The Intimates

by Guy Mankowski

  I feel tempted to rush over to her and console her. I want to compliment her for her determination to dance again, to assure her that in time she will be able to. But something stops me. That gradual paralysis which always inevitably affects me when I am around her.

  “Quite the fare you have put on for your guests,” Graham says, as Francoise joins us.

  “I met the dancer when I was travelling through Egypt,” she replies. “I promised to pay for her fare and accommodate her if she performed at our little soiree.”

  “I'm glad you invited me this evening,” Elise says. “The Fountains really is a wonderful place to spend an evening.”

  “You are fortunate to be here on a night when all of The Intimates are together,” Carina says. “It doesn't happen very often. Vincent must have told you a lot about our little group?”

  “I have, yes.”

  “Have you?” Elise says. “You did say you were keen to see everyone again, but also that you've changed a lot since university. I thought you said you were concerned that it might be a little awkward?”

  “I'm not sure I said that Elise. I've known these people for far too long to have any such concerns.”

  “I'm very glad you made it,” Francoise says, to Elise. “I was intrigued to meet you, and you haven't disappointed. I'm pleased you are so taken with The Fountains. Many say that the whole estate is cursed, and it certainly has been a labour of love for me. But now I have it almost as I desire, and I have grown quite attached to it.”

  “Wasn't it owned by some wealthy aristocrat, who fell into squalor upon acquiring it?” Graham asks.

  “You mustn't believe the villagers' gossip about this place. Some of it originates from me, so that I could lower the price. It is true that the original owner was very comfortably well off, until he lost his wife and much of his wealth in a freak series of events. He built The Fountains as a fresh start – the name itself obviously evokes visions of clear running water with which he hoped to wash away the debris of his past. In the grounds he placed three large and rather ornate fountains – one to symbolise the future, one for the past, and one for the present. He always intended that the fountain for the future would be the most powerful, to symbolise him overcoming the adversity that had blighted much of his life. Unfortunately for him, his new start was not as successful as he hoped it would be. Having lost most of his riches he disappeared into thin air one day – allowing me to purchase The Fountains at a steal. The villagers say that the grounds are cursed, that they eventually take a hold of their owner and ruin them.

  I have worked hard to overcome that myth, for that is all I believe it to be. And I think I have been somewhat successful – as since residing in The Fountains I have finally published my long-awaited novel.”

  “You could never own a house without there being some spooky story behind it, could you Francoise?” Graham says. “I wonder if all these rumours do not begin and end with you. In fact, I would not put it past you to have made these rumours up, just so you could play a little game with your guests and see how we react to it all. The bored and rich have such wicked imaginations.”

  Francoise smiles weakly, and looks over at me. “Vincent, you don't believe I would act so callously, do you?”

  “You might, to acquire a house like this.”

  “You must let me show you the house Vincent, there is so much of it that you have not seen. Perhaps if you see it for yourself, you will realise that none of its intrigue was applied by me. Elise, can I steal your boyfriend from you for a short while?”

  “As long as you bring him back unchanged, yes.”

  Francoise holds the tips of my fingers as she leads me out of the drawing room, and I feel Elise's eyes on the back of my head as she does so. Something about Francoise's touch seems to heighten my awareness. I feel conscious I should be on my guard, and yet strangely excited by the thought of being alone with her. As I follow her I fall into the slipstream of her perfume, which combined with the drink makes me feel a little weak.

  “Elise has a keen pair of eyes,” Francoise says, looking back at me with a smile. “I wonder if she treats the world with such constant suspicion. It must wear her out.”

  “Our little group must be rather a lot for her to take in. I wonder if she isn't slightly envious of our shared past.”

  Francoise leads me through the library. We ease past stacks and stacks of undisturbed books, dusty and peaceful. Her eyes remain fixed upon the back wall until we draw up against it. “Bear with me,” she whispers, casting her eyes along the top shelf until she fixes upon a battered copy of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead.

  “Walter, will you close the library door?” she calls, as she looks behind us.

  “Certainly madam,” the butler replies. The room quickly dims as he does so.

  “Let me show you something.” She pulls the spine of the book and in a singular motion the entire wall swings back, and to the left to reveal a stone passageway instantly lit by electric candles. They illuminate a long tunnel that winds into the darkness.

  “What I didn't mention is that the previous owner of this house was a paranoid schizophrenic. He was convinced that any success he built would be snatched away by his ex-wife's lawyers. He built this secret passageway so that he could instantly escape should they come calling. This tunnel,” she says, peering cautiously inside it, “leads to the very end of the grounds. I have always been too wary to venture inside it. Walter ensures me that it serves its purpose, but even he has not been through to the other end of it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let me show you something else.”

  She leads me to a large and ornate living room, which looks out onto the dark expanse of the garden. I notice that this evening the night seems to possess a new depth, as if it were some ever expanding hallway lined with pockets of stars that imbue it with a captivating glow. I see what Georgina means about the evening's mercurial quality, as there is something about this summer night that seems to draw me into it.

  Large satin curtains, partially pulled back to reveal the darkness outside, reach from the wall to the ceiling. Francoise moves to the far end of the room, and pulls the right hand curtain back to reveal a small wooden door behind it. Finding my hand with hers, she directs me through. She draws out a small silver key from the end of her necklace and eases it into the lock. The door reveals a small, candlelit chamber, and as we step inside I see a mahogany desk pressed against an Edwardian window. The window is situated precisely in front of the fountains she mentioned, each barely visible in the darkness. The dark red walls are busy with shadows thrown from the smouldering flames in the fireplace. The desk is stacked high with sheaves of white paper, but most of the room is filled with a satin four-poster bed.

  “This is where I write,” she says, moving to a silver tray on her desk and offering me one of the champagne glasses from it. I wonder if she always has them prepared, or merely saved for certain occasions. “This is my sanctuary, the only place in which I can feel truly secluded. Not even Walter has access to this room. I keep this place as my inner sanctum.”

  She sits on the end of the bed, and cautiously I do the same. I study her in the half light; she looks at once determined and yet composed. The darkness outside seems to have crept into the room, and as we sit down I struggle to make out shapes in the dark outside. “You are looking for the fountains?”

  A little dizzy, I look out of the window. I can see them now. There are three of them, each spurting silver flumes of water into the sky, to fall into ornate dishes beneath them. “One representing the past, one for the present, and one for the future,” she says.

  Her voice has a strange effect on me. I look back at her, trying hard to think of something to say. But as I glance at her lips I feel intoxicated, inexplicably bound to her. Even those faint lines on her face fail to detract from the feeling of being overwhelmed by her attention. In the semi-darkness she looks so graceful, so intriguing, that my eyes stayed fixed upon her as sh
e speaks.

  A little too quickly, I turn to look at the fountains. “That one is for the future,” she says, pointing at the one furthest away, her lips almost on my shoulder now.

  The two fountains nearest us are spurting water vigorously into the sky, evoking a feeling of abandon and release. But the one she points out expels water in weak, saccadic bursts, pathetic in comparison to the other two which proudly draw the eye. I look at her face, her lips now so close to mine. I can't think of a response.

  “The owner made it so that it was the most powerful of the three. But for some reason it never was. Still, they are beautiful, aren't they?” she says, looking down at my mouth. The tension between us coils tightly, the pressure rising in my chest, my body fluttering into the rhythm of her breathing. Her lips part, and I wonder if she is going to kiss me as she moves closer still. But suddenly the third fountain bursts into life, greeted by cheers from the guests outside, and I laugh as we part.

  As she fills my glass the sweet, heady scent of champagne fills my nostrils. The foam bubbles up in the glass, spilling a little onto our laps. Francoise's movements seem less precise than usual as she smiles, drawing the small bubbles away with a careless hand. “Tell me Vincent. What do you think of The Intimates?” She purses her lips in expectation, her eyes widening as she awaits my answer.

  “The people or the book?”

  “But they are one and the same.”

  “Then it is a loaded question.”

  “All questions are loaded Vincent.”

  I laugh.

  “Do you not agree?”

  I peer out into the darkness. “I suppose so. I think that our beloved Intimates are a group of damaged people, perhaps more damaged than we like to admit. We think that because we have certain talents they carry us through life, but in fact each of us has carried themselves through a debilitating void for many years.”

  “I agree,” she says, sipping from her glass.

  “I also think that you are a more subtle person than you pretend to be. And though it is understandable for you to want to organise a party to celebrate your book, I am surprised that you asked us to do so in such a secluded place, where each of our little peculiarities were bound to ferment. I don't believe for one minute that you are unaware of the effect this isolation will have upon your guests. Or that you are unaware of how your reading will have confronted each of us with caricatures of our former selves. So I can only conclude that your speech was keen to disguise the real reason you called this party.” As soon as the words have left my mouth I realise they came without pause for thought.

  “Which was?”

  “To confront each of us with our failure.”

  She pauses, and peers out at the darkness. “You're right. But it is my failure too. I feel a strong, almost primal urge to confront the seven of us with what we have become. I know that I have softened the blow to myself by bringing it to light on the evening that I'm celebrating my first success. But none of us scrutinise ourselves in the brutal light that we cast upon others.

  “I feel we have let ourselves down as a group Vincent. I'm not talking so much of you; you still have time to make your mark. But the others, they all affect me very much. James has become a haunted creature, so delusional that it is becoming quite frightening. And Barbara and Franz console themselves with fading achievements, as if they will somehow excuse their current predicament. It is undignified. I feel compelled to make them address the fact that that they cannot hide from the truth.

  “Each of us have let our time pass, not covered ourselves in glory as we were destined too. When obstacles came our way we allowed them to floor us, and we made elaborate excuses to explain why we have remained on the floor. Franz was our pioneer, the man who first awoke us to our gifts, and now he is the most wretched of all of us. No-one has fallen as far as him; it is as if he is a different person. He's falling for Barbara, who ten years ago he would have thought beneath contempt. Now she represents to him some ill-defined world of glamour that he feels he can retract into, like some clammy embryo. And I am no better. One book in a lifetime is not enough to allow me to live with myself, not with the life of opportunity I have been handed.

  “I organised tonight, here, to force each of us to cast off these shrouds in whatever manner they've been presented. Whether they came from us, our parents, or this reputedly cursed house. But most of all I did this to address myself.”

  “Things can change for you now. You are on your way.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” She laughs gaily, pushing her hand through her dark hair before fixing her eyes on me again. “But you know as well as I Vincent, that fire doesn't burn as brightly if you already live in the arms of comfort. We become embodied by a peculiarly unacknowledged shame, which it seems almost ungrateful to admit.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “I know you do. And that is why I wanted to speak with you this evening. As you know, I have always been a huge admirer of your father's work.”

  “Everyone knows that Francoise. Graham says it's the reason you were so keen to join our group in the first place.”

  “He does have a tendency to be rather sharp with his observations. I didn't know who your father was until we became close Vincent, and when I did find out it was merely a pleasant coincidence.”

  “But you were obsessed with his plays even before they were published, weren't you?”

  “Obsessed is a needlessly potent word. I was enchanted by them, that is true. But as you know, ever since we met I've believed that you inherited his talent. I became aware of this when I read the first manuscript you passed amongst us at university. I was saddened to hear that you are now so embarrassed of it. I read it again just before the release of The Intimates, and I strongly felt that it is more polished, more ready for consumption than you realise. It is the vehicle by which you can make your own tracks in the world Vincent. I showed it to my agent, and she felt that it could be worth serious consideration.”

  “Did you tell her who my father was?”

  “It doesn't matter Vincent. It really doesn't. What matters is that you shake off this shroud that you have become so accustomed to. You must not be preoccupied with how your work compares with his; you must pursue your own path. I want you to finish your manuscript and let me pass it onto my agent. Because I know that unless you live up to this gift of yours, this peculiar sadness will become a home to you.”

  A little annoyed, I pass my gaze into the garden. The third fountain is still teeming with strength, flinging water into the sky triumphantly.

  “Is it true that he might be joining us tonight? Because if it is, I don't know why you'd let that happen. You know what that would do to this evening for me, and for Barbara. Barbara will kill him.”

  “Barbara couldn't kill anyone. He is in the country, yes, and he did intimate that he might be in the area tonight.”

  “Don't let him come here Francoise. You can't.”

  She smiles in a placatory manner, making it clear that nothing I say will influence her. I realise I cannot even guess what Francoise has in mind for us tonight, let alone alter it.

  “Promise me you won't let him come tonight.”

  “I'll see what I can do. But what do you think about my proposal?”

  I think that she is only interested in basking in the light of my father's legacy. I think she wants to be a footnote in his story. I think she wants to feel closer to his talent, and feels she can only do so through his son's highly dubious ability. I think it is vanity that has preceded this offer, that it's the desperation of a generation starting to fade which compels her to revive herself with young blood. I feel angry that she has stated so explicitly what I have long suspected, but this feeling is too raw to be shaped into something constructive now, even if there might be some truth in what she says.

  “Perhaps,” I answer. “Let me look over it again, and we will see if it lives up to expectation.”

  She smiles, and I wonder why I haven't
realised before that her slender, long hand is resting on the top of my thigh. Francoise has a certain way of speaking; a husky, tender manner in which the most terrible admissions seem tasteful and wrapped in well-meaning. She can make suggestions that are frightening, even dangerous, sound reasonable.

  “Don't wait until you have written something which you believe can stand alongside his work. That concern has delayed you enough already,” she whispers, drawing a little closer with each word. I can now smell the fragrance of her body, emanating from the pale skin above her cleavage. She strokes the top of my thigh with one trailing finger. Confused by my impulse I look into her face. Her features are as immaculate as ever – wide, Gallic eyes, strangely black in the dark, full lips reaching from the aristocratic structure of her face. Her lips part. The smell of her perfume, mixed with the headiness of the drink makes me draw a little closer to her. “Let me accommodate this frustration of yours,” she whispers. “I can make your life… absolutely wonderful Vincent. You know that I can. You have known that for a long time.”

  She places her hand on the side of my face, and her fingers trail down until one touches my lips. She draws nearer to me, and places my hand on the strap of her dress, which is ready to fall to her elbow with the slightest touch. Her hands motion over mine, making my fingers fall through the strap, and as she eases my hand the strap falls from her dress, revealing the round shape of her breasts, almost exposed under the fallen fabric of her evening gown. “You must let me Vincent.”

  She moves a polished hand to the other strap of her gown, and shakes her long, glossy hair as she releases it from the slim curve of her shoulder. The dress for a second catches the light from the fire, the side of her body slightly illuminated by the orange and gold flames that capture the canvas of her skin as the dress falls from her shoulders. She moves my hand onto her breast.

  “Vincent, we have known each other for a long time. We are The Intimates, that is what they all call us. What happens between us happens between us, and no-one ever needs to know about it. You know that, don't you?”