24
‘Why me?’
‘Oh, you were the first candidate who turned up.’
‘The first candidate for what, exactly?’
‘For the job, obviously.’
‘Which job would that be, precisely?’
‘What does it look like to you?’
‘I wouldn’t dare hazard a description.’
‘Oh, go on.’
‘No, really. You thought it up, you tell me. I’m only the successful candidate. What exactly is the job?’
‘Fucking me stupid.’
‘Is that all?’
‘What more do you want?’
‘Isn’t it, in this context, more a question of what more you want?’
‘I don’t want anything more.’
‘Truly?’ He looked at her, searchingly.
She looked back at him. ‘I don’t believe there can be anything more,’ she said. ‘Not truly.’
Simon was silent. He began to caress her breast. ‘How stupid do you want to be?’ he murmured.
‘Completely moronic,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know if ever I get there, okay?’
‘Fine,’ said Simon. And so it was. Sex, after all, is an awful lot more than it’s cracked up to be.
‘It’s going to be more difficult after next weekend, you realise,’ he said to her later.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I realise.’
But he knew, and she knew, that just whenever he could, Simon would come to the mansion flat, by car or taxi or even if no other conveyance were available on foot, and they’d go on, like this, working through the near-infinity of sensations which were the integers of this cosmic frolic. It was a simple, neutral fact.
25
On the last night at the gîte, when the Hopetouns had all come over for supper, and they had all played charades—the twins had brought the house down, but William hadn’t done too badly either: William was coming on: even Janey would have had to admit it—and Thomas had fallen fully clothed into the pool, and Denzil, also fully clothed, had jumped in after him ‘to save him’, and the twins’ mother, ‘beautiful blonde barrister’ Serena, had sung a heartrending version of ‘Father Come Home’, and they had all agreed, to a tiny child, that this was the life, all right, in la douce France, and they were bloody fools not to pack it in and move down here for good, Flora said to Honoria Hunter in the kitchen after the Hopetouns had gone—‘See you in London! See you at school! See you soon!’—and while Jack was doing some preliminary loading up of the Hunter Volvo, ‘You know, Honoria, for two pins I almost would pack it in and move down here for good. Seriously.’
Honoria was at the sink, up to her elbows; she turned around. Flora was serious. ‘But darling how could you, really?’
‘I don’t know. But I do truly wish I could.’
‘There’s your business, for a start.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
‘And then, think of the children’s schools.’
‘They’d get at least as good an education here for nothing as the one we’re paying an arm and a leg for back in the UK.’
‘Yes. It’s enough to make you weep, isn’t it?’
Flora was almost ready actually to weep. Honoria noticed this.
‘And then, what about Simon? You couldn’t really expect Simon to pack it in.’
‘No; I dare say not.’
‘So there you are, really.’
‘Yes, there I am.’
‘Oh dear. It is sad leaving, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘Douce France.’
‘Yes, bien douce. ’
‘It won’t go away, you know.’
‘I pray to God it won’t.’
‘Of course it won’t. The French will see to that.’
‘And if they don’t, we shall.’
‘You bet. If ever we spot them falling down on the job, we’ll come straight over and sort them out. That’s what the tunnel’s for.’
‘Yes, of course—I’d forgotten the tunnel.’
‘So there’s nothing to worry about, you see. You can come back
just like that, any time.’
‘Yes.’
‘Pity Simon couldn’t come.’
‘I’m quite glad, actually, in a way.’
‘Are you?’
‘It was nice to be alone with the children for a while.’
‘But you’ve often been, when he’s been on location.’
‘It’s different, here.’
‘Oh. Yes. As we were saying.’
‘Especially with Janey at the awkward age.’
‘Oh, that’s what you call awkward, is it?’
Flora laughed. ‘Horrid Janey,’ she said. ‘Darling William.’
‘It’s been such fun,’ said Honoria.
‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘I can’t remember when I was happier.’ And she suddenly realised that she hadn’t spoken to the Blessed Virgin even once since arriving in France: was not that remarkable? On the way home the next day, she began to pray. Hail Mary, full of grace, she said, blessed art thou among women. Stop that, Thomas. Not when I’m driving. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Etcetera.
26
‘Everything looks so terribly clean and tidy. Immaculate. As if you’ve hardly been here.’
‘Well, Mrs Brick came on—when was it?’
‘Thursday. Days ago.’
‘Well, I haven’t actually been here much—only to sleep and change, really. I’ve been working late. Editing.’
‘Oh I see. How’s it looking?’
‘Okay. It will do.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Flora—’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come to France. I really am.’
‘So am I. Never mind.’
Lies, lies. Flora might not have minded hers more but she at least was in a position to attempt a correction. ‘That is,’ she said, slowly, ‘it’s a pity, of course. But on the other hand, it might have been a blessing in disguise.’
‘Oh?’ Alarm, only just concealed.
‘Well, I mean—you know—it’s probably quite a good thing, sometimes, for me to get away with the children, just me. Without work and school and London in the way. I mean, I feel I hardly see them, sometimes. I felt so much nearer to them, down there.’ And without you, too, getting in the way.
‘Ye-e-es,’ said Simon. ‘I see.’
‘Perhaps you should try it too, sometime.’
‘God, are you serious?’
‘You could take them camping.’
Release at last. They both laughed merrily. ‘I’ll give it my serious consideration,’ said Simon, and they laughed some more.
‘In the meantime,’ said Flora, ‘what have you got in for our supper?’ She and the children had reached London in nice time for this repast; the children were upstairs bathing and changing and quarrelling and ringing up all their friends and watching television and generally reverting to their bad old London ways.
‘Oh God,’ said Simon. ‘Please forgive me. Bugger all, as a matter of fact. Look, I’ll take you all out.’
‘Let’s just phone for a pizza,’ said Flora. ‘We’ve already eaten out twice today. So it would seem have you.’ She looked around at the immaculate kitchen. ‘Where’s that pizza number?’ she said, hunting in a drawer.
Simon had begun, at last, to see her: the miasma of fear and guilt had begun to disperse. She seemed thinner, sleeker, more vital, and the sun had slightly bleached her hair. ‘You’re looking terribly well,’ he said.
She turned her head and looked at him. ‘I am terribly well,’ she said. ‘C’est la France. La douce France. It’s a sort of elixir.’
‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘I know what you mean. Well, vive la France. ’
‘Anyway,’ said Flora, ‘here we are again. Is there any gin?’
And so they, too, reverted to their old ways
, in which they were so well practised that almost nobody would have been able to detect any difference at all from the status quo ante. If Simon had been given to self-congratulation, as men (and women, too, come to that) occasionally are, he might have congratulated himself, but as it was he went on simply treading the fine straight line where Fortune had placed his feet: it took all his wits to keep from falling sideways irretrievably into the echoing abyss to either side of it.
27
‘I say Simon, old cock! Hey!’
Not as old as you might think. ‘Oh—David! How goes it? What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you, I shouldn’t wonder. Meeting a producer.’
‘There’s my producer now. Lizzie! over here!’
‘Hey, that’s my producer. Lizzie!’
‘All right we’ll share her. There’s just enough to go around.’
‘Hello you chaps—oh, good table, well done, Katrina. Katrina’s my super new secretary. How are you, Simon? How’s Flora? David? How’s Sarah? Good, good. Yes, Alf’s fine too. God, let’s have a drink. Lots of drinks. Simon, I asked you along just in case, but it’s all still rather in the air. You understand. But this could be a biggie. Capital-B biggie. After all, the Lloyd’s thing—US interest, etcetera, etcetera. All that asbestos and the rest of it. So, David, sock it to us.’
So David socked it to them.
‘I’m just thinking,’ said Lizzie—she never stopped—‘there might be a tie-in here with Scunthorpe.’
Both together: ‘Scunthorpe? ’
‘Yeah: the Scunthorpe Literary Festival. The agenda this year—it happens in October, right?—is an all-out confrontation with the crypto-philistines. Who aver that contemporary English writers— egregiously, novelists—have failed to deal with the great issues of our day. You know, the issues. ’
‘Oh yes; those issues.’
‘Right. So the idea, as I understand it, is to have one posse demonstrating that English writers are dealing with the issues; and another demonstrating that it is not in fact the business of literature to deal with issues. ’
‘You get them coming and going, then?’
‘It’s the only way, with crypto-philistines. You’ve got to get them for being philistine—’
‘—and then for being crypto—’
‘—or else they bounce back again, thicker than ever.’
‘I take it,’ said David, ‘that I for instance would join the first posse.’
‘I was thinking,’ said Lizzie, ‘that you could fire off a few rounds from either one. Or both. After all—’
‘I have dealt with a few issues, in my time.’
‘But you’re more than capable of doing without them,’ said Lizzie. ‘I mean, issues—’
‘Are rather vulgar,’ said David.
‘But they do cut the mustard on the small screen,’ said Simon.
‘That’s my point,’ said Lizzie. ‘Say you were to give Scunthorpe a little preliminary prospectus, so to speak, of your forthcoming telly series about the Lloyd’s thing.’
‘Dare I?’
‘Such good publicity,’ said Lizzie.
‘I suppose you noticed,’ said David very modestly, ‘that my series is not so much about the Lloyd’s thing as such, as it is about the—ah—Golden Calf.’
‘The Golden Calf,’ said Lizzie and Simon together.
‘Yes,’ said David. ‘Do you know that painting, by Poussin?’
‘Oh, of course,’ they said together. Well, obviously of course. It’s in the National Gallery.
‘Well, that’s it, really,’ said David, still looking modest. ‘That’s what my series is really about.’
‘Have you got Moses and the tablets in there?’ asked Simon.
‘Any day now,’ said David.
‘This really could be a biggie,’ said Lizzie. ‘And I think we should go to Scunthorpe. Well, I’m going anyway, actually, because I’m producing a prog about the festival for Channel 4.’
‘Busy Lizzie,’ they murmured admiringly.
‘So, David—if you think you could be ready willing and able to take part, say, in the big debate, which is going to be bloody, enemies will be made for life—have a think about it and let me know, and I’ll have a word with Nicola and see if you can be slotted in.’
‘Who’s Nicola?’
‘Nicola is my man in Scunthorpe.’
‘Sounds rather like a woman.’
‘Yes, she is, as a matter of fact.’
‘As long as she thinks like a man.’
‘Is there any other way? Obviously, she thinks like a man.’
‘Rationally.’
‘Logically.’
‘Purposefully.’
‘And pragmatically.’
‘Isn’t it nice now that we’re all equal and have sorted out all our differences?’
‘It’s wonderful. I was saying to Sarah only the other day, I don’t even notice she’s technically a different sex from me any more, hardly.’
‘It’s funny, but I said the exact same thing to Alf just the other night.’
‘The odd thing is I’ve absolutely never said that to Flora.’
‘Didn’t you even think it?’
‘I don’t remember doing so. Very odd.’
‘You’re out of touch with your thoughts.’
Simon had to think fast, very fast. Mustn’t let that ping-pong ball fall off the fountain. ‘It’s just that I don’t appreciate Flora properly,’ he said. ‘That must be what it is.’ And to his surprise, he realised that he’d just, quite inadvertently, spoken the plain truth. In vodka pravda. He laughed happily. ‘I suppose I should make a point of telling her sometime pretty soon,’ he said.
‘Say it with flowers.’
‘Should I?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Gardenias,’ said Lizzie. ‘She deserves nothing less.’ And she too was, as inadvertently, telling the truth: but she could not know it, and did not, therefore, laugh, happily or otherwise. ‘But back to our onions,’ she said; and they left the ping-pong ball to fall soundlessly into the basin of the fountain, and began to discuss with the maximum seriousness David’s—and Lizzie’s—and, all going well, Simon’s—new project, a six-part drama series all about the Lloyd’s thing. Or, rather, the Calf, même. A biggie.
28
‘I’ve been drinking too, actually.’
‘It suits you.’ He began kissing her and then suddenly stopped. ‘Who have you been drinking with?’
‘A journo.’
‘Which one?’
‘Called Maclise. Alexander of that ilk.’
‘Alex. Everyone calls him Alex.’
‘It’s Alexander on the byline.’
‘Alex everywhere else.’
‘What a lot you know.’
‘He’s a friend of ours.’
‘Rather attractive, I thought.’
‘Think again, or I’ll kill you both. What were you doing drinking with him anyway?’
‘Another favour to Georgie. Alex is writing a book about the Lloyd’s thing. He wanted some dope.’
‘Yes, Alex likes his dope, as I recall.’
‘So he’s a friend of yours. What a small world it is.’
‘I tell you, London is hicksville. Everyone knows everyone, sooner or later.’
‘New York is probably just the same.’
‘I dare say that soon everyone in New York will know everyone in London, and vice versa.’
‘That will be fun.’
‘Are you sure? I’m not. The Atlantic conurbation. Horrible.’
‘You must try to be more modern.’
‘Personally, I blame the fax machine. Communication these days is just too damned easy.’
‘I got a fax from Albie today.’
‘Quite a day you’ve had all round. How’s Albie?’
‘Albie’s okay. Asked after the cat.’
‘Has that cat got a name?’
‘Albie called him Solomon. I usually call him Pu
ss.’
‘Puss is more suitable than Solomon.’
‘I think so. Nice and soft.’
‘Puss. Come here, puss. No, not you, Puss, you stay where you are. You’re not the one I want.’
Oh, and how he wanted. It was a sort of paradise, all right.
Later, ‘It’s time I buggered off,’ he said.
‘If you must.’
‘I’ll call you.’
‘You do that.’
He went downstairs and into the street and flagged down a cab. Oh fuck, he thought, I should have done something about those gardenias. He’d really meant to buy Flora some gardenias: call it superstition, if you like. It had seemed like an essential thing to do: even though it hadn’t been his own idea; even if it had been said as a joke. Gardenias: well. Not exactly chrysanthemums, were they? He’d see to it in the morning—that was the ticket. First thing. They’d probably have to fly them in from Hawaii. So much the better! Such was life on the fine straight line!
29
Maggie Brooke—Alison’s sister-in-law, actually, not that it signifies— Flora’s partner, whose children were both at boarding school, stayed at the atelier until closing time every day, bless her, so that Flora could get away in time to pick up the two younger children from their schools. Janey could get herself home, but she was strictly forbidden to loiter. She had a key, in case she got home first; Flora didn’t like it, but what else could she do? She never loitered either, more than the traffic dictated. Janey didn’t mind, but she always jumped up when she heard the Fiat, and opened the front door to them. And then said casually, Oh, hello Mummy, and indifferently lifted her cheek to be kissed, while Nell and Thomas rushed past her into the house, shrieking.
But today she stood at the top of the steps, crying ‘Hey, Mum! There’s a box here for you!’
And Flora said, ‘A box? What sort of a box?’ A box?
‘I don’t know,’ said Janey. ‘It’s in the fridge. Mrs Brick left it there with a note.’
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