‘That would be a help,’ she said. ‘They do need you, you know.’
‘Perhaps we could all go somewhere on Saturday,’ he said. ‘Or Sunday. Think of somewhere you’d like to go.’
‘Janey’s going out on Saturday. The Hunters are going down to see William and they’ve asked Janey to go with them, if she likes.’
‘Really? Why would Janey want to do that?’
‘I truly can’t imagine. Five hundred–odd youths, not all of whom are spotty—I can’t see the attraction.’
‘So she gets on with young William, does she?’
‘And some of his friends.’
‘Oh yes, you mean those twins.’
‘I think that’s the idea.’
Simon looked grave. ‘They are growing up,’ he said. ‘That’s a fact.’
‘It’s all so transitory, isn’t it?’ said Flora. ‘Or had you forgotten?’ ‘Perhaps I had,’ said Simon. ‘Perhaps I had.’ And so I have, he thought. I fucking have. Unless I’ve remembered only too well.
49
‘Have you actually sold this place yet?’
‘Albie’s buying it.’
‘Albie?
’ ‘He’s taking a position in readiness for the next UK property boom.’
‘Don’t tell him, but there isn’t going to be one.’
‘I did tell him, but he doesn’t believe me.’
‘Oh God, maybe he knows more than we do.’
‘If he does, then the information’s no good to us.’
‘How true. So what, is this to be his holiday cottage?’
‘He’s going to let it. An interior decorator called Laetitia Crewe is about to descend, tape-measure in hand. By the time she’s finished
with the place it’ll be worth £800 a week, give or take.’
They both laughed merrily. The thought of all that money can do that to a person.
‘Still, he’s got the outgoings,’ said Simon.
‘He won’t clear much over £500 per,’ said Gillian. ‘The game’s hardly worth the candle.’ They laughed again.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ said Simon. This was his best chance. He told her about the weekends: about his promise.
‘I see,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Simon.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.
What they didn’t say, couldn’t say, thickened all the air around them like incense.
He took her to the brasserie, not just for a few drinks but for a meal, to make it up to her, somehow, for all those pre-empted weekend hours—for the loss of those late, now lamented, afternoons snatched from the grip of the mundane. Fonds des artichauts, grillade normande, coffee and mints. ‘Have you had enough to eat?’ he asked. ‘Then let’s go back to Albie’s.’
Later, lying on his back and looking at the bedroom ceiling, with its pointless and perfunctory mouldings, he said, I’ll be glad when you’ve moved. And she said, so will I. And they both thought how much better, in some way now mysterious to each, it would be after she had moved into the new house.
50
He wasn’t doing too badly. He could crack this thing. He might not be Father of the Year, but he’d do well enough. On Saturday he’d taken Nell and Thomas out for a McDonald’s and a big-screen presentation of the latest Disney; by the time he got them home he felt as if he was coming down with multiple rot—teeth, guts, brain, the lot. Except for the presence of the children themselves. The children were beautiful. Even he could see that. Being with them was like drinking the purest most sparkling spring water. It was just their taste which was abominable—in food, entertainment, toys—abominable; execrable. How could this be?
‘What can it mean?’ he asked Flora.
‘I suppose it’s simply a sign of original sin,’ she said.
Janey had been delivered by the Hunters at ten o’clock, shiny-eyed. She sat on the sofa with them drinking cocoa and relating the day’s events.
‘And did you see the cathedral?’ asked Flora.
Janey shrugged. ‘Only the outside,’ she said.
‘She’s too young for cathedrals,’ said Simon. ‘She’s got plenty of time for cathedrals.’
‘Anyway,’ said Janey, ‘I don’t believe in God.’
‘She’s too young to believe in God,’ said Flora. ‘She’s got plenty of time for God.’
‘I thought the point was,’ said Janey, ‘I’ve got no time for cathedrals, and no time for God, much less plenty.
’ ‘That’s my girl,’ said Flora. ‘Now come and kiss me goodnight, darling.’ Janey kissed them and went up to bed.
‘Could she be clever?’ said Simon.
‘I should jolly well hope so,’ Flora replied. ‘It’s what we’re paying for.’
He woke up on Sunday morning to find Thomas sitting on the dressing-table chair staring at him gravely.
‘Hello,’ said Thomas. ‘I just wondered if you’d like to see my hornpipe again. I’ve put my ballet shoes on just in case. See?’ He raised a small foot. Simon sat up and looked at the child. He wanted to hug him. Did one do such things? Did he?
‘When I’m up and dressed,’ he said. ‘Where’s your mama?’
‘She’s gone to church.’
‘I see.’
‘She’s coming back soon.’
‘Of course.’
‘Janey’s looking after us.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Will you get up now?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And then I’ll show you.’
And soon, soon, all this innocence would be only a shining memory. There was transience for you. From the light to the dark: and then? Could there be a path back to innocence? Could there? Was that where Flora was, now: trying to find the path back to innocence? Was that where he was: was that the destination of the fine line: or was it that line’s location? He got up and showered and dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, and Thomas danced for him again. ‘That’s the stuff,’ said Simon. And he felt as happy as a person can ever be. Why isn’t this enough? he wondered. Why do we always want something more? How can this be? And he remembered his question of the day before, and the answer that Flora had given him.
51
‘Goodness, tea chests.’
‘A dead giveaway, aren’t they?’
Simon peered into the nearest one. ‘I thought you said you could move in a taxi,’ he said.
‘It’s amazing how many odds and ends you find around a place, when you get right down to it.’
‘So when’s the off?’
‘Saturday.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Will you be able to manage?’ he said.
‘Of course. No problem.’
Well, she’d just have to, wouldn’t she? It wrung his heart. She
looked at his face. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘Jonathan said he’d give me a hand, if I needed it.’
‘Who’s Jonathan?’
‘Oh, just a chap. Just an old mate. Jonathan Finch. We see a show together once in a while.’
‘Oh, do you now?’
‘You bet.’ He looked almost murderous. ‘And then we have a drink or two, or some supper, and he talks to me about Nicola.’
Where had he heard that name before? Everywhere, probably; it was very popular. ‘Nicola.’
‘Nicola Gatling.’
Nicola Gatling. He was sure he’d heard that very name before: where?
‘Nicola Gatling is the woman he loves.’
‘Why doesn’t he see these shows with her, then?’
‘She’s been working up in Scunthorpe, the last six months or so.’
Of course: Nicola Gatling: Lizzie’s man in Scunthorpe. ‘I know some people who’ve been up there recently,’ he said. ‘For the literary festival.’
‘Yes, that’s it. That’s where the crack is, in Scunthorpe. Anyway, she’ll be back in London very soon. No more shows for me then. Not with Jonathan, anyway.’
‘Still,
as long as he’s going to give you a hand on Saturday.’
‘Yes; sweet of him, isn’t it?’
He was still looking pretty murderous. She stopped packing and went over to him and put her arms around his neck. ‘Look at me,’ she said. He looked at her. ‘You don’t want me to stay at home watching telly every night, weekends included, do you?’ she said.
‘You could play cards with Solomon, or chess.’
‘Solomon isn’t any good at cards or chess.’
‘You could play chess with a computer.’
‘But still. A girl needs a few laughs, once in a while.’
‘Yes: I’m totally out of order. Disgracefully. Sorry, darling.
Sorry, sorry. I—’ don’t say it. Don’t ever say it.
‘Then there’s Rupert.’
‘Oh, is there?’
‘I see the occasional show with Rupert, too.’
‘Tell me about Rupert.’
‘Rupert’s a merchant wanker.’
‘Oh, classy.’
‘Right. He isn’t very pretty, though, Rupert isn’t.’
‘You’re pretty enough for the two of you.’
She lay her head on his chest. ‘What shall we do now?’ she said.
‘I’ll think of something.’
‘I knew I could depend on you.’
Could she? Should she? What had happened to autonomy? Don’t depend on me, he wanted to say: not for anything. Don’t use the word even lightly, even in jest: especially not in jest. Many a true word. But it was too late, much too late. Some form of dependence had crept up on them, and God knew where it would end. You just had to keep going, on the long, fine, ever narrower line; God alone—that is, no one—could know where it would end. Or should.
52
‘So, what, Robert will drop Fergus off in the mornings and we’ll get him home—?’
‘No, well I could fetch him—’ ‘No, Louisa, it’s too much; I’ll bring him back.’
‘Or Robert could—but he works so late sometimes—’
‘No, look, don’t worry. It’s no problem. If the worse comes to the worst we’ll put him in a taxi.’
‘Oh yes, that’s best; he loves taxis.’
Here they were again. Flora and Louisa, sorting out the forthcoming school holiday arrangements. It was a massive juggling act, every single time. Flora and Maggie had a student to hold the fort at the atelier during the school holidays, although one or other of them had to be standing by in case of emergencies, but Louisa was a full-time employee. Louisa was an executive. And Louisa had no luck with nannies, au pairs or mother’s helpers. What luck she might have had was always ruined by Fergus. He had seen them off, one by one, from the age of two years onwards, until she had had to give them up altogether. So Fergus was going to stay with his grandparents in Somerset after Christmas but before that he was going to muck in with the Beauforts. Or, rather, they with him. He had a way, at eight years old, of turning a house upside down.
‘Are you sure you can cope?’ said Louisa fearfully.
‘It’s a challenge,’ said Flora stoutly. Flora was a soldier of Christ. ‘My strength is as the strength of ten,’ she told Louisa, ‘because my heart is pure.’
‘You know, darling,’ said Louisa, ‘I think that’s pretty true, actually.’ Flora was laughing. ‘I mean it,’ said Louisa.
‘I don’t know what I’d do without Flora,’ she told Robert. ‘What we’d do, that is.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She’s going to mind Fergus during the pre-Christmas hols.’
‘Is she, by God? Does she know what she’s letting herself in for?’
‘Of course she does. Fergus is notorious.’
‘Really? Notorious?
’ ‘Yes, notorious.
’ ‘What have we spawned?’
‘I ask myself the same question at least once a day.’
Fergus came in and they explained the arrangements to him. ‘Ho hum,’ said Fergus.
‘What do you mean, ho hum?’ said Louisa.
‘Well, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another,’ said Fergus.
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Robert.
The rebellious look began to come onto his son’s face.
‘It’s only for a few weeks,’ said Louisa, ‘after all.’
‘A few weeks,’ said Fergus, ‘is actually quite a long time.’
‘But then there’s Christmas,’ said Louisa encouragingly. ‘Think about that!’
‘Can I have a car?’ said Fergus. Oh, dread: he’d seen some millionaire child on television driving—yes, actually driving—a scaled-down six-litre Bentley.
‘Not just yet,’ said Robert. ‘Not until we’ve got our own private road. But we’ll think of something almost as good, if not as good as.’
‘What?’ said Fergus bluntly.
‘It’ll be a surprise,’ said Louisa. So it would, starting with her and Robert. They were going to have to come up with something pretty insolite, that was certain. Fergus wouldn’t forget. It was a jolly good thing that Regent Street was Louisa’s front yard.
53
‘Oh, you’re early!’
‘Am I?’
‘I mean, it isn’t even dinnertime yet—look, I’m still cooking, it isn’t even—’ ‘Well, I didn’t say I’d be working late every night, did I?’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Where’s the gin?’
‘I think we might be out of tonic.’
‘Rats. I’ll go and get some.’
‘I should have remembered—I just—’
‘Never mind.’ Simon went out, and returned twenty minutes later with a large carrier bag, which he put down on the kitchen table. Flora looked askance. He began unpacking. ‘I thought we might as well have a party while I was about it,’ he said. ‘Just the five of us.’
‘Oh how lovely.’
‘Ask me why.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve got Michael and Nathaniel.’
‘Oh, congratulations. How wonderful.’
‘Yes, it is that. And they’re both dead keen. Nathaniel’s dying to be a sweetie and Michael yearns to be a cad.’
‘Marvellous.’
The constituents of the party were all now unpacked: the tonic for the gin-and, lemonade for the children, potato crisps, salted nuts and stuffed olives; de luxe chocolate ice-cream. ‘This is for afters,’ Simon said. ‘Shall I shove it in the freezer?’
He went and called the children and they all drank a toast to the Lloyd’s names, Nathaniel’s agent, Michael’s agent, and Lizzie Ainsworth.
‘And David,’ said Flora. ‘We mustn’t forget David. He’s the most important of the lot. The writer is the sine qua non.
’ ‘A lot of use the writer would be,’ said Simon, ‘without the subject-matter, or the producer, or the actors, or etcetera.’
‘He could just write novels,’ said Janey. ‘About love, or something. Then he wouldn’t need all the rest.’
‘Yes,’ said Nell, ‘that’s right, he could, easily.’
‘What’s novels?’ said Thomas.
‘You know,’ said Nell. ‘Like Winnie the Pooh; that’s a novel.’
‘Oh,’ said Thomas. ‘I thought that was just a book.’
‘He’d still need a publisher,’ said Simon. ‘If he could find one. And then he wouldn’t actually make any money. Not likely. So he’s far better off as he is. Which he knows.’
‘I might write a novel, one of these days,’ said Thomas. ‘Or a book.’
They all laughed, but Flora stopped when she saw his face. ‘Yes, darling,’ she said; ‘I really think you might.’
Thomas drank some lemonade. ‘Anyone could,’ he said. ‘There’s no law against it.’
They all laughed again, but this time Thomas, uncertain about the cause but gratified by the result, joined in.
‘I’m probably going to be an actress,’ said Nell; and they all saw that indeed, she probably was, one way or another.
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‘It’s a hard life,’ Simon warned her.
‘And what about our Janey,’ said Flora. ‘Any ambitions, darling?’
‘Oh, I’m going to travel around the whole world,’ said Janey. ‘All of it. I want to see what it’s really like.’ And the younger children said that of course, they should do that too; that went without saying. And Flora and Simon each silently hoped that they really would, all of them, do just that; as long as they came back safely. You couldn’t possibly bear to think of them going off, so far, and never coming back. Transience was all very well, but there were limits.
54
‘Aren’t you going to give me a guided tour?’
‘If you like. Shall we start at the top?’
She started up the stairs and he followed her. Half-landing, more stairs, landing. Finest Wilton and gloss white, all spanking clean. More stairs, another half-landing, then the final ascent. Two empty rooms, and a tiny bathroom. ‘These can be spare bedrooms,’ she said. ‘Or one can be a study. If I decide to take up studying.’
‘You could. Seems a pity not to in the circs.’
‘Well yes, I could. It could come to that.’
It could. Indeed it could.
‘Let’s go down then.’ They descended to the first floor. ‘Da-da,’ she sang, flinging open a door. All the doors here were real doors, with panels and brass handles. The master bedroom: the larger room, overlooking the street; an ensuite bathroom. The back room was a dressing room. He looked through the window onto the tiny garden, and saw Solomon sitting on the handkerchief-sized lawn among the fallen leaves. ‘Ah, Solomon,’ he said.
‘Yes, Solomon’s in clover. He’s never been outside before. Not since he left his mother, at any rate.’
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