Lovers and Liars Trilogy

by Sally Beauman

  Rowland made a sympathetic noise. In an awkward way, he patted, then stroked, her back. He found himself in a quandary. He was in no doubt as to how he should now behave: he should calm Katya down, talk to her in a kind, fatherly way, and, with the utmost firmness and tact, get her out of his house and back to Oxford. This course of action was totally clear to him; however, on this planet he was presently visiting, other factors seemed to be influencing him. He was finding himself distracted by the warmth and proximity of Katya’s body, by her tears, and—not least—by her breasts. He couldn’t quite forget that glimpse of the black, lacy brassiere. Katya was neither fat, nor undesirable; the bared skin of her chest had proved to be pale, beautiful and dusted with freckles. She had a slim waist, a strong young back, and her skin had a faint, pleasant nostalgic scent to it, which Rowland thought might come from talcum powder.

  Despite her words, she had contrived to put her arms around his neck, and her breasts were pressing against his chest. It was some while since Rowland had slept with a woman; the misery of the day was acute, and he was, he thought, only human. Katya had truly beautiful hair, he realized, laying his hand against it, hesitating, then beginning to stroke it.

  He was just about to tilt Katya’s face up to his when he had the sensation—the very odd sensation—that someone had just tugged his sleeve. So strong was this sensation that he looked down; but no, as he had known they were, Katya’s arms were clasped about his neck. There was, of course, no-one else in the room and no-one standing next to him.

  He found he was now looking down at Katya. She had stopped wailing and crying as suddenly as she had begun, and was now regarding him in an alert, desperate way. Her eyes were lovely, Rowland thought; her mouth was lovely.

  ‘I wish you’d kiss me, Rowland,’ she said. ‘Just a very brief kiss. Just once…’

  It seemed to Rowland that, indeed, one brief kiss could do no harm. He hesitated. The telephone began ringing. On its third ring, understanding that he had been rescued, Rowland gently released Katya, told her to do up her blouse, crossed the room and answered this timely call. The caller proved to be Colin Lascelles. He did not mention alcohol or pills, but he explained where he was; he spoke for some time and he spoke with emphasis.

  ‘Quite,’ Rowland said, several times. He glanced across at Katya, who was buttoning up her shirt. ‘No. She got here about half an hour ago, Colin. We’re just leaving now. I agree. Yes, she is rather upset. I’ll drive her back to Oxford. I think that would be best.’

  Rowland replaced the receiver. He looked at himself and disliked what he saw. ‘That was Colin,’ he said, ‘calling from Tom’s room.’

  Katya blushed scarlet again. There was a silence. Katya, who as Rowland well knew, was by no means unintelligent, gave him a look which gradually became considering.

  ‘I do love Tom, you know.’

  ‘Then learn to behave accordingly.’

  Katya’s colour deepened. ‘OK, OK. I deserved that. I’ll go. You don’t have to drive me.’

  ‘No, I will. I don’t want any detours to the Thames.’

  ‘I’m not really the suicidal type.’ She paused. ‘One question—how close, Rowland?’

  ‘Too close for comfort.’

  ‘I thought so.’ Katya’s face lit up in a brilliant smile. ‘Well, that’s some consolation.’

  ‘Not for me it isn’t.’

  ‘So what do we do now, Rowland?’

  ‘Now, Katya, you come downstairs, and you get in my car, and I drive you back to Oxford—which is an interruption I could well do without. While we’re on the motorway, I’ll give you a sensible fatherly talk. And you will behave yourself.’

  ‘All right.’ Katya frowned. ‘I did mean what I said to you, Rowland.’

  ‘No, Katya. I don’t think you did mean it.’

  ‘I shall feel awful tomorrow. I’ll want to die of embarrassment and humiliation.’

  ‘Don’t. I should concentrate on Tom, if I were you. That’s rather more important. Now get your coat. And Katya, be more careful which books you read in future.’

  ‘All right, Rowland. I’ll stick to Trollope.’ Katya gave a small smile. ‘All those clergymen. I should think that would be safe…’

  ‘Out. Now,’ said Rowland.

  In his car, true to his word, Rowland provided sensible fatherly advice. He produced Kleenex from the glove box when Katya hit another weeping phase. He drove at exactly the speed limit for the entire route—not his usual practice—and by the time he dropped Katya off at her college, he realized he had never felt so hypocritical and so ancient.

  ‘Do you think I ought to go and see Tom now, Rowland?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I think you should give it a few days, Katya. Colin’s taking him back to his place, anyway. Lindsay’s there. Give yourselves a few days to think, and calm down a little…’

  Katya gave him a sidelong glance; she departed.

  Rowland drove around Oxford, feeling a curious reluctance to leave the city. He thought of how easy it was to give advice to others in such matters and how peculiarly difficult it was to act on such advice oneself. He thought of the time he had spent in this city, and of what he had done—and left undone—since he had lived here. He tried not to think of the fact that Lindsay was close by, yet out of his reach.

  He drove around the one-way system six times. There were no tourists in Oxford at this time of the year; term was ending, undergraduates were departing. The darkness of a winter’s evening gave to these beautiful college buildings a sweet melancholy. It came to him that he had no reason to hurry back to London, since no-one awaited him there. About to go around the one-way system for the seventh time, he changed his mind, parked the car with surprising lack of difficulty, and began walking. He walked through Christ Church meadows, and along the river bank, and found himself alone, the river swollen by rain, and dead leaves drifting. He walked for some way, then, hearing the chapel bells begin to ring, and the church bells start to toll the hour, a long process, for as Tom had noticed, none of these clocks synchronized, he turned back.

  Again he had the sensation—the very odd sensation—that he was being guided. This time, no invisible person tugged at his sleeve, but his feet seemed to know in which direction to take him. They led him back to Katya’s college. Once he was in the porters’ lodge, he found he had decided that, since he was in Oxford, it might be sensible, even prudent, to have a word concerning Katya with her tutor, Dr Miriam Stark, a cool woman of sound sense, of good judgement, whose books he had always admired; a woman he had once liked, but with whom he had lost touch all those years previously.

  The porter informed him that Dr Stark did not live in college, but might be in her rooms. A call was put through to these rooms. Dr Stark, it seemed, was there working, but was prepared to see him briefly. Rowland was given directions. Wondering why Dr Stark should have elected to become a Fellow of a women’s college, when Balliol or Christ Church or Magdalen would surely have welcomed her, and wondering how to broach the difficult subject of Katya, Rowland set off across the quad, reaching her ground-floor rooms as the chapel bells stopped tolling.

  Dr Stark’s room was lit by lamplight and its curtains were not drawn. From the quad outside, Rowland glimpsed her, framed by the window. She was seated at a desk, in profile to him, her face hidden by her dark hair, which fell forward as she bent over her work. The quietness of her room communicated itself to Rowland; he could see she had books piled upon her desk and a book open before her. He found himself very curious to know what she was reading.

  Three days later, Lindsay’s tenancy began. Colin left to begin work in Yorkshire and Tom went with him.

  ‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ Colin said to Lindsay for the tenth time that morning, drawing her back into the hallway of Shute Farm and kissing her. ‘Darling, I promise you—I need another assistant. It’s the vacation; he can be my runner. He’s mad about films. Work and a change of scene is just what he needs. Once he realizes there’s a world
elsewhere and a universe beyond Katya, he’ll recover very quickly. I won’t let him out of my sight—and I won’t let him notice that, either. Besides, it’s been good for him here. He’s better already. He’ll never consider anything that foolish again, I’m sure of that…’

  ‘I don’t know that. He promised me, but I still—’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Colin, I want him near me. I feel so afraid for him—’

  ‘I know you want him near you,’ Colin said quietly, ‘but you have to know when he wants and needs something else. Let him have the chance to prove something to himself, Lindsay. That stupid girl hurt his confidence badly.’

  ‘I mustn’t even fuss, you mean?’ Lindsay gave her new landlord a wry look.

  ‘You can fuss a bit, but don’t overdo it.’

  Lindsay took this advice. Going out with Colin to his great car, which Tom was admiring, she saw her son’s face tighten with apprehension. Guiltily, Lindsay realized that she was responsible for this. Tom was now expecting one of the endless epic motherly recitals which delayed all his departures. For the first time in his life, Tom was spared them; Lindsay abjured all the talismanic sentences which she had come to believe ensured her son’s safety. She did not tell him to get enough sleep, to eat properly, avoid illness and accident, and call if there were the least problem. These, and many other imprecations, she said silently to herself; to him, she said only to take care, work hard, and enjoy himself.

  This so astonished Tom that it silenced him completely. He and Colin were five miles down the road before he felt able to speak.

  ‘How did you do that?’ he said, looking at Colin, who, he noticed, drove fast and with great skill. ‘How on earth did you do that?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. Lindsay’s getting used to the idea that you’re a man now, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Tom, don’t be hard on her.’ Colin hesitated. ‘It’s because she had to bring you up alone. If she was anxious, well, she had no-one to share those anxieties with, so they got worse…’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Oh, definitely. Anyway, all women are a bit like that. It’s a strength as well as a weakness. I promise you, Tom, my mother was exactly the same. She used to cry when she saw me off to school—I boarded when I was seven.’

  ‘Seven? Jesus.’

  ‘It’s only because she loves you. And, maybe, she hadn’t realized the effect it had on you. She…she—’ Colin struggled. ‘She has a very warm heart, Tom, and she can’t always disguise her feelings. And—’

  ‘And you love her, right?’ Tom grinned. ‘It’s OK, Colin. I kind of noticed.’

  ‘I want her to marry me. I want her to marry me desperately…’ Colin slowed. He looked towards Tom, his expression both desperate and woeful. ‘That’s why I came over to Oxford on Sunday. I wanted to—actually I’m not sure what I wanted to do. Ask your blessing…’

  ‘That’s cool. You’ve got it.’

  ‘Ask your advice.’ Colin groaned. ‘She won’t say yes, and if she doesn’t say yes soon, I’ll go mad…’

  ‘You want my advice?’ Tom blushed with pleasure. ‘Really? Wow!’ He gave a smile. ‘Well, with a normal woman the car alone would do it. I mean, if I was a woman and a man drove up in this, I’d say yes before he got out of it…’

  ‘That’s because you’re a man. Think female.’

  ‘OK, OK. Well, the house ought to help—but Mum’s not normal there either. She likes your Dad, I can tell, and that’s a plus factor. Hang on, I’m thinking…’ He frowned. ‘I mean, it’s weird—but then she is a bit weird. I can see she’s mad about you. Something happens to her face when she looks at you. I’ve never seen that happen before.’

  ‘Never? You’re sure?’

  ‘Well, a bit, once or twice. She was keen on Rowland for a time…’

  ‘I know, I know. Don’t mention him, it doesn’t improve my driving.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,’ Tom said in a negligent, dismissive tone. ‘Rowland’s all wrong for her. She knew that really. I mean, Rowland’s fine as a friend, but can you imagine living with him? If she’d actually gone to bed with him, she’d have got over that in about a week, but she didn’t. Rowland never fancied her anyway.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Colin looked at Tom in astonishment. ‘More fool him.’

  ‘Oh, he liked her,’ Tom said in an airy way, ‘and Rowland’s getting a bit desperate—his age and still unmarried—so maybe he persuaded himself it was more than that—I did think that, once or twice. When we had that lunch in Oxford, for instance.’ He gave Colin a shrewd glance. ‘But that was partly rivalry. I mean, he could see how you felt about Mum. Everyone at the table could except her. It stuck out a mile…’

  ‘Did it?’ Colin asked, ‘Oh, God. God’

  ‘But you don’t have to worry about Rowland. She never looked at him the way she does at you. So if you really want to marry her…’

  ‘If? If?’ Colin overtook three cars superbly. ‘There are no “ifs” here, Tom. Advise me.’

  Tom looked at Colin and considered. He now felt ten years older than when he’d got into this car. He was realizing how much he liked this somewhat eccentric man. He was wondering if this man would be eccentric enough ever to let him drive the Aston Martin. He was wondering why he had not thought of Katya for over twenty hours, and whether that could be seen as a falling-off or as progress.

  Deciding that, as step-fathers went, Colin might prove an exceptionally nice one, he sighed.

  ‘Are you any good at chess?’ he said.

  ‘Not bad. Why?’

  ‘Mum’s appalling. I mean, so bad it’s awesome. But there’s something she does when she plays; it’s just given me an idea…’

  Tom spoke rapidly, for some minutes. Colin’s eyes widened. ‘You think so? You’re sure? When?’

  Tom frowned and considered again.

  ‘When does this movie finish? End of February? Three months from now? That’s about right. Go for March first…’

  ‘Three months? I can’t stand it…’

  ‘Festina lente,’ Tom said, surprising Colin. ‘Trust me—the first of March is perfect.’

  A week later, in mid-December, Lindsay went up to London to help Pixie move into her own once much-loved apartment. This process did not take long, since Pixie’s belongings consisted of a hi-fi system, some CDs, a budgerigar and a suitcase.

  ‘Don’t you have anything else, Pixie?’ Lindsay said, as they deposited these in her former sitting-room. ‘What about books? Clothes? Where are all your clothes?’

  ‘Oxfam,’ said Pixie.

  She yawned, stretched, rearranged her red hair and executed a small jig.

  ‘I’m beginning a new life. New apartment. New hair colour. New job. New clothes. New future.’

  ‘How’s the job working out?’ Lindsay said, looking around her and feeling despondent.

  ‘Brilliantly. Max says I’m the best fashion editor he’s ever had. Except for you, obviously.’

  ‘Oh, great. Terrific. Thanks a million.’

  ‘And this place is a big improvement on that horrible hole I had…I might repaint it. Do you mind?’

  ‘Feel free,’ said Lindsay.

  ‘You sure you want me to just rent? I’ll buy it if you like. I’m getting into mortgages. Gearing.’

  ‘No, you can’t bloody well buy it.’ Lindsay sat down. ‘I may need it.’

  ‘Is something the matter with you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m post-menstrual.’

  ‘Post?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘You’re joking.’ Pixie stared at her hard and long. ‘Tell me I’m not hearing this.’

  ‘I’m not joking. I was never more serious in my life. I love him. I love him desperately. I want his babies.’

  Pixie opened her mouth to protest, argue and expostulate. She looked at Lindsay’s face and closed it again.

  ‘Plural?’ she said,
being nothing if not practical.

  ‘If possible. One would make me so happy, but if the one was female…’

  Pixie felt she wanted to scream—loudly. Since she was fond of Lindsay, she did not. She sat down beside her and took her hands.

  ‘Lindsay. Look at me,’ she said with great sternness. ‘Now tell me, is this for him or for you?’

  ‘Both.’ She gave Pixie a look of misery. ‘I can’t help it, Pixie—I’m just like that. I always was. There’s this direct line between my heart and my womb. I’m a throw-back, Pixie. I’m primitive.’

  Pixie agreed with this view, but forbore to say so, since Lindsay had now begun crying.

  ‘Oh, Pixie, I love him so much,’ she said. ‘I love him with all my heart. He’s the most wonderful man. He’d be such a wonderful father. I know he needs an heir—but it isn’t that really…’

  ‘I should hope not,’ said Pixie, who disapproved of primogeniture and found this a very nineteenth-century predicament.

  ‘He should have children. I know he wants them, but he won’t say so—he’s afraid of hurting me. He’s afraid I’m too old—and so am I. Oh, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?’

  Pixie thought for some while.

  ‘Give me your dates,’ she said. ‘Right, now let’s make the calculations here…When’s he next down from Yorkshire?’

  ‘Tomorrow. But only for about half a day…’

  ‘Tomorrow’s perfect. Half a day? What’s the matter with you? You can fix this inside ten minutes.’

  Pixie rose. She opened her suitcase, rummaged around inside and brought out a small white jar.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Now, you rub this stuff into your skin about half an hour before, OK? It’s unbelievably expensive and it never fails. Believe me, Lindsay, this would fix it for an eighty-year-old woman…’

  ‘What are you doing with it?’

  ‘Sample,’ Pixie said briskly. ‘It came in to the Beauty Department the other day. I thought I could use it. It’s an aphrodisiac as well

  ‘I don’t need an aphrodisiac. That’s not the problem.’

  ‘Lindsay, with this cream and no pill, you conceive. Believe me.’