The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

  This time I could. It was the effect John Ashe had on those around him. His appearance, his secrecy, his wealth, his aura of utter, unforced power – they both repelled and fascinated us. It was as though Louise and I were working for royalty, who demanded fealty and complete discretion. We had been chosen by Ashe and we knew what was expected of us. But as to which of us was most secure in her position, I had no doubt it was me.

  ‘Louise,’ I said, ‘would you like to come to a party?’ Her face registered a moment’s doubt about the sort of party to which I would be invited.

  ‘Everyone will be there,’ I said.

  She drew on her cigarette but I saw the gleam in her eye. ‘When’s that?’ she asked. ‘I’ll check my diary.’

  Charles Swynford-Hayes and Miles Easter were sacked. In the case of the former I was there, working at my desk while it was happening, but I heard almost nothing. The only voice I heard was Ashe’s, and it was lowered. The whole thing took less than five minutes. Though Swynford-Hayes greeted me civilly enough on his arrival his departure was swift and silent. The lift door clanged shut on the eddying wake of his humiliation. Ashe’s door remained closed.

  The following week, when I typed out letters to the two men confirming their dismissal in barely two sentences I felt a guilty thrill of power by association. If Ashe was Jupiter, icy in his wrath, then I was his Mercury. Still I could not for the life of me reconcile this Ashe with the self-effacing philanthropist I’d seen in the crypt of St Xavier’s and somehow the presence of another, more benevolent side to my employer made him still more forbidding. Once more I hoped, fervently, that Louise would be careful, for she was dealing with so much more than she, or any of us, knew.

  There was no question of her arriving at the gallery with me, new dress or no new dress.

  ‘You go on,’ she said, ‘I’m hopeless at getting ready.’ But I knew the real reason was so she could make a late entrance, the effect undimmed by a less glamorous female companion. I didn’t in the least mind. I had told Christopher Jarvis she would be coming, and I wanted her to shine.

  When I arrived, I left her name with the greeter on the door. I noticed at once that Ashe was not there either. The Jarvises welcomed me warmly and insisted that I enjoy myself.

  ‘You’re not working tonight, Pamela,’ said Amanda.

  I stood beneath Bob Sullivan’s largest canvas, with my untouched glass in my hand, observing. The painting was entitled ‘Desert Rocks, January 1928’. The purples, umbers and slate greys in which it was executed went well with my dress, but whatever the Jarvises cared to pretend, I was not like my fellow guests. I could not imagine ever knowing so many people or having so much to say. As the room filled up, the conversation became a positive roar. It was easy to spot the guest of honour, because he was a head taller than most other people, and there was a slight shift in the crowd as he moved around, carrying the focus of attention with him. It was like watching an animal walking through long grass. The crowd around him made up a vivid and eclectic mix. Many of those present – artists, presumably, or would-be artists, poseurs affecting an artistic manner – were dressed in an eccentric style that ranged from gorgeously bohemian to downright scruffy. Others, whom I took to be dealers or potential customers, were smart, the men expensively tailored and the women ruthlessly chic. A few individuals, who might have belonged to either group, affected a studied plainness, as if their sole object was to blend into the background; these I suspected of being critics.

  This notion was more than borne out when John Ashe arrived, with his wife on his arm. She was like a dragonfly in blue and silver – brilliant, but frangible and inconsequential; he, plain and dark as ever, exuded a still, intense presence powerful enough to be felt across the room, and not just by me. For the first time, at their entrance, attention shifted momentarily away from the artist and his work. As soon as they’d been greeted by Christopher Jarvis they parted company, turning away from one another so that each was at the centre of a separate group. This might have resulted from long practice, or prior agreement, or just a natural social instinct, but it was very noticeable.

  A voice beside me said my name: ‘Pamela?’ It was Georgina, her cheeks as pink as her georgette dress, and her eyes shining. ‘Pamela, you look quite wonderful!’

  ‘Hello, Georgina. So do you. What do you think of the paintings?’

  She glanced at the one above me, and then mock-furtively from side to side before positioning herself between me and the rest of the room.

  ‘Not much – too big and obvious. Like the artist.’

  I laughed. ‘I believe he’s terrifically popular in America.’

  ‘That just proves my point. Clever old you, though, to stand under this one, which goes so well with that beautiful dress.’

  ‘It wasn’t intentional,’ I lied.

  ‘Then it was a very happy coincidence. Do you like them? The pictures?’

  ‘I do, quite. Not as much as Suzannah’s, though.’

  ‘She’s here, you know,’ said Georgina, putting her hand on my shoulder and craning her neck to see. ‘Somewhere around . . . She looks awful.’

  I felt a little spider creep of anxiety across my skin. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Every way imaginable – tired, thin. Ill, actually. I know she’s older than me, but she’s such a little waif, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone to look after her.’

  ‘Doesn’t she have a family?’

  Georgina shrugged. ‘Who knows? If she does she’s never mentioned them. She just always seems to be alone.’

  ‘Or perhaps she’s a loner,’ I said. ‘Which isn’t quite the same.’

  ‘Anyway, she makes me want to wrap her up in a thick rug and feed her sponge pudding and custard with a runcible spoon.’

  ‘She was painting John Ashe’s portrait, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes – she’s finished, she told me. Wouldn’t you absolutely love to see?’

  ‘Perhaps we will. Mr Jarvis likes her work, maybe it will be displayed here.’

  Georgina made a face. ‘Not if he doesn’t want to frighten the customers!’

  ‘Surely,’ I said, a touch pompously, ‘you can’t judge a painting by the appearance of the subject.’

  ‘Not in the papers I dare say, but would you have that face hanging on your drawing-room wall?’

  Oddly, I thought, I might. But it would have been much too complicated to explain why, so I let her rhetorical question go by as if I agreed. Besides, Georgina’s attention was already elsewhere.

  ‘Who in the world is that? She’ll put Felicia’s nose out of joint. Mind if I go and investigate?’

  I looked where she was heading. It was Louise, of course; I felt proud of her. She wore the simplest column of white, with a cloud of maribou at the neck, a white and silver plume in her pinky-golden hair, and silver shoes. Knowing her predilection for show, she must have thought long and hard about the impression she wished to make. Aside from her youth, and the fact that she was unaccompanied, she might have been a high society belle from the very top of the top drawer. She had even softened her make-up, and smoothed her hair. She was quite lovely. Christopher Jarvis’s face was a study; he could surely never have suspected me of having such a friend. Georgina was introduced, and was equally impressed. All three of them looked my way, and Amanda pointed me out. Louise smiled, took a glass of champagne and started to make her way in my direction. I waited, relishing the sense that almost the entire room – covertly, of course – was waiting to see who the newcomer was acquainted with. Felicia Ashe was holding court in the far corner, her back to me, but one of the men she was talking to sent a predatory, greedily admiring glance over her shoulder. I couldn’t see Ashe.

  Louise had almost reached me when she was, inevitably, intercepted – and by Bob Sullivan himself, no doubt thanking his lucky stars for this God-given opportunity to flaunt his special status.

  ‘Good evening, may I introduce myself? I’m Bob Sullivan.’

  ‘Not -
’ Louise consulted her catalogue, she was such a pro. ‘Not R.J. Sullivan himself? The artist we’re here to celebrate?’

  ‘The very same. And you are?’

  ‘Louise Baron.’

  ‘Louise . ..’ He shook her hand slowly, ‘I’m mortified that we haven’t met before. How is it that you’re here?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just a hanger-on, really. My friend knows Christopher Jarvis. Here she is – Pamela, meet the artist, Bob – may I call you Bob? – Sullivan. This is Pamela Griffe.’

  ‘We know each other,’ he said, and added that it was a pleasure to see me, though I was far from sure how much of a pleasure since he must have been hoping to have Louise to himself. He had the easy, confident charm that Americans were famous for, but seeing the way he looked at Louise I felt sorry for Christopher Jarvis.

  ‘Are you ladies enjoying the show?’ he enquired. I said that I was.

  ‘I’ve only just arrived,’ said Louise, ‘so I shall answer that when I’ve had a good look round.’

  ‘Quite right!’ he agreed. ‘But if it’s bad news, don’t tell me, OK?’ I had the distinct impression that he’d have been enchanted by whatever she cared to say. ‘Champagne’s good, huh?’

  Louise took a sip, frowning slightly. ‘It’s as good as I’m used to, and I’m used to the best.’

  ‘I bet you are!’ Sullivan roared with laughter.

  I hadn’t seen John Ashe approach, but quite suddenly he was there, a dark background to Louise’s white dress.

  ‘Hey, Ashe,’ said Sullivan, the easy manner appearing suddenly overfamiliar. ‘Let me introduce you to these charming ladies.’

  ‘Thank you. I know them both.’

  ‘You do? Well I’ll be!’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Ashe,’ I said. ‘Would you excuse me?’

  They scarcely noticed I’d gone, so wrapped up were they in their own reactions. I stepped aside, and turned half away to examine a picture on the wall, still close enough to witness the small scene that followed.

  Somewhat mischievously, I had not told Louise that Ashe would be present. I justified it by telling myself that I’d not been absolutely sure. What I hadn’t known, or suspected, was that Felicia would come too. After all, till now I had never seen them together, so I had got into the way of thinking that they led largely separate lives.

  For a minute or two Bob Sullivan continued to boom away enthusiastically, but then Christopher Jarvis came and bore him off, under mild protest, to meet other people.

  ‘I didn’t expect to meet you here,’ said Louise. I caught at once the different tone in which she addressed him – the quick, low, casual voice of a lover.

  ‘Nor me. It’s a very pleasant surprise.’ In his voice, I could detect no difference. ‘But then . . . you’ve met Mrs Griffe.’

  ‘Yes.’ I felt Louise look my way, and affected the closest possible interest in Sullivan’s work. ‘Yes, she and I live in the same building.’

  ‘A small world indeed. Felicia – this is Louise Baron. It turns out we have acquaintances in common. My wife, Felicia.’

  ‘How do you do.’

  I couldn’t tell if Felicia responded, but I did hear her say: ‘Ashe, shouldn’t we talk to the artist?’

  ‘I’ve just met him.’

  ‘But I haven’t, and I don’t want to stay long.’

  ‘We’ll find him then. Goodbye, my dear.’

  A second later Louise was at my side. Even in the crush I could hear her shallow breathing and feel the furious heat emanating from her. With shaking hands she rummaged in her tiny bag for her cigarette case. The moment the cigarette was between her lips a lighter was proffered, but she only flashed a ‘Thanks,’ swift and brilliant as a blade, before turning back to me and hissing: ‘Bitch!’

  ‘It’s only her manner,’ I said. ‘And she doesn’t know you.’

  ‘Then he’s more of a bastard than I took him for. He behaved as if he didn’t know me – you must have been listening, didn’t you hear?’

  ‘He was distant and polite. What did you expect?’

  ‘Something ... I don’t know!’

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ I said, ‘she was bound not to like you. She’s used to being the most admired woman in the room.’

  ‘Hm.’ Louise sucked fiercely on her cigarette and snorted smoke through her nostrils like a dragon. ‘Can’t think why. She’s a cold little china doll.’ She rounded on me. ‘Did you know they’d be here?’

  ‘I thought he might be.’

  ‘What were you doing? Did you want to see me humiliated?’

  ‘No!’ This was so far from the truth it took my breath away. But, unable to deny that I had been meddling, I now reproached myself for it. ‘I thought you might like to see Ashe,’ I muttered.

  ‘I don’t need your help to do that, Pamela. I can see him whenever I want.’

  There was no mollifying her, and the man with the lighter was hovering with a smitten expression. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I think I see someone else I know.’

  I needed to escape, but as I moved away through the crowded room the last thing I wanted was to get tied up with Rintoul, or Paul Marriott, or even Georgina or the Jarvises. I did not belong here. In fact it was hard to say where I belonged any more. I felt small, and foolish and ashamed, faintly ridiculous in my expensive dress.

  I had already decided to leave when I saw Suzannah. She was leaning against the wall near the door, arms folded, staring into space. Even when I was in front of her it was clear she couldn’t see me. When I said her name she started, and I could tell it took a moment before she realised who I was.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s Pamela. From Crompton Terrace.’

  ‘Pamela, yes. I’m sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Pretty well,’ she said. But Georgina had been right, she did look awful. Her pale orange hair was tied back in a scarf, her small, pale face was like a sick child’s; her eyes were clogged with scurf at the corners, touched with blue shadows beneath. Her lips were red, dry and cracked. The tendons in her neck stood out and I noticed a hollow on either side of her collarbones. Her nails were bitten, the cuticles ragged.

  ‘I’m rather tired,’ she said, as if she’d known what I was thinking.

  I asked if she had finished the portrait.

  ‘Oh yes. In fact I don’t have any commissions at the moment so why I should feel like this . . . Who knows? Perhaps doing nothing is exhausting. For someone like me who doesn’t know where the next penny’s coming from.’

  ‘But your paintings are doing well, surely,’ I said. ‘There were several in this gallery when I first came.’

  ‘Just because Christopher likes them doesn’t mean they’re popular. Unfortunately. But I don’t want to court popularity, so . . .’

  ‘Is Mr Ashe pleased?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s got what he asked for.’

  ‘And you? What do you think of it now you’ve finished?’

  She hesitated, looking away as though weighing her words. It occurred to me that I was asking too many questions, that I was harrying her.

  ‘He’s an interesting subject and a good sitter.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said gently, ‘it’s really none of my business. But I’m such an admirer of your work.’

  She smiled wanly, and the smile made a tiny bead of blood appear on her lower lip. ‘You’re not a flatterer. So thank you. The answer to your question is that there was some compromise involved but the result is better than I hoped.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see it,’ I said. ‘You know I do some work for him – perhaps it’ll hang in his office.’

  ‘I’ve really no idea.’

  I was beginning to understand that to Suzannah the picture was like a ship which she had built, but which had now sailed way out to sea, in the hands of others and bound on a separate and different course. It no longer had anything to do with her. But I couldn’t help being fascinated and curious.

 
‘Where have you been living?’ I asked. ‘Were you staying with the Ashes?’

  ‘No, they have a little flat . . . But I’m moving out of there now. I’m coming back to the Jarvises for a while until I decide what to do.’

  ‘But that’s marvellous!’ I cried. I could scarcely believe how pleased I was by this news, it’ll be like before, when I first arrived.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, so softly it was almost a whisper. ‘Almost like before.’

  I explained that I’d been on my way out, and said goodbye. As I left, I scanned the crowd once more. Louise was at the centre of a group of admirers, including Bob Sullivan. From across the room, John Ashe was staring directly at us, with such quiet and intense concentration that I had the strong impression – impossible of course – that he had heard every word we said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was odd that I should have felt so out of place that evening because, looking back, it was the occasion when I became enmeshed. Till then I had been a bystander, an onlooker and proud of it. I thought I could remain detached. But detachment was no longer possible: John Ashe had seen to that. I was not proud of the trick I had played on Louise, but I had felt compelled to prove that she was not as important to Ashe as I was myself. It was disturbing to think that this might have been not an aberration, but my true colours.

  My mother, of course, seemed to sense it when I saw her at the weekend.

  Her actual words were: ‘You’re looking very smart.’ But I knew what she meant. It wasn’t my new jacket and skirt she was alluding to: she could smell it on me, the difference – the subtle shift, as she saw it, in allegiance.

  ‘I’ve been doing some shopping,’ I said. ‘So many of my clothes I’ve had for years.’

  ‘It was all well-made stuff.’ She crimped her mouth, turning my remark against me.

  ‘I shan’t get rid of them,’ I said.