‘Oh, wow, that’s sad,’ she said. ‘I loved him so much. I bet you did too.’
‘Never knew him,’ said Reuben with one of his lugubrious smiles.
‘Oh, Reuben, you know what I mean. My dad used to take me to see all his movies.’
‘You still miss your dad?’ he said, looking at her thoughtfully.
‘Yes, I do. Terribly. And one day –’ She spoke without thinking, stopped herself.
‘What?’
‘Oh – nothing.’ She was silent, withdrawn from him suddenly. She had told him a little about her father, that he had been an actor, that he had died in Hollywood when she had been a little girl, but that was enough, as much as she wanted to give. It was painful territory; she didn’t like entering it with someone new. It hurt all over again. She had been so busy, so happy lately, she had set aside her real ambition, the one beside which being rich and famous and setting up her own agency and getting even with Bella Buchanan all paled into significance: but she knew she would return to it, knew it was what mattered; it was her guiding force, her inspiration, it was what drove her, made her what she was. She supposed it could be most truly defined as an obsession.
‘OK. So why should I like Buster Keaton?’ he said, breaking into her thoughts.
‘He never said anything either,’ said Fleur, and smiled at him, and then: ‘Joe loves him too,’ she added, thoughtlessly careless, remembering Joe imparting this piece of information on their tour of Hollywood.
‘Who’s Joe?’
‘Oh,’ said Fleur quickly, afraid of the explanation, of the complexity, ‘oh, just someone I know.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and buried herself in the paper, not noticing the expression on Reuben’s face.
When they got to Amsterdam, he walked her to the house, said, ‘Goodnight,’ and walked away again.
‘Reuben!’ she called, startled. ‘Reuben, what is it?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, and continued to walk.
Fleur ran after him. ‘Reuben, please! What did I say?’
‘There’s obviously someone else, and I don’t want to share you,’ he said simply, and turned away again. It was the longest sentence he had ever spoken.
‘Oh!’ said Fleur, and she looked at his back, and the droop of his head, and a great shoot of joy and longing went through her, so harsh and strong it was almost a pain; she could feel its progress from her head to where she imagined her heart must be, and then down it travelled to her loins, swiftly and surely, moving her, melting her; and she put out her hand and touched him, very gently, on his back, his tall, bony back, and said, ‘Reuben, don’t go. It isn’t – like that. Honestly. And I’d like you to stay.’
He turned, and looked at her, and all she could read in his face, in his eyes was sex, raw, greedy; and he moved towards her and took her face in his hands and kissed her, very hard, differently from all the other times.
‘Oh, God,’ was all he said, and she took his hand and they ran, as if escaping some dreadful danger, ran back up the street and into the house and up the stairs and into her apartment and she stood against the door, staring at him, breathing heavily. He slipped her coat off her shoulders and pushed his hands up beneath her sweater, and stood there, cupping her breasts, and she felt his thumbs massaging her nipples and she moaned quite quietly, and started walking backwards, very slowly and carefully, until she reached the bed; she lay down on it, and swiftly, joyfully, in almost one movement, tore off her sweater, and lay there, her arms open to him.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Shit, you’re so beautiful,’ and he put one hand down and touched her face, and with the other he was tearing at his fly, struggling out of his jeans, and then he was kneeling at the foot of the bed, kissing her breasts, teasing the nipples with his tongue, and she moaned again, and said, ‘Wait, wait,’ and pulled off her skirt and her pants; he sat up and looked at her and pushed her legs tenderly, gently apart and began kissing her there, tonguing her, probing within her bush for her clitoris, his hands beneath her, holding her buttocks, and she felt him find it, felt herself heat, become molten, thrusting at him softly, achingly hungry. He went on and on working at her; she felt a climax growing, growing and didn’t want it, didn’t want the first time this way, and she pushed his head back and said, ‘Please, please, in me, now,’ and he stood up, and looked down at her, and then settled on her, very gently, and she felt his penis on her vulva and then making its journey inwards, on and on, to her innermost depths. Huge he was, reaching and reaching within her; she felt, and seemed almost to see, new places, new boundaries unfolding within her, and she did not move, did not stir, just lay and discovered him and he was discovering her. Suddenly he said, ‘Look at me. Now. Quickly,’ and she opened her eyes and stared into his, a new nakedness, one she had not known before, had not wished to know, one of absolute abandon, total vulnerability; as she looked, she felt her climax begin, and she moved, gently, drawing on him, adding his heat to her own, and he said, ‘Be still, be quite still,’ and he began to move himself, so slowly, so tenderly at first she scarcely felt it and then faster, harder, and he seemed to light upon some new place altogether in her, and she climbed, higher and higher in a blinding, sweet pleasure that went on and on, each beating of it stronger than the last, and she was crying out, she could hear herself, the strange wild cries of sex, and he was there with her, and he said quite loudly, ‘Christ, you’re beautiful,’ and began to come, strong rhythmic spasms, and she lay arched, her head thrown back, gripping the sides of the bed, almost afraid of the pleasure he was giving, and her capacity to take it.
Afterwards they lay in silence for a long time; he pulled the torn quilt over them both and cradled her, her head on his shoulder, kissing her hair, and she said nothing, nothing at all, just smiled at him, and then suddenly he sat up and said, ‘I need to pee,’ and she laughed and said, ‘In there.’
When he came back, looking much more the Reuben she knew, awkward and angular and smiling his crooked smile, she said, ‘How funny you are.’
‘Why?’
‘Most people don’t say anything when they’re making love. You talk more than when you’re not.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘There seems a bit more to say.’ He settled down beside her.
‘Do you not like talking?’ she said curiously. ‘Or do you just see no need for it?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I can see the need. I just can’t find the words.’
‘That’s because you don’t get any practice,’ she said briskly. ‘Maybe I can give you some lessons.’
‘I’ve liked it that you haven’t tried to make me talk,’ he said slightly warily.
‘Oh, really? It hasn’t been entirely easy.’
‘Well, I’m glad you managed it. Most girls keep asking me questions. It makes me nervous.’
‘Are you easily made nervous, Reuben?’
‘Very.’ He looked at her again, and then said, ‘Are you going to tell me now? Who Joe is?’
‘No. Well – a friend. It’s rather – complex. But it wasn’t what you think. Do you mind my not telling you?’
‘Not really,’ he said after a long silence. ‘The only thing I really mind is lies. I’m phobic about lies. Lies and unkindness.’
‘Oh,’ said Fleur. She looked at him thoughtfully. If they were going to get much closer she was going to have to tell him at least some of it.
1966
‘Well, that’s the end of civilization as we know it,’ said Caroline, throwing the Daily Telegraph down on to the table. ‘Dreadful little man. This is your fault,’ she added to Joe.
‘Sorry,’ said Joe. ‘Won’t do it again.’
‘Yes, you will.’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘Do what?’ said Chloe, looking up from her porridge.
‘Vote L
abour,’ said Caroline. ‘I must say I never thought to find myself intimately involved with a socialist.’
‘I never thought to find myself with a blue-rinse Tory either,’ said Joe. ‘You could throw me out. But I don’t think my one vote could actually have granted Mr Wilson a ninety-eight-seat majority.’
‘I don’t have a blue rinse,’ said Caroline crossly.
‘Ideologically you do.’
‘Well, it’s a disaster for the country. And the economy. I wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t lead to a total collapse of the pound. My father always said a large Labour majority . . .’
Chloe heard, with some relief, the phone ringing. She went to answer it.
‘Is Miss Hunterton there?’
Now, thought Chloe, now, how do I know that voice? ‘Yes, Chloe Hunterton speaking.’
‘Chloe, this is Piers Windsor. Do you remember me?’
‘Oh – yes, of course. How are you?’
‘A little harassed. I’m sorry to ring you there, but a nice young lady in your office gave me your number. I want a lunch done for tomorrow. At my agent’s offices. We’ve been let down. Could you do that, do you think?’
‘Well –’ Chloe paused. ‘Well, how many for?’
‘Ten.’
‘Oh, I see. Very small. Well – the thing is, Mr Windsor, Mrs Brownlowe is away in Scotland, doing a deb’s dance.’
‘Well, what about you? I’m sure you must be capable of doing something?’
He must be mad, thought Chloe, after I spilt wine down his suit. ‘Me? But –’
‘Yes?’
Courage suddenly came to her; of course she could do it. She had done several now. And he was so nice, so charming, it would be fun. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I could,’ she said, feeling an empty space where her stomach had been as if she was going down too fast in a lift. ‘I’d have to get Mrs Brownlowe’s go-ahead of course, and clear the menus and everything with her, but I have done small lunches once or twice before.’
‘Good. I have total faith in you. Your stepfather tells me you are a genius. And that I should be sure to ask for your chocolate mousse.’
‘Oh.’ So he’d checked her out; well, she supposed that was only sensible. ‘Um – what sort of a lunch did you want?’
‘Oh, something cold. That would be fine. Salmon or something. We’re entertaining some potential investors.’
The lift seemed to be gathering speed: Chloe closed her eyes briefly, a habit of hers when she needed to be calm. ‘Right,’ was all she said.
She was in the kitchen at six in the morning with Sarah, the new girl. Minty, the more experienced assistant, was still in the country with Mrs Brownlowe. She had hardly slept, and her hands had been shaking so badly while she got dressed that she’d ripped a nail and broken a zip, but as always, the minute she got into the kitchen, she felt calm and in control. Sarah looked at her admiringly as she ticked the menu off on her fingers.
‘Now then. Cold curried chicken, I thought. That’s easy. And for starters we might have vegetable tartlets. Lots of interesting salads, and then chocolate mousse. Special request. Nothing difficult, nothing that can go wrong between here and there. You start on the pastry, I’ll do the mousse. Thank goodness we had too much chicken for Mrs B’s dance.’
‘Um – Chloe.’
‘Yes?’
‘I think the chicken’s off.’
‘Oh, it can’t be.’
‘Well it is. Smell it.’
‘Oh, God. I’ll just have to go to Smithfield straight away.’
‘You’d better hurry. The rush is about to start.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Chloe. ‘This isn’t going to be funny.’
That was only the beginning: Chloe found herself in a snarling, fuming traffic jam; then Sarah knocked the tartlets she had made on to the floor; the cream for the mousse curdled; and when they went out finally to Chloe’s car she had a puncture.
They finally got into a taxi with, Chloe calculated, a precarious twenty-nine minutes to spare, the food in boxes and aluminium containers. The taxi driver was good-natured but doomy. ‘There’s some state visit today. Middle of town’s jammed. Never make it, not in thirty minutes.’
‘We’ve got to,’ said Chloe. ‘We’ve just got to.’
‘You could pray,’ said the taxi driver.
‘He isn’t on our side today, He wouldn’t be any good at all.’
‘Well you’d be far quicker on the tube. Pick up a cab at Holborn.’
‘But – oh, all right. Thanks anyway.’
They staggered down the escalator, on to the tube. ‘If we fall over and drop this,’ said Chloe, ‘I’m going to run away.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
The train roared along: Earl’s Court became Knightsbridge, Hyde Park Corner. ‘Green Park next,’ said Chloe happily. ‘Holborn four stops.’ The train stopped. It sat in total silence for a minute or two, then made its revving noise, shook itself and settled into immobility again. The silence was shatterproof; people fidgeted, cleared their throats nervously, read their papers. Chloe felt beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead; panic formed in a great knot in her throat. She thought she might scream; she gripped her boxes more tightly and closed her eyes. It was nearly ten to twelve; nothing could save her now.
A guard came wandering along the train, swinging his bag and whistling: Chloe looked up at him, her soul in her eyes.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Trouble on the line, love. Shouldn’t be too long. Not more than ten minutes.’
‘That’s too long,’ said Chloe faintly.
‘What’s the trouble?’ He looked at her, concerned. She was grey and trembling.
‘Oh, I have something terribly urgent to do.’
‘How urgent?’
‘Oh – as urgent as anything could be. My job, my whole life, depends on it.’ Her brown eyes were enormous and wet with panicky tears.
‘Dear oh dear,’ said the guard. ‘Nothing’s as bad as that. You’d better come with me. Up to my phone.’ He motioned to them to follow him up the train; they picked up their boxes and aluminium urns and went.
Out of earshot of the other passengers he said, ‘The front of this train’s in the station. I could take you up to the driver’s van and let you out. Only nobody has to know, OK?’
Chloe nodded. ‘OK.’
They walked the length of the train. The driver’s cab just reached the end of Green Park station. Their benefactor stepped into it, whispered in the man’s ear; he listened and then spoke in an unintelligible Scottish accent. The guard turned round.
‘He says it’s more than his job’s worth to let you out.’
‘Oh,’ said Chloe bleaky.
The guard looked at her and his lips twitched slightly. ‘But he says he don’t rate the job too much. Come on, quick, while no one’s looking.’
‘Oh, thank you. You’re an angel.’ She reached up and kissed his cheek.
‘That’ll do,’ he said, smiling embarrassedly, rubbing the place she had kissed. ‘Come on now, buck up. I don’t want to lose my job, even if he doesn’t mind.’
‘Now, what’s the address? We have exactly one minute,’ she said to the cab driver in Piccadilly, ‘to get to – let me see – Smithfield. We’ll give you double fare.’
‘Could be difficult.’
‘Treble?’
‘Easy,’ said the driver. He took U-turns where it said no U-turn, he overtook on the wrong side of the road, he shot lights, he even went down a one-way street the wrong way; he did it in six minutes. The fare was three pounds; Chloe gave him a ten-pound note.
‘Keep the change,’ she said and ran into the building.
Piers’s agent was called Geoffrey Nichols and he was clearly very g
rand and successful: the guests, Chloe realized, were not actors, but money men, being courted for backing Piers’s production of The Lady of Shalott. It was evidently an important lunch; and the talk was not really about the theatre at all, nor actors, nor musicians (except as commodities, expensive precious commodities), but money, money with which to mount the musical, to hire a theatre, to pay actors, to make costumes, to advertise and promote the play. His guests, initially watchful, almost antagonistic towards him, changed in mood as the meal went on, the wine went down. By three o’clock they were noisy, cheerful, telling increasingly filthy stories, exchanging ever more malicious gossip (Chloe noticed with interest that from time to time Piers Windsor’s eyes flicked towards her and Sarah, as if to make sure they were not offended, or indeed listening too closely), assuring Piers that they were on the brink of making their decision, that the answer was quite likely to be yes. Piers’s accountant was there; he had prepared financial documents, cash flow, profit forecasts. The bankers studied them, suddenly silent, alarmingly sober; Chloe found herself caught up in the drama, the tension, wanting, willing them to agree. At half past three her task was done, the table cleared, except for brandy, cigars, ashtrays, coffee, the plates stacked neatly on the side, and she and Sarah sat quietly, reading, while the noise in the background ebbed and flowed. And then it happened.
One of the men came into the kitchen, cigar dangling dangerously from his hand, in search of a cloth; he’d spilt some wine.
‘Here,’ said Chloe, ‘let me do it.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no, of course not, I can’t allow you to clear up after me, a pretty girl like you,’ and waved his cigar expansively around while reaching for a cloth on the sink. Its brilliantly glowing end caught Chloe on the cheek; the pain seemed to arrive from a long way away, slowly settling into her, harsh, searing pain. She first flinched and then cried out; she couldn’t help it.
‘Oh, my God,’ he said. ‘Christ, I’m so sorry, stupid, clumsy oaf. Here, let me see.’
‘No,’ said Chloe, clutching her face, her teeth clenched, ‘no, really, it’s nothing.’
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