It was December. They had been staying at the Regent Hotel where a mammoth Christmas tree had been erected in the atrium made of glass to allow the flow of harmonies to pass through the walls and into the harbour.
On their last Sunday together they had gone to Stanley Market to shop for Christmas presents. As the number 6 bus (three Hong Kong dollars, no change given) recklessly climbed the hairpin bends on the outskirts of the city and rounded the dramatic overhang of Repulse Bay, they were hurled into each other’s arms, while from the seat opposite, an elderly Chinese woman carrying three gladioli and a bunch of spring onions, regarded them impassively.
Wandering amongst the booths, draped with hand-embroidered silk blouses, dragon-embossed kimonos, angora sweaters, ‘designer’ jeans, drawn-thread tablecloths and T-shirts at ‘factory’ prices, Freddie had bought an embroidered tablecloth for Jane, and a silk kimono for Lilli from a gold-toothed stall holder.
Afterwards, at Chung Hom Kok beach, in the shadow of the steep cliffs, he had made love to Sidonie in the water.
On their last night together (Sidonie was catching the morning plane), Freddie had put on his white dinner jacket and Sidonie a floating dress, and they had ridden the Star Ferry through the bobbing sampans.
Freddie had been back to Hong Kong on more than one occasion since then. Each time he boarded the Star Ferry, wedged in by Chinese, their faces buried in the racing sheets, he thought of Sidonie pulling him by the hand through the turnstile and running, clickety-clack on her high heels, like a small dervish to catch it.
Dinner, at the Mandarin Hotel, had been subdued. They were always loath to part from each other. On this occasion Freddie sensed that Sidonie had something other than her early flight on her mind. As she sat opposite him at the table, sucking at her lobster claws in a manner which never failed to arouse him, he had the strange sensation that she had already gone.
Back in Kowloon, he had bought her a brooch, in the shape of a dragonfly, from a neon-lit shop, and pinned it to the chiffon of her dress before they joined the teeming ribbon of human ants which streamed along the waterfront and, arm in arm, strolled back to their hotel.
Their personal love-drama, an opera with two voices, had been acted out in capital cities across the world. It was a duet of equals. With no emotional baggage to impede them, no constraints on their passion nor on its lower depths, they surrendered themselves, until like Tristan and Isolde they found redemption in each other’s arms.
‘Freddie, we have to talk.’
‘Tomorrow.’ Freddie was almost asleep.
‘It is tomorrow. Freddie I’m getting married…’
‘Pull the other one.’
‘I’m being serious.’
Freddie opened his eyes. Sidonie’s naked body, illuminated by the harbour lights, was reflected in the mirror.
‘Married?’
‘Married.’
‘Sidonie, in love?’
‘Who said anything about love?’
‘Why then?’
‘There are other reasons.’
‘Not for you, the independent lady, the hot-shot stockbroker who doesn’t rate men and wouldn’t know a blocked-up sink if she saw one. What’s his name?’
‘Fabrizio. Orsini. Fabrizio Orsini. Count Fabrizio Orsini.’
‘He’s after your money.’
‘Fabrizio has plenty of his own.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Nothing.’ Switching on the lamp, Sidonie leaned over the side of the bed. Removing a photograph from her handbag she gave it to Freddie.
A tall and extremely handsome young man, with very white teeth, wearing a Nehru jacket and hair down his back, stood next to a Bentley convertible.
‘Is he in love with you?’
Putting the photograph away and sitting up against the pillows, Sidonie switched off the lamp.
‘That’s what the man says.’
‘What’s in it for Sidonie?’
‘I’ll be Countess Orsini. I’ll have something that every unattached woman in New York would give her right arm for.’
‘This is me you’re talking to. I know you better than that.’
‘Do you, Freddie? Do you know me?’
‘Six months? I’d say we’ve been pretty close.’
‘You can live close to someone for the whole of your life and never get to know them. You have no idea why I’m getting married, do you, Freddie?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Freddie I’m 38 years old…’
‘I didn’t know there was a sell-by date.’
‘You’ve heard of the biological clock? Well, mine is sure as hell ticking away…’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Changing nappies? Rushing home from Wall Street to read Milly-Molly-Mandy?’
‘I want a baby, Freddie. I desperately want a baby. It’s been coming on for a long time. I think I was as surprised as you.’
‘What’s so special about Fabrizio?’
‘He makes me laugh.’
‘Is this the final curtain?’
Sidonie turned to him, her breasts outlined against the windows. He thought there were tears in her eyes, unless it was the reflection of the lights.
‘It’s been a great performance.’
At Kai Tak he had held her tightly in his arms.
‘Have a good life.’ Sidonie’s voice was unsteady.
‘You too.’
‘Call me when they make you chairman of the bank.’
It was the last time he had seen her.
They sat in the lounge of the Berkeley. Sidonie was wearing the dragonfly brooch. It was pinned to the lapel of her suit. Over double Black Labels, Sidonie’s straight up like his own, they filled in the intervening years.
‘What happened to the biological clock?’
‘It ran out.’
‘No baby?’
Sidonie shook her head. ‘No baby.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay. It passed.’
Freddie held out the bowl of rice crackers.
‘And how’s the Count?’
Sidonie withdrew her empty fingers from the bowl. ‘Fabrizio’s dead.’
Freddie was shocked. He had followed the couple’s progress through the gossip columns and across the social pages of the glossies whenever he had been in New York. Orsini against the backdrop of his Art-Deco collection. The Count and Countess Orsini bidding for a painting at a Sotheby’s benefit night. Countess Orsini receiving the New York award of Business Woman of the Year. Sidonie’s face on the front of Business Week. One Christmas in Barbados he had seen them on the beach. Orsini had been holding court to a group of topless women. Nearby, Sidonie, Rembrandt’s Hendrickje Stoffels (in a G-string), was standing at the edge of the water testing it with a scarlet-tipped toe. As he and Jane approached, his eyes met Sidonie’s. The shock of the encounter threw him off balance, and as they passed he was chided by Jane for his overlong glance in her direction.
Since their affair, Sidonie had avoided coming to London.
Taking their seats in the Opera House – for which Freddie, no longer entitled to the Sitwell Hunt corporate box, had had to dig deep into his own pocket – he recalled other evenings. Macbeth in Frankfurt, Parsifal in Copenhagen. The Ring at Bayreuth. Each night of music followed by its coda of love. Now they sat sedately, side by side like an old married couple, as the conductor took up his baton and the audience, with a final clearing of the throat, grew silent. Freddie wondered why Sidonie had got in touch with him, why she had disinterred what had been long buried, resurrected the ghosts of an affair long over with her telephone call, and how she would react to the news that he was out of Sitwell Hunt.
Listening to the first notes of the Prelude, he wondered if it would be betraying Jane if – for purely technical reasons, to see if he was capable – he went to bed with Sidonie. Glancing at her familiar profile as the curtains between the real and the fant
asy world parted, to reveal the medieval ship on which Tristan, within a few hours’ sail of Cornwall, bore Isolde to be the wife of his king, Freddie lost himself in the innocence of the song and the loneliness of the singer. Forgetting Sidonie, forgetting his own problems, he gave himself up to the music.
In the intervals, reluctant to break the spell, they spoke mainly of the opera: Tristan who was pushing himself to the musical limit; Isolde who, with a thrilling top to her voice, was turning in an exceptional performance; the magic spell cast by the baton of Sir Georg Solti.
As Tristan’s dying ‘Isolde!’ pierced the silence of the packed auditorium and the final act drew to a close, Freddie put a hand over Sidonie’s, feeling beneath his fingers the Count’s massive emerald ring. A tear rolled slowly down Sidonie’s cheek as Isolde sobbed out her broken heart.
They had dinner at Orso’s. As they waited to order, Sidonie leaned across the red-checked tablecloth towards Freddie.
‘You’re still the best-looking man I know…’
Freddie managed his old smile.
‘…And the nicest.’
‘I’m not very nice at the moment.’
‘You look great from where I’m sitting.’
‘I have something to tell you, Sidonie.’
The gravity of his voice made Sidonie remove the recently acquired reading glasses, with the aid of which she was studying the menu, to fix her magnetic eyes on him.
‘Not you and Jane!’
Freddie shook his head.
‘It’s always been no holds barred with you and me, Freddie.’
‘I’ve been chucked out of the bank.’
‘I know.’ She put the glasses on again. ‘I called the bank. There’s no way you would leave Sitwell Hunt unless you were dragged out screaming.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘I didn’t want to spoil the evening.’
‘I wish it was only the evening that was spoiled. I’m on the scrap heap, Sidonie. Everything I’ve worked for has gone.’ He filled her in on exactly what had happened. He did not bother to prevaricate. He could level with Sidonie as he could not level with Jane.
Practical, business-like Sidonie, no time, no words, wasted in commiseration. ‘What will you do?’ She reached for his hand.
‘Something will turn up.’
‘Freddie!’ Sidonie took her hand away. ‘Things don’t “turn up”…’
‘We happen to be in the middle of a recession.’
‘Do we now?’
The waiter stood by the table.
‘I’ll have the carpaccio.’ Sidonie leaned towards Freddie. ‘You listen to me, Freddie. You don’t get to be head of corporate finance, to be vice-chairman of Sitwell Hunt without great skills, great ability…’
‘I’m beginning to wonder.’
‘Since when has hitting the ball into the net once made you a lousy tennis player? You’re a success, Freddie.’
‘Tell that to Gordon Sitwell.’
‘Forget Gordon Sitwell. You’ve always been a success. You’re the most single-minded and determined man I know. That’s what I like about you. You’ve always been in the right place at the right time; like Issigonis with his Mini, like the Beatles. Gordon Sitwell felt threatened by your entrepreneurial spirit, by the fact that you enjoyed challenges, exploited opportunities, made things happen, took risks, by the fact that you wanted every step to be bigger and better than the last one. You scared the pants off him. So the schmuck iced you. It’s no big deal. It happens every day. It’s how you feel that’s important. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Go out there and fuck them.’
Freddie knew that everything that Sidonie said, every word that she uttered was valid. He was no better able to cope with her battle cry than he had been with Jane’s sympathy and her tender loving care.
Sidonie immediately had his number. ‘Look at it as a challenge, Freddie. Like defending Corinthian Hotels was a challenge.’
Freddie looked surprised.
‘I know all about Corinthian Hotels.’ She leaned across the table. ‘“Save thyself, Tristan.” Your ship’s got white sails, Freddie. Your ship has always had white sails.’
Room 333. The Berkeley Hotel always gave it to Sidonie. Going up in the lift Freddie put his arms round her, wondering whether passion could be rekindled, or if the spark was dead.
At the door of her room Sidonie turned to him. ‘I’m hacked out, Freddie. I wanted to see you more than anything in the world. Now I want you to go home.’
Freddie was puzzled. ‘What made you call me?’
Sidonie put the key card in the door. ‘I’d like to explain. Darling Freddie, I owe you an explanation. It’ll have to wait.’
Putting a hand beneath her chin, he tilted Sidonie’s face towards him and bent to put his lips to hers. She turned her head away abruptly.
‘Call me tomorrow, Freddie. It’s been a spectacular evening. Thanks a whole bunch for the opera…’ Her voice was distant. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Goodnight.’
Twenty-five
‘Let me remind you of the original story, that is to say Shakespeare’s original story…’
Listening to the voice of the drama coach, Mrs Drummond, Rosina, who was to play the lead in the school production of Kiss me Kate – which as Mrs Drummond was explaining was based on The Taming of the Shrew – put herself on automatic pilot and considered her problem, which although sexual in nature had nothing whatever to do with her stormy courtship by her prospective stage husband, the Hon. Rachel Lloyd (Fred Graham/Petruchio), her real-life arch-enemy, who stood arrogantly beside her on the platform in the Pfeiffer Hall.
Since her first disillusioned foray into the sexual minefield three weeks ago with Henry, Rosina had not only read every article she could get hold of, but had discussed the matter with her peers.
‘If you’re not enjoying sex,’ demanded one magazine, ‘is it best to lie back and pretend you’re having the time of your life, or to be honest instead?’ ‘Communication is the key to a happy sex life.’ ‘Make sure you’ve got his attention and he’s not just getting a “quickie” in before the next football match.’ ‘Massage is a great tension reliever. Use baby oil to relax and stimulate you both.’ ‘Don’t set intercourse – and orgasm – as your goal, just go with the flow and enjoy each stage as it happens.’ ‘Having sex with someone is about as intimate as you can get, so it’s best to express your true feelings.’ ‘Many people fantasise about someone – whether it’s Tom Cruise or the boy on the bus – and it’s nothing to feel guilty about.’ ‘Good sex requires time, patience, and understanding.’ ‘Sexual arousal comes in stages. So try to enjoy each step as it happens…’
Try telling that to Henry, who had not the least idea what Rosina was talking about. The more she suggested that they set themselves up in a warm, comfortable position (last time it had been in the back of his father’s Ford Cortina, which was neither warm nor comfortable), avail themselves of a bottle of baby oil and confine their attention to her nipples, he had looked at her with as much consternation as if she had asked him to take his mind off the action to check the tyre pressures of the car. He thought that she had gone completely mad.
While Henry was working away at the coalface, she imagined that she was Vivien Leigh, being made love to by Clark Gable, or Sharon Stone getting it on with the ubiquitous Michael Douglas, but as much as she thought that Henry was the most amazing thing since Vanilla Ice, and knew that the other girls in her class would give their best winter boots to be in her position (which was ungainly to say the least of it), she could not, in all honesty, say that, when it came to sex, Henry was either patient or understanding, and he certainly never seemed to have a great deal of time.
Since they had been going out together, his mind, which previously had at least affected to have some preoccupations above his belt, seemed to have settled permanently into his boxer shorts. He could not get enough of it. As he pummelled and grabbed her, leaving lovebites like
great purple bruises on her shoulders and nuzzling avidly at her thighs, a detached Rosina, whose most mind-blowing sensation was that of cramp in her leg, had difficulty in concentrating on the business in hand. She desired her lover only in his absence, was unable to share her fervour in what she could not help regarding as a grossly overrated act, and wondered if she was lacking in some vital piece of anatomical equipment or whether there was, perhaps, something fundamentally wrong with her. She certainly took issue with the bottom line of all the advice she had read, and which she regarded with the scepticism born of her meagre experience, that ‘it’ would be worth the wait.
She would have liked to discuss the matter with her mother, but Jane imagined that Rosina was far too young to be in a relationship which was quaintly referred to in Chester Terrace as ‘going to bed’. In any case, she and Freddie had other, more important things on their minds at the moment than Rosina’s sex life, about which they would probably have had a fit apiece if they knew.
Although at first Rosina had thought of her father’s dismissal from Sitwell Hunt in terms of his being unable to take her to school in the car (she now had to walk or make her own way on the Hoppa), his presence in the house, coupled with the fact that her parents no longer seemed to get on so well together, had made her reassess the situation. She did not mention his dismissal to her friends. When Candida D’Arcy’s half-brother was made redundant from his job as a rising-star publisher, the conversation, before one maths lesson, had turned to dumpies, an acronym which had superseded yuppies and referred to the new downwardly mobile professionals, and Rosina had kept very quiet. When Claudine, of the plum-coloured hair, commented on the morning absence of Leonard and the Mercedes, Rosina hinted that Freddie was engaged on some vital assignment on behalf of the Treasury, the outcome of which could have political repercussions, and that there were more significant things on his agenda than taking her to school. Seeing her father glued to the teletext, making inroads into the whisky bottle, jump each time the telephone rang, work his worry beads overtime, and surreptitiously scan the situations vacant columns in the newspapers under the pretext of immersing himself in the world news, made Rosina uneasy. Her heart went out to him, but she could not talk to him. Not unless she wanted to get her head bitten off. Nobody could. She and Jane, whom anxiety about Freddie had drawn closer together – these days Jane overlooked the state of Rosina’s bedroom and even forgot to nag – were hoping that Tristan, who was due home at the weekend, would lighten the atmosphere, but Tristan and Freddie had never seen eye to eye and Rosina doubted very much that he would.
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