‘The Ritz,’ she said. ‘That little sort of balcony, opposite the Piccadilly entrance.’
‘At six? I have to be at this place by half-past seven.’ He added with a chill in his voice, ‘And I gather you have a party?’
‘That’s right,’ she said ‘Jazzing it up on saucerfuls of sweet Martini. Do come—and bring any girlfriends, complete with operatic pooches!’ Let him sit in the bloody Ritz, she said to Rufie, and sort that one out. Does he really thing I’m going?
‘You know damn well you’re going,’ said Rufie. ‘You want to know what he’s got to say to you.’ So it boiled down to a question of what she would wear. ‘Your amber-coloured floaty one and the dark yellow shawl?’
‘Oh, no, they go together, darling. The horror of things matching...’
‘So you see, you are going,’ said Rufie, laughing outright.
Sari loved the Ritz with its dignity and spaciousness, the huge dining-room with its coronal of gilded flowers, looking out over the Green Park. She always made her well-to-do boyfriends take her there for their meetings. But this time it was different; this time it was a parting. He rose from the small table at the back of the balcony. A waiter appeared as by magic and placed a chilled glass before her. ‘I ordered champagne cocktails. I think we can both do with one.’
‘I never drink alcohol,’ she said.
He repeated: ‘I think upon this occasion you can do with one. I certainly can,’ and as she sat down, perching uneasily on the little, upright sofa, put the frosted glass into her hand. ‘We both have some explaining to do.’
‘You can ask me for my explanations,’ said Sari. ‘I won’t trouble you for yours.’
‘Mine relate to a lady.’
‘I don’t think gentleman should offer explanations about their ladies.’
‘This one is no longer my lady,’ he said. ‘That’s what I want to explain.’
‘She doesn’t seem to know it. She refers to you freely as “the boyfriend” and picks the petals of a newspaper to establish whether you love her or love her not.’
‘You appear to have been doing your homework,’ he said rather grimly.
‘Are you by any possible, conceivable chance suggesting that I’ve been spying upon you and your love life?’
‘Someone seems to have briefed you, that’s all. Someone who was spying.’
‘No one knows anything whatsoever about any girlfriend of yours,’ she said very bitterly. ‘Least of all me. Though I see now why you preferred not to take me to The Heavenly Angel for dinner.’
He signalled to a waiter. She had hardly touched her drink and now put her hand over the glass, palm down, in a gesture of repudiation: that long narrow hand, curving up and backwards at the tip, nails very long, varnished a pearly pink, the fingers blemished like a child’s by small stains and abrasions where hot candle-wax had dropped during the abortive Batik work upon Rufie’s nightshirt, or stains from an orgy of tie-and-dye which had proved ineradicable... Under the light of the chandeliers, the autumnal hair glowed almost luminous in its soft ‘en brosse’, the amber chiffon clung tight or floated free; the knee bones of her elegant, long crossed legs gleamed whitely through taut nylon. All about them, heads were turning, murmurs growing... Sari Morne... In the papers... Marvellous film... But who’s the super gentleman...? She was not so much unconscious of it as so accustomed that it affected her not at all; he, for his part, wished devoutly that she had chosen somewhere less conspicuous, but had not dared imperil her concession in meeting him by arguing about the rendezvous. ‘One more for me, then,’ he said to the waiter. ‘Large. And tell him to double the brandy.’ To Sari he said: ‘I am not in the habit of running two love affairs at the same time and I’m not going to remain in your mind as having done so.’
‘Well, that’s easy,’ said Sari. ‘I’ll dismiss you from my mind altogether.’
‘I can only say’, he said, ‘that it won’t be so easy for me to dismiss you from mine.’
“You did but—have a quickie—passing by
And yet must love me till you die?” ‘Oh, Sari!’ he said. ‘Don’t make it all so cheap! I fell in love with you in that first moment in the cinema—something happened, something turned over in my heart. At The Angel—well, as you say, a man shouldn’t talk about his girlfriends; but this is important to me. She... Well, gynaecologists get this kind of thing, patients do rather fling themselves at one. And... It’s a year since my wife left me, and I’m a man. I meet a lot of women, I meet them in circumstances of—total privacy. Fooling about with patients—it’s madness but I’d been through a hell of a time with Ena, perhaps I was a bit mad. But I was coming to my senses, making a huge effort to end it all, apologising, trying to explain—’
‘The lady at The Angel doesn’t appear to have heard what the gentleman said.’
‘I’m afraid she didn’t want to hear. And it was all from the point of discretion; and discretion, I must say, is not her second name. But that night, at dinner—I was trying to talk seriously to her—’
‘Breaking off the affair—on account of expediency?’
‘Breaking off the affair, if you will believe it,’ he said, ‘on account of you. Yes, I’d been wanting to end it anyway. But that evening, just for a split second at the cinema, I’d held you in my arms...’ He shrugged hopelessly. ‘You won’t believe it, and that doesn’t too much matter. But I won’t stay quiet and let myself be accused of making love to you when I was still—bound in any way to her. She knew I wanted to end it—’
‘He loves me, he loves me not,’ said Sari, plucking imaginary fragments from a newspaper, but a small spark was beginning to glimmer in her arid heart...
‘It was not a matter of love,’ he said with a sort of resentful impatience. ‘We both knew that; it was purely a physical affair, a bit of fun and excitement on her side and on mine, a few hours of respite now and again from a life of sheer hell, cooped up with a small girl and that God-awful woman, fighting a losing battle with her for my child’s affections.’ Infinitesimal bubbles rose and broke on the golden surface of champagne. He sat staring down into the half-empty glass. He said at last: ‘That’s all I wanted to say. If you dismiss me from your mind, O.K. But while I remain there, I’m damned if I’ll remain as a double-crosser, starter off on yet another shady little sexual affair before I’ve finished with the last.’
She said slowly: ‘Why should it mean anything to you, what I believe?’
He shrugged. ‘It means something to me because I was in love with you.’
‘You were in love? You put that in the past?’
‘One or two things have happened in the meantime, if you remember.’ He finished his drink. ‘Which we will not go into.’
But now the spark was all ablaze again in her heart. ‘Not go into them? But of course we must! Phin—everything’s all right. At the tree—’
‘The police have examined that situation exhaustively. I did not meet you at the tree. I was past it before it fell; Samantha was home by ten to eleven—’
‘Oh, is that her real name?’ said Sari. (Sofy would be enchanted. How predictable—?)
‘—and I couldn’t have got her there by that time, if I’d been held up at the tree.’
‘Well of course not,’ said Sari. ‘You didn’t have to, did you? She started off a bit before you and got past before it fell. She had her own car.’
He seemed almost stunned into silence. ‘You must think the police are very innocent,’ said Sari. ‘They do use their loaves you know. But it all doesn’t matter. It was my Followers, we’ve got proof, they’ve all got to believe it now, the police and everyone.’ She outlined to him rapidly the story of the letter’s arrival, the big white envelope sealed with the crest of San Juan, the crude sketch within, of the ring and the sprawled dead body of Vi Feather. ‘So you see—they killed her. And this was—a threat to me.’
He listened, almost breathless, seemed about to argue, was caught by that word, a threat. ‘But I’ve told you,’ said Sari, �
�I keep telling everyone. They killed her in mistake for me.’
‘You told me you knew where the ring was. If you’re actually in danger from them—surely you could now tell them where it is—’
‘But there’s something else I can’t tell them. The ring could tell them something—and I think they believe that the ring has told them something. But only I could really tell them. And I can’t.’
‘You terrify me,’ he said. But a clock chimed. ‘Sari—absolutely, I’ve got to go.’
She rose with him and stood looking up into his face. ‘Yes, I know. You said you’d have to. But... Oh, go ye in love or go ye in war—?’
‘Shall we dance at our bridal one day, my dearest dear?’ said Phin; and before an electrified audience, kissed her hand and lost his head and caught her close to him and kissed her lips; and with his long stride left her, standing in heaven there.
11
THE FLOATING CHIFFON LAY like a limp rag now that its owner was no longer inside it, flung across the treeless jungle of her counterpane. She had changed into shocking-pink calf-length pants and a long, box-y jacket of bluebell blue and, lit to radiance by her happiness, looked, Nan thought, more beautiful than she had ever been before. But they were all so wonderful, so funny, so gorgeous!—how could she ever have let all those drears talk her back into buns and coffee and a little shopping, even at Fortnum and Mason’s? Sofa had apparently given up hopes of the new kaftan and wore a garment known as ‘the tent’, in muted mushroom shades—‘A dreadful mistake, Sofa, we’ve told you millions of times, lots of bright, bright colours and big patterns, to make you look even fatter and then everyone thinks you want to be... And Nan, that terrible suit!—I mean, too beautiful, darling, I know it cost a bomb and a marvellous colour, I adore it, but then don’t go and wear that toning-in scarf with it—really you’re in deadly danger of its becoming an “outfit”. I’ve got a sort of shawl thing, acid green; Rufie, what do you think...?’ And Charley in the seventh heaven among these wonderful friends, so deeply admired and cherished, ‘I am bringing big curry self-made, and Tandoori chicken no colour, anyone can putting red colour with chicken but it is like I am wearing black boots with bowler hat.’ The thought of Charley in a bowler hat, never mind the colour of his boots, sent them all into a near hysteria of laughter and indeed hysteria was nowhere far from any of them; Sari in a sort of wild ecstasy; Nan and Charley as ever caught up in the magic of an acquaintance so alien to their own unimaginative backgrounds; Rufie, who loved her, too high on marijuana to give his whole mind to Sari’s present situation; Sofy and Etho who also loved her, frightened and anxious, for more reasons than one. Only Pony, entering with the inevitable contribution from the Italiano shop down the road, was neat and precise as ever. ‘Oh, Pony, how clean and pretty you always look! Don’t let Rufie take the bowl, darling, he’s simply not responsible this evening. Put it in the kitchen—cold salmon and curry and Tandoori chicken and spaghetti bolognese!—what a glorious mixture!—Nan you must have some of each, to make up for the slippery elm...’
‘They’ll offer me a series on this,’ said Sofy with glistening eyes.
‘Pony, you’ve heard?—I’m about to become a stepmother—’
‘Poor Sari, the most ghastly stout little lump, she says, smelling strongly of cold cream—’
‘Yes, but what a papa!’
The evening roared on. Replete with a little of everything (not to hurt anyone’s feelings) she curled up at last on the floor beside Etho. He looked across at Sofy and gave her a tiny, only half-humorous wink, across the glowing head resting with childlike confidence against his arm. ‘I hate to tell you, Sari dear, but at this close range, the Oxford English marmalade is showing a decided touch or two or penicillin.’
Sari shot upright, clapping her hands to the crown of her head. ‘You don’t mean it?’
‘From up here, I do have a rather clear Fleming’s-eye view.’
‘But I’ll have to go to Luigi!’
‘What about the boyfriend?’
‘Because of the boyfriend.’ She was on her feet and peering into a looking-glass, anxiously parting the mossy hair with her fingers. ‘Oh God, how awful! You don’t think he noticed?’
‘Who, God?’
‘Oh, shut up!’ she said, laughing. But it was disaster. ‘I couldn’t let him see. I mean he’s—well, not exactly—I mean he’s rather a—’
‘Stuffed egg,’ said Rufie.
‘He’s nothing of the sort.’
‘Well, I thought he was.’
‘I daresay he wouldn’t be too mad about a kite-high homosexual—’
‘Well, there you are,’ said Rufie, taking no offence whatsoever. ‘What I said—he’s conventional.’
‘Yes, well, he certainly wouldn’t want his beloved with penicillin sprouting out of her hair. Oh, God, what am I to do?’
‘A quick dash over to Luigi; what else?’ said Etho, with the glance at Sofy again.
‘Oh, I couldn’t go now!’
‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Let alone a little abstinence,’ said Sofy, playing along with Etho.
‘Oh, no, it would kill me! On the other hand... But anyway, I’m broke, not a farthing. Etho, you wouldn’t—?’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Etho. ‘Half your allowance is in bond to me already.’
‘Sari, I hadn’t told you yet, because of all this, but I’ve got a job coming along; quite a penny or two and I’m sure I could get a sub. Not a lot and one has to eat—’
‘Oh, yes, Sofy, and especially you; but I wouldn’t dream of it, thank you, darling, of course I couldn’t...’
Etho’s glance had turned discouraging. Sofy subsided. ‘Well, I might not really even get it.’
Pony, very quiet and humble, ever courteous. ‘Sari, I would be so happy—’
Sari did not look at Rufie; but, ‘No, Pony, thanks a million, but I couldn’t. It’s between—us lot.’ She looked around her. ‘Rufie, what could we sell?’
‘There’s not much left,’ said Rufie getting up and skipping about the room in search of disposable possessions. ‘You could finish Sofa’s kaftan, and we could flog that.’
‘To two people,’ agreed Sofy amicably. It did not enter her head or anyone else’s that it was she, the ever hard-up, who had paid for the yards and yards of material involved.
‘It wouldn’t begin to give me enough. God knows what the air fare is now, return, to Rome; and then having to stay there and then Luigi.’ She stood in despair. ‘I’ll see what’s in the wiggy-pig,’ and off she went anxiously, all major anxieties apparently forgotten, returning with it, a large pottery creature, brilliantly blue, slit down the back to receive contributions. A great deal of shaking and probing came up with only thirty pounds. ‘Well, it’s all no good, that would hardly even cover Luigi. What shall I do?’
Sofy knew perfectly well that any hairdresser in Mayfair could have given the same treatment—if they remembered how to do it, for it really was miles out of date. But Sari was above bothering over what was or was not in fashion: if something suited her, it suited her, and Sofy dismissed the vague speculation which she occasionally exchanged with Rufie, as to whether Luigi might not be just an excuse for these periodical outings. Etho would have no part of it—he said simply that with Sari it was second nature to do things the glamorous way, the ridiculous way; well, yes, if you liked, the perverse way. And she saw now that Etho, having spread his gossamer web, was about to scuttle over it like a spider and wrap up the fly in its threads; and watched with tender amusement as he turned guileless eyes upon Nan. And Nan duly bursting out with it, diffident but thrilled. ‘Sari, you wouldn’t like me to come with you? It’d be my treat, I’d pay for everything—’
Something changed in Sari’s face; an odd look, a wary look came into her eyes. ‘Oh, Nan, no, honestly—!’
Nan’s face fell. To go to Rome—and with Sari! Who had ever been so wonderful as Sari?—fly off to Rome, like Frank Churchill in Emma, going all the way u
p to London to get a haircut—though in fact of course, it had been to buy a piano. Rufie must have been having the same thoughts for, out of his happy haze, he suggested: ‘You wouldn’t happen to want a piano, Sari, for the new life among the Bad Habitat? You could get one in Rome when you go there with Nan.’
‘Why are you all so keen for me to go with Nan?’ said Sari, almost suspiciously.
‘Because she’s offering to pay,’ said Etho equably, ‘and you’re mad not to accept.’
‘Oh, do come, Sari!’ said Nan, gathering courage again. ‘We could make a little jaunt of it, it needn’t cost you a farthing.’ Her mind played with happy calculations: two air fares, hopefully Sari’s idea of an hotel wouldn’t be too opulent—a bit extra for meals and things. She could manage that all right. ‘I’d even make you a presie of Luigi’s attentions.’
If she expected any outcry of appreciation, she was disappointed. Had it been she who had been in need, they would without hesitation have passed round the hat. Now they all said, as though no favour at all was involved, ‘Sari, that would be lovely, do go with Nan!’ and suddenly Sari’s hesitation was gone, she said oh, goody gumdrops, how super and they’d go this minute because of getting back to Phin as soon as possible...!
Nan was enchanted. ‘How lovely, I’m so thrilled, darling, it’ll be wonderful! I’ll do all the bookings, just leave it all to me—’
‘Good heavens,’ said Sari, ‘don’t bother about that! There’s sure to be something or other flying to Rome, aeroplanes do it all the time, you just have to go to the airport and get into one of them.’ And anyway, she knew a lovely man who ran something or other at Heathrow; if there happened to be no aeroplanes flying, her tone implied, he would simply lay one on.
‘About the hotel, then—’
But Sari knew of a wonderful hotel, she always went there, quite near Luigi’s, to be easy to get to him. Its charm appeared to lie largely in the fact that the proprietor and his wife simply hated their guests and made things as beastly as possible. ‘They’re Sardinians, actually, The Sardines they’re known as, far and wide, and the guests all hate them in return and gang up on them, it’s rather fun. We all go back and back and keep meeting each other there, and ganging up some more.’ Last time there had been yet another lovely man who had rescued a temporarily solitary Sari from the ferocious attentions of The Sardines, and he had turned out to be something super at the Vatican and taken her simply everywhere, places no one else ever got to. She embarked upon a lively picture of His Holiness, when she had burst in upon his orisons in her Garden of Eden drawers. ‘You remember the Garden of Edens, Sofy?’ Sort of calf-length shorts, terribly expensive, but when she’d got them home, Rufie had said they were quite inexpressibly dreary and they had fallen upon them and painted them up a bit: Expulsion from Paradise, Eve on one leg and Adam on the other—Rufie had thought they might practise on the shorts and he could sell the idea to Christophe et Cie, but, though they hadn’t meant it in the least, the snake and the Tree of Knowledge coming slap in the middle had looked a bit peculiar if you took them wrong. And everyone had taken them wrong, Mr Cecil had had fits and as for the poor Pope...! She went off into one of her charades, the stricken prelate confronted, all unprepared, with Scenes from the Old Testament in this curious guise. But Rufie, perceptions heightened by the drug, thought, while he leapt upon the abandoned kaftan and draped it around the papal shoulders, that the familiar rising hilarity had about it a dying fall. When Sari was in love, it was dreadful how deeply, how fearfully, how anxiously she was in love; and he knew that now, once again, she was in love and that the intensity of her need was frightening her.
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