall think of you reading it. I’ll listen for the curses you’ll no doubt, and justly, heap on my head. I’ll be able to hear them, I promise you, very clearly across this distance of three thousand miles.

  Please don’t reply to this letter. It doesn’t need a reply, and it’s better to let it stand. Can you read my writing? I’m not feeling as calm as I should, and I expect my punctuation leaves something to be desired.

  My love—best and warmest good wishes to you—I hope I can still sign myself as your friend.

  Rowland McGuire.

  This letter, which Lindsay received without curses and with tears, arrived at the Pierre on Sunday afternoon. On the tenth reading, she still found herself puzzled by that reference of Rowland’s to his punctuation. Rowland’s punctuation was meticulous down to the last semicolon; in which respect, she thought, it was in singular contrast to her own letter to him, which had crossed with this one, and which she had posted express the previous day.

  Dear Rowland,

  I am in one of my states. I can’t sleep, and I’ve been pacing up and down the room in the stupidest way. It’s the middle of the night, and I can still hear myself shouting down the phone at you like some demented fishwife. Oh dear!

  Listen—I’m just going to scribble this very fast and then rush out and catch the first post. Rowland, I’m so sorry I said all those horrible things to you. I want you to know—everything you accused me of was true. I see now that I’ve been a total fool about that bloody book contract. I think I knew that publisher man was a complete shit really, but I sort of buried the idea and hoped I was wrong. You’re right about the money too—what’s the matter with me? I always intend to get tough on the money front and then I never do. I think it’s that I secretly despise money, so talking about it, let alone angling for more, always seems so low. So I’m always v. dignified, get screwed and end up living on vegetables for the next ten years.

  But you don’t have to worry, truly. I have some money saved, and I think Shute Farm may work out—in which case, I shall be able to afford bread and jam, if not blinis and caviar. I’ll be so tucked away too, that I’ll have no distractions—no movies, or theatres or friends, so I expect I’ll write the book in record time out of sheer boredom and nothing else to do…

  Hell. I’m putting off the serious thing. Rowland—when I think of what I said about Oxford and Tom and Katya, I want to die. What’s wrong with my brain? Whenever I talk to you, especially on the phone, I get into this stupid flurried state—it’s like listening to fifteen radio stations simultaneously. Then I tune in on one of them and it’s always the wrong one.

  Rowland, I’m so ashamed I said those things. No wonder you were so hurt and furious. I just go into a blind panic if I think anything could harm Tom, but if I’d paused for two and a half seconds, I’d have known you would never act foolishly, because you always think everything through too carefully, and there’s no way you’d commit a dishonourable act. It’s strange, isn’t it, that no-one seems to use the word ‘honour’ any more? I think honour is important; I also think you’re the most honourable man I’ve ever known. Yes, I know you can lie to get your way—I’ve seen you do it at work a thousand times. And you lie so well: flagrantly and coolly. I wish I could do that. I’m a lousy liar—well, sometimes I am. Maybe not all the time. But I know you would never lie about anything important. I think of you as a man of truth, an honourable man of truth, so there! That’s why I want you to know that yesterday I said the very opposite of what I meant, as usual. I didn’t mean any of those horrible insults I hurled at you. The truth is, I’m always grateful to you for your concern, your kindness and your strength. And your wit, too, Rowland. It was good of you, yesterday, when listing my drunken sins in Oxford, to be discreet about that shaming episode when I kissed your sweater. This was gallant of you. Thank you for that.

  Anyway. Mea culpa. Will you forgive me, Rowland? I shall be coming back to London after Thanksgiving. I’ve decided to stay on here until then; I have some Chanel research to do—I’m looking forward to becoming an archive addict. Quiet, dedicated and nun-like—and Colin is going to be here, so it seemed quite a good idea.

  Colin came here yesterday, after you telephoned; he was understanding, gentle and kind. You have nice friends, Rowland. He told me all about his brother and how you helped him at Oxford. He is very loyal and devoted to you, and so am I.

  He’s going to take me to see Shute Farm when we get back to England. I’m praying it will work out. I’m praying I’ll cope if it does—I’ve never lived in the country. If you’ve forgiven me, I hope you’ll come and see me there—you could teach me some useful rustic things: how to chop logs, how to light a fire.

  Shall I buy some chickens? Or ducks? There’s a stream. Oh, Rowland, I feel excited and afraid all at once. Since yesterday, so much has happened—and one day I’d like to tell you about it, but not now.

  Are you in your lovely sitting-room as you read this? Are you frowning or smiling? I wonder, are those shutters I admire so much open or closed?

  You’ve been a good friend to me, Rowland. The very best, kindest and most loyal of friends. I wish I’d said that yesterday, but since I didn’t, I’ll say it now.

  God, what horrible handwriting I have! Can you make out any of this? I hope you can at least see the important bits and read the important words.

  I send you my thanks for all your wise advice and your insufferable but accurate insight into my defects of character. I send you my apologies. I send all love and best wishes. Damn! My pen’s run out. No ink available at the Pierre at 5 a.m. I’ll have to use a biro. The smudges everywhere are from the biro. You are a dear friend, Rowland, and I kiss your green Christmas sweater in a very sober way. When you next see me, you’ll find I’m a reformed character.

  Lindsay.

  Something went wrong with the US Mail Express system, or possibly there were problems at the UK end. Lindsay’s letter did not arrive in London until four days had passed; then, since Lindsay did indeed have horrible and illegible, handwriting, especially when writing numbers, so that all her sevens looked like ones, the letter was delivered to Rowland’s neighbour at number eleven in his terrace, and not to his house at number seventeen. The neighbour was away; he finally dropped the letter through Rowland’s door late at night on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.

  Rowland found it on the mat early the following morning, as he was leaving for work. He read it only once on that occasion, but he read it with great care. He returned inside, called his secretary and various colleagues, cancelled all his appointments for the next three days, gave his deputy editor instructions, and then left for Oxford before nine.

  Meanwhile, Colin Lascelles was finding the telephone an inadequate instrument to express himself.

  Saturday. Montana.

  Dearest Lindsay,

  Have just spoken to you. Am going to bed. The sky here is amazing—I’ve never seen so many incredibly brilliant stars. I miss you terribly. I think I said that on the phone, but I’ll say it again. I could throttle Tomas for dragging me out here, but I do feel sorry for him; he looks desperately ill. I’m going to fax this to the Pierre, so I can’t say what I want to say. Imagine asterisks and all they imply. Can you understand Latin? I need to know immediately. You can fax me at the above number and I wish you would because I feel totally sick at heart and soul. I send you love and trois mille bises.

  Colin.

  Tuesday. Montana.

  Darling Lindsay,

  Talking to you on the telephone is the only thing that’s keeping me sane. When we talk, I feel as if I’m with you, holding you in my arms (and if you’re the desk clerk at the Pierre reading this fax, FUCK OFF. This is private, you understand?) I’ve never known it to be so easy to talk to someone as it is to you. Do you feel that, darling? You’ve made such a difference to me in such a short time
. I feel I can do anything: climb a mountain; fly.

  I got up very early this morning—I couldn’t sleep anyway for missing you. I borrowed one of Tomas’s horses and went for a ride. The landscape is spectacular. I could see the peaks of Glacier National Park in the distance. Watched the sun rise and thought of you.

  Tomas now much better and visibly stronger. There’s umpteen production people here during the day, but they piss off in the evenings to some hotel, thank God, so apart from the odd bodyguard and staff, it’s then just Tomas and Thalia and me.

  He and I had a long talk yesterday, after Thalia had gone to bed. I forgot to tell you about this. He’s a very interesting man—proud. I feel for him. I think he’s in agony about—better use initials—NL. And about her move to Emily’s building. I heard from Emily this evening, and apparently, NL must have had everything organized, and ready to roll, because the decorators are in there already. According to the Emily bush telegraph, always reliable, the whole thing will be finished by the end of this week. Yet she can’t have known they’d admit her and the odds were against—most mysterious! NL apparently very thick with Biff already, which was predictable. H. Foxe singing her praises as well, which annoys Emily no end. NL not popular with Giancarlo and the other porters though, I hear. Trouble of various kinds, I gather—constant hassle from some anonymous caller—in view of what I told you, worrying, eh?

  Listen, darling, we must talk tomorrow about Thanksgiving and all our other plans. I always mean to on the phone, but my mind goes into a whirl the second I hear your voice, and besides, we have other things to talk about then.

  Is your friend Genevieve still coming up from Washington with her husband for Thanksgiving? When shall we fly back to England? I can’t wait to show you Shute Farm. Isn’t it great about the rent? I gather they want a tenant who loves the place—money isn’t the issue. Money should never be the issue, I say, don’t you agree?