Sextet

by Sally Beauman

  In a humble way—humility was also a wise tactic, his grandmother said—Jippy asked these spirits to employ their artistry. He said this several times, emphasizing the point, because the spirits, on occasion, could be tired or bored, and could simply botch the job, then walk away from it. Jippy did not want botching here—he feared it. He wanted perfect joinery; he wanted a seamless finish. The capricious spirits appeared to listen to this.

  To listen, however, was not enough. Jippy redoubled his efforts. He lapsed; he went down, down, down into some strange liquid, swirling space, where he swam back and forth, back and forth. In this space, his spell came to an end. All the words were used up. There, Jippy found he was very afraid; it was so hot it was cold; he started shivering and panting—and it was in this state that Markov found him some time later.

  He stared at him in panic; Jippy was lying on the kitchen floor, twitching. An epileptic fit, Markov thought. Jippy’s eyes were tight shut and there was foam on his lips. Giving a cry, Markov fell to his knees and put his arms around him. He lifted him up, then found Jippy was too heavy to move. He almost fell over; he started crying Jippy’s name and kissing his face. He tried to remember what you did if someone had a fit—but was this a fit? ‘Darling, darling, darling,’ he said, clasping Jippy’s hands. He tried to find a pulse and could not find one. Jippy seemed not to be breathing. Frantic now, he laid him back down on the floor, and in the wrong way, at the wrong angle, placed his mouth on Jippy’s mouth. He breathed air into him. He started counting, realized he did not know why he was counting, and breathed again. He had begun to cry, and his tears ran down onto Jippy’s white face. ‘Please, please, please, please,’ he said. He breathed a third breath and Jippy’s eyes opened.

  ‘W-what are you d-doing?’ he said, and sprang to his feet. He made a grab at the table, which Markov was about to knock over, and Markov, feeling foolish, slowly rose to his feet. He looked at the table, at a ring of muesli, a postcard, a human hair, a coin, two eggs and an orange. Jippy was looking at this orange in consternation. The eggs were fine; the hair and the postcard and the coin were fine; the orange, probably thanks to Markov’s ministrations, and kickings out, was inside the circle still—but only just.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ Markov said. ‘I was giving you mouth to mouth.’

  ‘W-well, you n-nearly ruined the whole t-thing,’ Jippy said, somewhat crossly. ‘It’s very d-delicate.’

  Markov was hurt. ‘Jippy,’ he said, ‘these goddamn spells of yours do not work. They have never worked and they are never going to work. Those spells are a load of baloney.’

  Jippy, who did not agree with him in this case, gave him a calm look.

  ‘Th-this is for Lindsay,’ he said, ‘and it is going to work.’

  ‘For Lindsay?’ Markov looked at the assemblage with more interest. ‘Explain,’ he said.

  Jippy explained. Markov paled, then nodded, then frowned, then, smiling, raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ he said, ‘Stranger than fiction! Who’d have believed it?’

  Markov himself did not believe it, but he did not want to hurt Jippy, so he kissed him. ‘Now come and look at the news on TV,’ he added. ‘You were certainly right about the Conrad, darling. Updates every half-hour, and paparazzi positively crawling all over the place…’

  The Conrad, Juliet McKechnie discovered, was crawling with paparazzi, and with police. Arriving there at seven in the morning, having failed to get through to Natasha on the telephone, she then experienced considerable difficulty in gaining admission to the building. When she finally did, and found the elevator was back in service, she discovered she was sharing it with Emily Lancaster.

  ‘You’re up and about early, Emily,’ she remarked, eying the grizzly bear overcoat. ‘First floor, please.’

  ‘I went out to get the tabloids,’ Emily said, with dignity. ‘Unfortunately, they must have gone to press too early. A pity. Frobisher and I were looking forward to reading a great deal of inaccurate scandal.’

  ‘Did you see any of it, Emily?’

  ‘My dear, I was in the thick of it.’

  ‘So terrible. I saw the TV news. I couldn’t believe it.’ Juliet gave Emily an azure-eyed glance. ‘Poor Natasha. Who was this woman?’

  ‘Some lunatic.’ They had reached the first floor. Emily held the doors. ‘Fortunately,’ she continued, eying Juliet, ‘Natasha Lawrence was shielded from the worst of it by her husband…’

  ‘Her ex-husband.’

  ‘He had to lock her in their apartment, you know—she was quite hysterical. Of course, had the woman laid eyes on her, it would have been fatal—or so my nephew Colin says. My nephew Colin was the hero, you see…acted without hesitation, ran off in pursuit…so brave!’

  Juliet was not interested in Emily’s nephew, or his putative bravery. She stepped out of the elevator.

  ‘I was overcome,’ Emily continued, somewhat dramatically. ‘Palpitations, my dear! There was all this uproar, people screaming and running about. One of my dear friends—now which sister was it? One of them anyway, said, “Emily, my dear, do you feel unwell?”—and, do you know, Juliet, at that precise second, I realized I did not feel myself. Pain, Juliet—all the stress, of course. It started gripping my chest. I thought: This is the end. I am having a heart attack, right here, in my darned hall…’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Juliet, ‘very understandable, at your age. Emily, I must go—’

  ‘Fortunately,’ Emily continued, in an unstoppable flow, ‘a dear friend of my nephew’s was there. Such a good young man! Experienced at first aid, on top of all his other qualities…He climbs, you know, so he has to be, I guess. He took charge immediately! I do so like it when men do that, don’t you, Juliet? Only it turned out, it wasn’t a heart attack after all. Indigestion, I think—the soup we had had was delicious, but rather rich. Anyway, by the time I recovered, it was all over bar the shouting…’

  Juliet, who had been about to turn away, had a sudden suspicion that there was a subtext to this interminable stream of uninteresting and irrelevant information. She stopped and gave Emily a long cool azure look.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, with emphasis, ‘I don’t like it when men take charge. I’ve always found that particular male tendency irritating, to say the least. That applies whether they’re administering first aid, Emily, or locking people in their apartments…’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought,’ Emily said, ‘that now was the best time to call upon poor Miss Lawrence. She will have had very little sleep…’

  Juliet did not like the way this remark was made.

  ‘And I wouldn’t have thought that was any of your damn business, Emily,’ she replied, and walked off smartly.

  Emily smiled as the doors closed. On the warpath, she thought, wondering how Juliet managed to look so chic so early in the morning, an art she herself had never acquired. She liked a woman who gave as good as she got, she thought—and her opinion of Juliet McKechnie rose accordingly.

  ‘You can’t see her,’ Angelica said to Juliet, in a sullen way, opening the door to Natasha’s apartment. ‘She’s sedated. She’s not seeing anybody.’

  ‘Then I shall wait until she is ready to see me.’

  Juliet, who disliked Angelica intensely, and who knew her dislike was returned, gave her a dismissive glance and walked past her. She went through into the white living-room, and sat down.

  ‘Angelica, I know perfectly well that Natasha won’t be sedated. It’s difficult to persuade her to take aspirin. So don’t waste my time, please.’

  ‘She’s upset. Distraught.’ Angelica glowered at her. ‘Most people wouldn’t need to be told that.’

  ‘That’s precisely why I’m here. She will need me.’

  ‘What she needs is sleep, rest, and peace and quiet.’

  Juliet gave her a cold glance; she was not a woman who wasted time arguing with those she disliked, and her upbringing had taught her that under no circumstances did one argue with serv
ants.

  ‘I do not understand…’ she said, frowning around the room, ‘how any of this could have happened. It’s appalling. Is Jonathan all right?’

  ‘He’s better now.’ Angelica’s face softened. ‘He was frightened out of his wits. But the doctor came. He quietened down eventually…’

  ‘Where’s his father?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Angelica replied, her tone suggesting she did not greatly care either. Her face became set. ‘He had to talk to the police—him and that Englishman who was with him when she fell. He took off for TriBeCa. Knowing him, he’ll be working.’

  ‘At a time like this?’

  ‘At any time. He’s like that.’

  Juliet considered this information, and her dislike for Tomas Court deepened.

  ‘If I’d been here,’ Angelica said suddenly, her face reddening, ‘it would never have happened. She wouldn’t have got past me. I’d have cut her throat for her. Strangled her with my bare hands. That’s what I’d have done.’

  Juliet looked at her heavy bulk, at her small black eyes, and the hate in her face; she could well believe this flat and definite statement.

  ‘I don’t understand…’ she said, ‘how she managed any of it. Where were the bodyguards? What in hell was that stupid Texan doing?’

  ‘Natasha gave him the night off.’ Angelica’s expression became evasive. ‘She didn’t want anyone here, not him, not me. I said I’d stay, but no, she wasn’t having it…She didn’t want people around—you know, when he’s here. She doesn’t like people to see—it upsets her, the way he talks to her.’

  Juliet digested this interesting information also. She might have liked to question Angelica further on that subject; unfortunately her upbringing had taught her not to listen to servants’ gossip, either. She considered the hulking, handsome Texan bodyguard, whose blond, muscled good looks and constant presence had always annoyed her.

  ‘So where’s that ridiculous Texan now?’ she said. ‘I blame him for this. It was a rank dereliction of his duties. No matter what Natasha said, he should have insisted. What’s he doing now? Running around shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted?’

  Angelica shot her a small black glance. She smiled. ‘Maybe he’s busy shutting doors,’ she said, an odd gloating note entering her voice. ‘I wouldn’t know. He’s around here somewhere. I saw him talking to the police…’ She paused. ‘Mind you, that was hours ago…’

  ‘Well, I hope Natasha dispenses with his services. She won’t need them now in any case…’

  ‘You think so?’ Angelica smiled again. ‘You could be right. Natasha might want him to stay around though. She’s been very satisfied with him—the way he performs his duties. Always vigilant. Never lets up…’ She paused, her small black eyes resting on Juliet’s face with detectable malice. ‘You really want me to tell Natasha you’re here? You want me to do it right now?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Juliet gave her a cold look. ‘And when you’ve done that, you can bring me some strong black coffee, please. And while you’re about it, an ashtray.’

  The eyes of the two women intersected. Angelica left the room. She was frightened of Juliet McKechnie—but she had additional reasons now for obeying her. She made a brief call on the internal line from the kitchen, replacing the receiver after the telephone in Natasha’s room upstairs had rung only twice. She began to prepare coffee; she watched the percolator begin to bubble. Then, despite explicit instructions to the contrary from Natasha, instructions given her only a few hours previously, she opened the jib-door as she had been longing to do, and in a state of mounting excitement, began to climb the staircase.

  She padded silently along the upper corridor, pausing by the sheet closets. The door to Natasha’s bedroom was closed; she listened to silence. She then padded quietly to the end of the corridor, and Jonathan’s room. He had received a mild sedative, even if his mother had not; he was now sleeping peacefully. Angelica looked down at him with pride and love; she tucked the duvet more securely around him, kissed his flushed cheek, and touched the dressing that had been applied to the knife-cut.

  Love and fear for him rose up in her heart with such force that she felt almost dizzy. She straightened up, pressing her hand against her chest, as her heart began to hammer painfully. Angelica had never carried a child, but this boy, whom she had nursed from birth, she loved with a mother’s intensity. Tears came to her black eyes. Making a small crooning sound, she tucked his favourite bear more securely in his arms and padded from the room. Bitch, bitch, bitch, she muttered to herself. Dead bitch, she corrected herself, thinking of the sheeted shape she had seen on her return to the Conrad. Well, my curses surely worked, she said to herself, and feeling a dark exhultation, her breath coming faster now, she padded through into the small sitting-room.

  This room, as she had expected, had been used. She looked at the crumpled cushions on the couch; she looked at the two glasses on the nearby table. Natasha drank wine; the Texan bodyguard favoured tequila. She picked up the glasses in turn and sniffed them. One smelled of red wine; the other—and she tasted it to make sure—contained a few droplets of water.

  She stared at this glass, the blood rising up and darkening her face. She looked at the other clues here: a pair of Natasha’s pretty shoes lay kicked aside near the couch; on the carpet next to them, she saw, was a string of pearls. Stooping to pick them up—they were valuable—she saw their clasp was broken and the pearls were unravelling. A cascade of seed pearls fell from the end of the silk stringing. She weighed the fatter pearls in her palm; she rubbed them back and forth between her fingers. Making a small grunting sound, she bent and groped for the lost pearls and found them secreted in a fold in the couch’s upholstery. Her breathing had become shallow and rapid; the clasp to these pearls had not been broken when she helped fasten them around Natasha’s neck the previous evening.

  Dropping the pearls, she pressed her hands over her mouth. She felt dizzy again, and she had never felt heavier, bulkier, slower. Her heart was now pounding and her head was swimming with blood. ‘No, no, no,’ she said, under her breath, rocking back and forth. She looked at the scattered pearls, and then turned, clumsily, knocking over one of the glasses. She stumbled across the room, then, slowing, crept along the corridor. She stopped at Natasha’s door, her heart thumping, and pressed her ear against its panels.

  She found she could not hear properly. Her heart was banging too loudly, and there was another noise, a sighing and a susurration, a tidal sound, like waves beating in upon a beach. She shook her head, as if to clear her ears of water, and the sound increased in volume. It began to beat in on her with a mounting rhythmic insistence. She pressed her hands against her hot face, and then over her mouth, to stop herself crying out. She knew what she was hearing now: she was hearing a mystery, a rite to which she had herself never been admitted. Of its details, she was ignorant, since she had never had a lover, male or female. Even so, she knew what was happening on the other side of that door. She knew who these lovers were, and she could see and hear what they did with the hot clarity of a vision: the moistness of it; the touchings and whisperings; the mounting urgency; the seeking mouths; the desperation. She began to tremble violently; a low sound of rage escaped her lips as she heard the groan and the cry that marked the crucial moment of union.

  She backed away from the door and pressed herself back against the wall, covering her ears with her hands. She turned her face to the wall; through the wall she could sense violence, secrets and pleasure; she trembled at the force of this thing, this force, which excited, shamed and angered her, and which she thought of as a violation. It went on and on, for a longer time than she would have believed possible. It was like listening to a killing; then, with some guttural extreme sound from the man, and some strange drowning yet victorious cry from the woman, it was over.

  Angelica waited. Gentler sounds came from beyond the door now. She wiped away her tears. She wiped the envy, outrage and anger from her face; she
waited until her breathing quieted and the hot flush of excited shame subsided, then she crossed to the door and rapped on its panels. She gave the message she had been told to give, and after a delay—an insolent, careless delay—the door opened a fraction.

  Angelica was given a tiny glimpse of the devastation wrought to the room the previous night, a devastation that Natasha and her partner were blind to, she presumed—unless, she realized, it suited them. Then Natasha Lawrence interposed her body. She stood there, wrapped in a loose, thin, white robe, the door open only a crack, looking at Angelica. As Angelica well knew, Natasha Lawrence, though gentle, could be cruel—and this capacity in her had always intensified Angelica’s devotion. There was cruelty now in the way she flaunted her state, Angelica found. The expression in her eyes, dreamy, sated, yet faintly amused, cut Angelica to the heart. She knew at once that, while her position in this household was safe, that look was a form of dismissal.

  Natasha made no attempt to disguise the fact that this was an unwelcome interruption. Her black hair, loose on her shoulders, was damp with sweat. There were vivid marks on her pale throat; she was breathing rapidly, her lips parted as if in expectation of more kisses. Colour stained her cheeks, and her eyes, liquid, brilliant, seemed to rest on Angelica, yet look beyond her to further pleasures. The thin robe, carelessly clasped at the waist, was neither properly wrapped around her, nor fastened. Angelica could see the roundness of her breasts and the hard points of her nipples; she could see her slender bare feet and glimpse her pale slender thighs. Her thighs were wet, Angelica saw, and the thin material of the robe adhered to this seeping, spreading dampness.

  She was being shown sex, Angelica realized. With pain, she also realized that Natasha enjoyed showing her this, and that the demonstration was both deliberate and careless. It seemed to her that Natasha wished to exhult, yet was ultimately indifferent to her reaction. She wondered if this exhibition was intended to evoke desire—as it certainly did—or whether it could be a warning, an instruction to observe her place from now on, and accept her exclusion from these precincts. Whatever the reason for this manifestation, Natasha’s beauty, at that moment, burned her. To Angelica she looked like a goddess.