Sextet

by Sally Beauman

  ‘We can’t stay long. We have to be back here for dinner. This is a crazy arrangement—what if Lucien wakes up?’

  ‘Darling, he won’t. And if he does, the others will look after him. He’ll be thoroughly spoiled. Don’t you want to meet Lindsay’s new man? I do. I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Women usually are by that kind of thing. It bores me to distraction. I wish them well—beyond that, I couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Well, I could. I’m interested. It’s all so sudden. And I’d begun to suspect she was interested in someone else.’ She paused, looking at her own reflection. ‘Someone very unsuitable—he wouldn’t have suited her at all. So I’m glad she’s seen sense.’

  Pascal did not reply. He moved across to the window, drew back the curtains and looked out. This apartment, on the fourth floor of a brownstone on Riverside Drive, overlooked the Hudson. River and sky now blurred together; the air was thick with snow. Turning away, his manner edgy and irritable, he began to pace.

  His wife watched him do so in the mirror. Carefully, she screwed two pearl ear-rings into place. She knew what was wrong with her husband, and it had very little to do with the meeting with Lindsay: Pascal was beginning to feel caged by domesticity. Once they began work on their book, this feeling would lessen, but it would not disappear altogether, and she was beginning to realize that.

  ‘You’re missing your wars, Pascal,’ she said, hearing her own voice strike exactly the wrong note.

  ‘My wars?’ He gave her a sharp look. ‘The wars aren’t of my making; I merely photograph them.’

  ‘You’re missing them, nonetheless. Pascal—’

  ‘I miss doing what I do best, possibly.’ His tone was cold. ‘Gini, we really should go. Surely you’re ready by now?’

  Gini experienced a tiny moment of fear. She looked at her own face in the mirror; she felt she was stepping through the glass and watching history repeat. This was the pattern of his first broken marriage; his first wife, Helen, being informed by Gini that Pascal had decided to end his coverage of wars, had smiled a small tight smile.

  ‘Gini, dear,’ she said. ‘What a victory for you! I hate to say it, but I give it six months before he reverts.’

  It was more than six months; it was nearly two years.

  ‘Pascal—you promised me…’ she said.

  ‘I know, I know, I know.’ He gave her a long, still, penetrating look. ‘You extracted that promise from me after Lucien’s birth. You always have good timing.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing, my darling. Just that, with marriage to you, I’ve realized how tenacious you are. You usually end up getting what you want, don’t you, Gini?’ He gave her a regretful, measuring look, then gave a shrug. Dropping a kiss on her brow, he moved to the door.

  ‘We really must leave. Who else did you say was going to be there?’

  ‘Just Lindsay and this Colin man. And Markov and Jippy.’

  ‘Thank God for that. I like Jippy.’

  ‘Do you still love me, Pascal?’ She rose.

  ‘Still? That sounds defeatist. Of course I do. You know that.’ He took her hand as she reached his side and looked at her closely. ‘And now you’ve finally made me into what you wanted, do you still love me? No regrets?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ She hesitated. ‘And everyone has regrets occasionally, Pascal. They mean nothing at all.’

  ‘Don’t they? Tell me, do your regrets take a specific shape?’

  ‘No. Certainly not.’

  ‘Good.’ Her husband’s cool grey eyes rested on her face. His wife did not intentionally deceive others, he thought, but he was learning how good she was at deceiving herself. ‘Then we have nothing to worry about. An ideal couple. Destined for each other from the first.’ He spoke in a light tone, feeling suddenly tired. ‘We must leave, Gini. Come on—we’ll be late.’

  ‘Good evening,’ Emily said, in crisp tones, to the tall man standing outside the elevator. Behind her, a maid closed the door to Henry Foxe’s elegant apartment, on the tenth and top-most floor of the Conrad building. The sounds of merriment from the cocktail party beyond were cut off. Emily eyed the man and felt a spurt of gossipy interest. This was her first proper sighting of Tomas Court, the ex-husband. He too had been present at the Foxe Thanksgiving party, but since he had not spoken once, and had lingered at its edges throughout, that sighting did not count.

  ‘Going down?’ he said.

  Emily looked at the ceiling.

  ‘Well, I surely can’t go up,’ she said tartly.

  ‘No, I guess not.’ Tomas Court smiled.

  Emily tucked her crocodile purse under her arm and adjusted her fur, a fur which several lynxes had died to make. It gave her a wild, bristling appearance, and it had been the height of fashion in 1958. She gave Tomas Court one of her unabashed sweeping glances, and to her surprise, found herself impressed. She could see fatigue on his face, but she liked his eyes, his greying, close-cropped hair, the quietness of his demeanour, and his air of constraint.

  Very different kettle of fish to the wife, Emily said to herself. The wife, ravishing in some pink creation, was still lingering at Henry Foxe’s party. Though she had said little, and her manner was modest enough, she liked to be the centre of attention—or so Emily, unsympathetic to beautiful women, had thought. She had had Henry Foxe running around in circles, proffering canapés and drinks, and poor Biff, swaying on his feet from an excess of dry martinis, had spent the evening staring at her in a besotted manner; every sentence he managed to utter began with her name: Natasha thinks this, Natasha said that…

  Emily had decided that Natasha Lawrence was beginning to find this worship tedious; having been useful to her, poor Biff was about to be discarded, Emily had sensed. She suspected Tomas Court had sensed this also; he too had watched Natasha Lawrence give a tiny sigh and a tiny frown; like Emily, he had seen the two people who had flanked the actress all evening react. Her property broker, Juliet McKechnie, a woman Emily disliked, had drawled: ‘Biff, darling, don’t you think you’re getting the teeniest bit tight?’ The actress’s bodyguard, a handsome, hulking boy with a Texan accent, had moved forward, and shortly after that, Biff was detached—and dispatched, Emily assumed, since he had left the party and she had not laid eyes on him since.

  ‘This elevator isn’t working,’ Tomas Court said. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to walk down, Miss Lancaster. It is Miss Lancaster, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked him up and down. ‘You may give me your arm, if you would. This elevator is becoming very trying. My nephew Colin is working for you—are you aware of that?’

  Tomas Court smiled quietly, as Emily fixed upon him her most duchessy look; he took her arm and began to assist her down the stairs. The shadows in the galleries whispered at Emily as they passed; she glanced at Tomas Court.

  ‘This staircase is haunted,’ she said, in firm tones, pausing on one of the lower landings. ‘Have you noticed that?’

  This was one of Emily’s tests; Tomas Court passed it.

  ‘Of course. As soon as I saw it, I knew that.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I know what it is to be haunted,’ he added, in an off-hand way, ‘so I would notice, I guess.’

  ‘It has got worse,’ Emily continued, with asperity, ‘since your wife arrived. I have my suspicions about the elevator also. There is a definite malevolence in its breaking down when it does. I, of course, was the sole person on the board committee to vote against admitting your wife.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘Most strange, the manner in which she obtained the other four votes.’

  ‘Not so strange. My wife seduces people—as you’ve seen tonight.’ His manner remained imperturbable, his tone flat. ‘She made a number of donations to various causes, I understand; they happened to be the pet causes of two of your committee members, and they were large donations, but then my wife is now very rich. Jules McKechnie advised her as to which causes, I think…’

  ‘Juliet McK
echnie?’ Emily gave a rude snort. ‘I can’t abide that darned woman. Never could. She’s smart, however. One of the McKechnies—which she trades on, of course.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I hadn’t realized until tonight—I was confused by the name. I’d assumed my wife’s broker was a man…’

  ‘Then you weren’t far wrong,’ said Emily, in a dry voice.

  ‘As to the two other committee members,’ he continued, giving no sign of hearing her last remark, ‘Mr Foxe was gently wooed, but then he is widowed, and no doubt lonely, and Natasha would have seen how easily frightened he is…’ He paused. ‘Does Mr Foxe have a daughter, by any chance?’

  ‘He did have. His only child. She died.’

  ‘I see. I expect my wife would have known that. She is always well-informed…’ His eyes moved along the shadows of the galleries. ‘As for Biff Holyoake, well, that would have been easy for a woman of her beauty, don’t you think?’ He paused, looking at Emily in a careful way. ‘You should understand—I approve. My wife fights fire with fire; she always has.’

  ‘And you?’ Emily looked at him closely. ‘I get the feeling you’re not too enamoured of this building?’

  ‘I dislike it intensely.’ He turned his pale and steady gaze upon her. ‘That dislike doesn’t extend to every individual occupant, of course.’

  Emily found herself flustered; she looked at Tomas Court with amusement, then with deepening respect.

  ‘This is my apartment right here.’ She paused. ‘The Thanksgiving dinner is cooking as we speak, and very good it will be. My nephew will be arriving shortly; if you have no other plans, you’d be very welcome to join us…’

  He refused with a small shake of the head. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I’m having Thanksgiving dinner with my wife and son…a family reunion. My son’s looking forward to it. I must go and join him now…Give Colin my regards.’

  He turned to the stairs. In a state of great excitement, anxious to impart the news of this encounter to Frobisher, Emily hastened in. She made straight for the kitchen, from which mouth-watering smells emanated. There she found Frobisher, looking somewhat distrait, basting a golden monster of a turkey. Frobisher, friend, confidante and factotum, was an excellent cook, who took her art seriously. Emily sensed that now was not the best moment to interrupt.

  She deposited her purse on the Alice B. Toklas cookbook, Frobisher’s culinary Bible, and eyed a plate of corn muffins. When Frobisher’s attention was distracted, she broke off a corner of corn muffin and nibbled it surreptitiously. Frobisher heaved the monster turkey back into the oven and clanged the door shut. She wiped her hands on her apron. Emily saw that her handsome face was flushed, and her grey hair in disarray; this boded ill. She opened her mouth to explain she had just met the great director, the peculiar ex-husband, and a most intriguing man he was, then was silenced as Frobisher gave her a beady look.

  ‘That darned telephone has never quit ringing since you left,’ Frobisher said, enunciating the words with a clarity that presaged trouble. ‘No way can I answer the telephone and cook.’

  ‘No, of course you can’t, Froby,’ Emily said in a small humble voice.

  ‘Problems!’ Frobisher said darkly. ‘Developments—and Colin’s not going to like them, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Emily, hiding her hand behind her back.

  ‘Ructions,’ Frobisher said, more darkly still. ‘I’ve been railroaded; ructions—that’s what I predict…’ She looked at Emily fiercely. ‘And there’ll be more ructions if you keep eating my corn muffins. Put that back.’

  ‘My lord, did you see Emily Lancaster’s coat?’ Juliet McKechnie said, in a low voice, taking Natasha Lawrence’s arm, as they reached the second-floor landing of the Conrad.

  ‘Ssssh.’ Natasha laughed. ‘Keep your voice down. We shouldn’t be doing this, Jules.’

  ‘It made her look like a grizzly bear, didn’t you think?’ Juliet also laughed. ‘Magnificent, though, in her way. And she can’t stand me—which is a pity. She’s an old tartar, but I’ve always had a soft spot for her…’

  ‘Why can’t she stand you?’ Natasha said, taking out a key and opening a small, unmarked door around the corner from the entrance to Emily’s apartment. She laid her finger on her lips. ‘And keep your voice down.’

  ‘My grandmother snaffled Henry Foxe from under her nose.’ Juliet smiled. ‘This would have been around 1452. She’s been prejudiced against all female McKechnies ever since…’

  The two women stepped into a small hallway, and descended a short flight of stairs. Finding themselves in a long, arched corridor, hung with watercolours, they stopped and looked at each other. Juliet glanced at a door to her left, which led down to the lower floor of Natasha’s apartment; it was closed.

  ‘Tomas hasn’t…’

  ‘No, no.’ With a sigh, Natasha shook her head. ‘He wanted to come up here, of course. He wanted to see everything—a grand tour. He tried to insist yesterday, but I held out.’

  ‘You see? I told you you could.’

  ‘It’s all finished now.’ Faint colour rose in Natasha’s cheeks. ‘I hung the last of the pictures yesterday morning. Jonathan helped me, and Angelica. Do you want to look?’

  ‘Have we time?’

  ‘If we’re quick. He’s downstairs in the sitting-room with Jonathan. Angelica’s keeping guard. She’s not going out until I arrive. She won’t let him prowl…’

  Taking Juliet’s hand, she drew her along the corridor. Juliet was shown Jonathan’s room, the television room and sitting-room next to it, the bathrooms, and finally Natasha’s bedroom. In this room, the two women came to a halt. Juliet found she was moved by the charm and simplicity of the rooms, and by the obvious care that had gone into them. She was moved, too, by the shy, hesitant way in which Natasha showed them to her, her obvious delight in them tempered by nervousness, as if she feared that at any moment Juliet would begin to criticize or accuse her of some unforeseen lapse of taste.

  Juliet looked around the bedroom, a cool, quiet room dominated by a four-poster bed. She took Natasha’s hand.

  ‘That bed looks superb,’ she said. ‘I knew it would.’

  ‘I’d never have dared buy it without you.’ Natasha lowered her eyes. ‘I’d have argued myself out of it.’

  ‘You have to learn to trust yourself. And you are learning. But you haven’t been out of prison very long yet. It takes time…’

  ‘Juliet, don’t. Don’t. That isn’t fair to him—’

  ‘If you say so.’ Juliet gave a little shrug. ‘But it’s beautiful, Natasha. All of it’s beautiful.’ She hesitated. ‘And you’re beautiful too, darling. I’ve never seen you look lovelier than you look tonight.’ Turning, she rested her hands either side of Natasha’s face, then tilted it up, to hers. She stroked the heavy dark hair back from the pale forehead; she examined the delicate brows, the wide-set grey eyes raised anxiously to her own. Drawing Natasha into her arms, she kissed her on the lips.

  The kiss, prolonged, sweet to both, became impassioned.

  Natasha, with a low cry, was the first to draw back. ‘Darling, we mustn’t, we mustn’t,’ she said. ‘I mustn’t be too late—and he’ll know. One look at me, and he’ll know—’

  ‘He’s going to have to know, sooner or later.’ Juliet drew her closer again. Bending forward, she kissed Natasha’s throat, parted her dress a little more, and kissed each of her breasts. Then, with a dry smile and a mocking glance, she fastened the dress again and held Natasha at arm’s length.

  ‘There? You see? The picture of modesty. Brush your hair, tie it back, and he’ll never know. He doesn’t really see you anyway, Natasha. He sees his idea of you…And his idea of you doesn’t include me, I’m sure of that. I was standing next to you at that party, wanting you, thinking about the other night—and he never noticed a thing.’ She smiled. ‘Too busy keeping a jealous eye on your sweet handsome bodyguard, I think.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Natasha gave a small
frown. ‘Don’t underestimate him, though, Juliet. Tomas sees—but he always sees from such strange viewpoints.’ She hesitated. ‘Juliet, he’s such a fine director—’

  ‘He’s a great director. I wouldn’t deny that. I don’t object to him when he’s behind a camera. I do object to him when he’s directing your life.’

  ‘I know, I know. But—ah, Juliet, I did love him once. I loved him so much…’

  Colour winged its way into her pale face as she said this; she turned away with a sigh. Juliet watched her as she began to move about the room, with her customary grace, but with a certain agitation. She moved towards the bed, then the window, where she looked out at the falling snow. Juliet waited.

  ‘I will tell him, Juliet,’ she said, in an impulsive way, turning back. ‘I’ve been trying to tell him for months. I’ve tried to prepare him, make him see I can’t have him here, I can’t have him back. But he won’t listen to me. I say it and I say it, and he drowns me out.’ She gave Juliet a sad look. ‘That’s what it’s like. Tomas is listening to a different symphony, a different orchestra…’

  ‘One he’s conducting, of course.’

  ‘I guess so.’ She gave a wan half-smile. ‘But give him credit, Juliet. I’m sure the music is sublime—all those instruments: flutes, cellos, trumpets, violins—music to break your heart, I expect. But I want—I want something quieter, smaller.’ She gave a tiny resigned gesture. ‘Just a sextet. A quartet. A trio…’ She gave Juliet a small glance. ‘Who knows? I expect I’d settle for a duet.’

  ‘All of those can be exquisite,’ Juliet said, in a measured way, hearing in Natasha’s tones something that might have been anger, or irony, or regret.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Natasha said.

  ‘You’re an artist too,’ Juliet continued, after a pause, and with some sharpness. ‘He doesn’t have a monopoly on art, Natasha.’

  ‘No, no. I’m a good actor, I know that. But I’m better when he’s directing me, and I’m better still when he’s written the script.’