She could see that Winifred was assuming that something was going on between her and Archie, and she had to accept that, it would be gauche to tell her that she was wrong. There would be no shame for Laura, after all, in finding a lover now – on the contrary, perhaps it had been rather extreme for her to have remained so obviously faithful to her absent husband for so long. Laura noted in turn that Winifred seemed irritable with Peter, leaning back in her chair, criticising something he had said. As she looked at Winifred, she thought how young she looked: her childless body was the same, slender and energetic, as it had been when she had first met her, and her cropped hair was short and thick as a boy’s.
They talked of going down to the beach that afternoon, but then Archie said that Amy might be arriving soon, and everyone was held, uncertainly, in the garden, awaiting the new arrival. When Amy did walk out through the French windows onto the terrace, Laura was surprised. How she had changed. She remembered how Amy had looked on the boat, at the Dorchester, in Sybil’s house, so relaxed even in those striking monochrome and scarlet outfits, as if she had just thrown them on, but now her clothes did look thrown on. She was wearing grey trousers that looked too big for her and a white straw hat whose wide brim was bent. Beside her was a young man, too eager to please, shaking everyone’s hands too energetically. ‘Gianni …’ was all Amy said by way of introduction as he did so.
If there was one word Laura would have associated with Amy in the past, it was repose. She had always seemed to be the still centre of any room, an exquisitely calm presence among the chatterers. And yet now she was irritable, sitting on the edge of her chair, smoking quickly and nervously. When she took off that straw hat, Laura noticed that there was a tide mark in her make-up at the edge of her jaw, and in the corners of her eyes the black flakes of her mascara showed. Archie had planned for dinner in the house, but before they ate Amy insisted that everyone pile into cars, Peter’s and Archie’s, to drive to Pesaro for a drink. She gripped Gianni’s arm and whispered to him in the hall as they were getting ready to go.
Nobody else but Laura noticed the motorbike starting up behind them as soon as they left the house, but she saw it, too close behind them, swerving in and out as if to get a good look at the passengers, and as they parked the cars, another Vespa screeched to a halt beside them. Laura expected, they all expected, that it would be Amy he wanted to photograph, but the bulb went off in Laura’s eyes. In shock, she turned away, holding her hand over her face. ‘What comment do you have on Ethel Rosenberg’s death?’ shouted the man on the back of the motorbike. ‘What do you have to say about the traitors?’ Fear was there on the esplanade.
Archie hurried Laura inside the bar, pulling her along by her arm. She sat down, but then realised the photographers were waiting outside, and she turned so that her back was to the window. Archie and Peter were calling over a waiter, trying to pretend that nothing had happened, offering Laura a cigarette. But Amy was chilly, her eyes narrowed.
‘Still no news of Edward?’ she asked in her rather rasping voice, tapping a cigarette on the table and lighting it.
‘Nothing – I mean, the press has all sorts of sightings all the time – but they never come to anything.’ Laura went back to her usual line, like a worry bead that she had to click into place. ‘I just know that he couldn’t have been a traitor.’ She felt the others shy away from the statement, and only Amy went on looking at her in that appraising way.
‘Where do you think he is, then?’
But Winifred, as if to drown out the rudeness of her question, was asking where Amy had been staying last week. Amy ignored her and started saying something about the Rosenbergs, about their children. Laura turned away from her, glad that drinks were arriving and a cold vermouth was put in front of her. It was as though Amy was angry with her, she thought, and she tried to push Amy’s attention away from her.
‘Where’s Gianni?’ She had only just become aware that he was missing. Was he still in the car?
‘He’ll be back.’
He didn’t come back for a long time, and when he did, Amy didn’t let him have a drink but insisted they went back to the house. The photographers were still waiting, but Laura was braced now, and Archie drove fast, zooming dangerously along the coastal road. As soon as they went in, Amy and Gianni ran upstairs. Laura looked almost laughingly at Winifred, assuming it was sex. But they were only gone briefly, and when they returned Amy seemed languorous, coming out with a slow step onto the terrace, smiling more easily at everyone.
It was the kind of meal that any onlooker would think was straightforwardly bright with chatter and laughter. The citronella candles did not really keep the mosquitoes away, and the first bottle of wine was corked, but the sound of the ocean could be heard on the warm night air. The neighbours Archie had mentioned came over at the end of dinner, two young couples who were eager to meet new people, and Laura could see that they found Archie and his group glamorous in a rather seedy way. Here were the notorious Amy Sandall and the infamous Laura Last, drinking with younger men in this Italian garden; she felt embarrassed by how they must seem to these young English couples. But Amy’s low laugh filtered out over the group, making Laura feel, as she had in the past, that they were all satellites to her self-sufficient charm. She remembered how Amy had studded her life with these distant appearances and, suddenly, caught up with the wine and the evening, she wanted Amy to know what she had meant to her.
‘I’ve always admired you so much,’ she said. ‘You won’t remember, but I saw you on the boat on my way over to England when I was just nineteen. And the first party I went to at Sybil’s house, you were wearing a white satin coat. And then I remember seeing you at the Dorchester during the war.’ As she spoke, Laura realised how limp her words sounded: she could not express what Amy’s image had meant to her; how she had seemed to Laura to be a unique woman who did not need the world’s approval, who was able to follow her own star. But as she spoke it dawned on her how empty her admiration of Amy had been, like the callow admiration of a teenage schoolgirl for a film star. ‘I think I aspired to the way you looked.’
Amy leant forward for another drink. ‘That’s sweet of you,’ she said, but her words were cold, and she turned back to Winifred, to the conversation they were having about why monogamy is unnatural. Amy had obviously taken to Winifred, and the two of them seemed to be taking delight in talking frankly about sex in front of the younger couples.
Laura was soon glad to go upstairs. In her room she opened the shutters and leaned out, eager for the sea breeze to penetrate the room. Amy and Winifred and Gianni were still sitting on the terrace; the others had gone down to the end of the garden for a look at the moon on the sea. Amy’s words were borne upwards on the night air. ‘That tedious woman. Still thinks she’s an ingénue. If there’s anything I hate, it’s an ageing ingénue. Did you read what Alistair wrote about her? You should hear what he said that couldn’t be printed – she looks such a prig, but underneath she’s a tart who was always running after other women’s boyfriends. Nina told me the same – apparently she was almost sucking Blanchard off in front of her. So Edward drank and drank, desperate to get away from her, and really had fun with his boys from university. I doubt he was ever really a spy – probably wanted to escape that ghastly marriage, at least Nick would spice things up for him.’
Gianni’s laughter was heard, and Winifred’s voice was too low for Laura to catch what she said in response. After that, the conversation became general. But Laura lay awake a long time that night. She relived the horrible time when she was trying to seduce Blanchard, following Stefan’s instructions, and thought again about how her behaviour must have struck observers. And again she travelled back through the years, remembering Edward’s unhappiness, his drinking, and wondering whether they had ever been side by side on their long journey.
The next day Laura woke early with Rosa. She liked these mornings, when the freshness of the night seemed to linger in the air. But as she walked dow
n the corridor, holding Rosa’s hand, she passed the open door of Winifred’s bedroom. There, in a tangle of covers, lay Winifred naked and Amy with her. The two women were tanned and blonde, Amy’s legs were apart and Laura could see below the thick pubic hair the dark, almost purple, labia. She was shocked by the swell of desire she felt at what she saw, but she went on walking, trying to pull Rosa’s attention towards herself, and the two of them went down into the living room. There she found Gianni, the neighbours and Archie talking in a roundabout, drunken way; it was obvious they had stayed up all night – the gramophone was playing some needling jazz music and the room stank of cigarette smoke.
As Laura backed out of the room with Rosa, she felt the floor was slightly tacky under her feet and there was a smell of grappa; someone must have spilt a bottle. She went out through into the kitchen, but the maid was not yet there, so she clattered around making herself coffee. The milk had turned. She squeezed a couple of oranges for Rosa to drink. She felt as though she was out of step with the holiday, trying to create this peaceful morning for her daughter.
After their scratch breakfast she took Rosa down to the beach, where other families, Italians and Germans, were settling under big umbrellas. The air was close and humid and Laura longed to get into the ocean. Last summer, Laura remembered, Rosa had been terrified by the sudden slap of the sea, even the warm Mediterranean, and had clung to her and cried when she tried to hold her in the waves. But this year she was delighted by it, and Laura was able to hold her chubby arms and pull her along at the top of the warm, thick water. ‘Look, you’re swimming!’ Laura said. ‘You’re my little fish …’
‘Swim me, swim me,’ she called back. Nothing is as untainted as a child’s smile in the sunlight. When she tired and they came slowly out of the waves, she laid her head heavily on Laura’s shoulder and pushed her face into her neck, and Laura thought, at least I have this. Back on the sand, she rummaged in her bag for the Leica and photographed Rosa standing there, her hair all spiky from the water, but soon Rosa got tired of the game. She began to complain, and Laura saw that the salt water seemed to have irritated a rash she had on the back of her legs. Aurore had come down to see if they wanted anything, said that she shouldn’t have gone in the sea with that rash, and took her back, crossly, to the house. Laura began to gather up her things to go back too.
‘You’ve been in the water already?’ It was Archie, his eyes tired behind his sunglasses.
‘Yes, but not really swimming – just with Rosa.’
‘She’s such a sweet child.’ Archie seemed to speak with conviction. ‘She reminds me of Barbara at that age. I hardly see her now, you know – I think Monica has poisoned her against me.’
‘That’s awful, I had no idea – I’m so sorry.’
‘Swim again?’
‘How do you have the energy? You haven’t been to bed,’ Laura said. ‘Don’t feel you have to amuse me.’
‘It’s all right – Gianni had cocaine with him. Have you tried it? You can go on all night. Goodness, I felt bright. I’ll probably crash soon.’
Laura sensed again how out of step she was with the others on this holiday. Keeping up good behaviour was a constant necessity for herself and her daughter. The others had the luxury of putting all that aside for the vacation, while she was never able to relax. She and Archie swam together, but soon they heard the dark rumble of thunder, and as they came out of the sea the first drops of the gathering thunderstorm fell on them, and they ran back to the house. The villa was not made for rain; it seemed damp, dark and inhospitable in the living room as the storm rattled the shutters. The others were all asleep now, and when they got up around lunchtime they all sat in the living room, drinking coffee and taking aspirins, looking haggard. Peter and Winifred were clearly not talking to one another, and Laura was vividly aware of the energy that now existed between Winifred and Amy. She herself was locked out, she knew, she with her careful feminine ways and her tedious adherence to convention.
Winifred suggested they played cards, and they all sat in a ring. Amy was in her nervous mood again, and as she sat there one leg kept jiggling on top of the other and one eyelid seemed to be twitching. It was as though she was two people, Laura thought, but she was unable to keep the one hidden inside the other, so instead they existed side by side. At least the others were trying to keep the holiday mood going, laughing and gossiping as they slapped down the cards. When the rain eased off, Winifred insisted, they would drive over to Ravenna to see the mosaics.
‘Winifred, you’re so energetic. We could just laze on the beach.’
‘We’ve been lazing already, Archie. Don’t you miss work, all this lazing?’
‘Not at all. This is what life is about, isn’t it, trying to get a few good hours, a few good days?’ he said. ‘Monica used to say I was too frivolous for words. She liked Edward,’ he said, turning to Laura, ‘because he was so ambitious. Why don’t you work as hard as Edward? she used to say … I’m sorry …’ It was the wrong thing to say, but it was Peter who steered the conversation into easier waters, saying something about the good life and leisure, and how it was only in modern times that people associated work with the good life.
Laura saw how his statement irritated Winifred, who interrupted him, arguing that without proper jobs they were just drifters, exploiting the work done by others. Laura wanted to tell Winifred that even with her job she was still reliant on the work of others; it wasn’t as though she produced anything – but of course she said nothing. She didn’t have a leg to stand on. They were all, in that room, exploiting others, relying on the wealth of their class, of the group, eating, drinking, taking drugs, playing cards, while others cleaned up after them and cooked for them and made and washed and ironed the crisp cotton clothes for their ageing, sweating bodies. It all seemed so ugly to her.
But she must not forget the game they were playing. Laura played her lowest diamond to follow Archie’s king, and looked over to Peter as he sat contemplating his cards, with his deadpan face, and suddenly asked, out of the blue, ‘I can’t remember if you met Edward, Peter – did you?’
His expression did not change, as he threw down his six and said, ‘A few times, at the club.’ Winifred put down a queen, with a heavy sigh. Peter looked up from his cards and caught Laura’s gaze. Caught it, held it and looked down again. That rhythm was too slow. Like the wrong chord on a piano, held too long. Did it mean something? For a moment Laura wanted to believe it did. Could Valance be right? As she let that possibility grow in her, she thought that, if so, if Peter really was part of the network, then maybe she had finally found a route to Edward. Maybe she could discover something from him – how to pass a letter, how to find out what was going on, what was being planned. She felt an answering note of expectation sound inside her.
But as soon as she heard it, it died. This was too unlikely; she could not be such a fool. Would she trust a suggestion – almost an introduction – from MI5? More likely it was a trap. It would be absurd for her to trust anyone ever again. The looming shadows – the Rosenbergs, the executions, their orphaned children – they were the darkness of the summer still.
The next trick started with hearts, and Laura tried to follow the game, but was aware that she had lost track of the conversations around her. She had moved back into the world where nobody was what they seemed. Her whole body seemed to rebel against the thought of being trapped in that net again. She felt a pain in her stomach and her hands slipped with sweat.
‘Is it time for a cocktail, do you think?’ she asked, as the cards were slapped down.
‘Good idea – I’ll go and get the things,’ said Archie. As he mixed martinis, Amy and Gianni left the room again.
‘Pretty sad seeing Amy in this state,’ Peter said, gathering up the cards. ‘I’d heard she was a complete addict now, but hadn’t realised how bad it had got.’
Laura took the cold glass from Archie’s hand and crossed over to the window, looking out, saying that it looked as if th
e rain was easing off and maybe they could go to Ravenna after lunch.
On Sunday night, all the others left. She saw how Amy looked at Winifred as she wished her goodbye: it was a complicit, amused look that made hot jealousy rise in Laura’s throat, a look that was followed up by a quick, almost aggressive kiss on Winifred’s mouth. What a relief that they were all driving off to other parties and travels; the house was easier and fresher when it was just Archie with her and Rosa and Aurore. There were a few days to go before Laura had booked the train back to Geneva, and even Archie seemed relieved that the relentless partying of the others was over, and the days asserted a more gentle rhythm.
One night they were eating dinner alone together, after Rosa had been put to bed and Aurore had gone to her room, and Laura found herself watching Archie as he ate and talked. He must be ten years older than her, but he seemed younger; his skin was still bad and his eyes were rather bloodshot, but his body was rather like Edward’s in outline, with broad shoulders and long limbs.
There was eagerness in his expression as he noticed her watching him. When they walked down to the end of the garden to smoke and look at the ocean, she allowed him to kiss her. She felt distant from him at first, too conscious of each aspect of his touch, the fingers in her hair, the tongue pushing at her teeth, and then suddenly she broke, almost madly straining towards him, desperate to lose control, to feel again, not to be always on guard, grappling at his shoulders, opening her mouth wide and opening her thighs as she stood there. He stumbled back, and she realised she had been too ravenous in her response, and she laughed, brushing down her skirt, saying she had drunk too much. He laughed too, and lit a cigarette, and she smoked one as they walked back to the table.
A Quiet Life Page 43