Chandler was crammed in and Lionel had been crowing, happy the prodigal was returning to New York. Yesterday he’d telexed the office: Rolling out the red carpet. Will sort all out. Nothing to worry about. A lengthy telex for Lionel and unusual in its promise. Reading it Nick felt an almost exact mix of relief and disbelief. But when Jack drove Nick to Heathrow early this morning, he couldn’t force himself out of the car and onto the plane. Circle round, Jack, he said.
Not easy in this mess, sir.
Do it anyway, please.
It was drizzling and the airport was jammed across every lane. They crawled for a while, edging away from the international departures.
All right. Forget about it, said Nick. Let’s go back to the office. Just forget it.
You sure about that, sir. We can still make it.
Nick didn’t answer and Jack found the exit lanes.
Around eight in the evening he got a call at the office from Vivienne Vimcreste. I’m in bloody New York. Where the hell are you?
You’re talking to me.
I’m at the Sherry fucking Netherland.
How nice.
Prick.
Vivienne.
You fucking slay me, she began and when she wound up into a scream, he put down the phone, gently. He hadn’t told her he was going to New York.
He stayed in the office late, half thinking Lionel would call, but knowing he wouldn’t now. A telex piped in from Kitty around ten. Oh Nicky, I’m so, so sorry, she wrote. And he felt sick to read it. He made himself sit—he still had a job, for the moment—looking over broadsheets of potential ads, a campaign to unseat Mary Quant. Tania had stacked the large-scale prints on the side table. The girls, skinny legs planted too wide apart, purple-rimmed eyes, the lips white, skin pasty, hair too done and frozen-looking. Ugly, he thought. Just ugly. Tomorrow he’d map out a new concept. This played more lampoon than threat.
Four pointless drinks with Chandler, then home. He walked the diagonal across Grosvenor Square listening in the quick new soft snow to the echo of his footsteps. Only a single taxi chugged around the corner, then left the quiet behind. Days still left before Christmas but already places were closing: the Curzon House Club, Annabel’s, even Les Ambassadeurs. A dread stuck in his chest, and his breath narrowed down; he dug his pocket for a whiffer, the device. He pumped the thing twice and waited for the calm and the release, then he walked out of the park to the curled ironwork door at number eighteen, smiled at Cyril who held it open wide; on Christmas week the doormen stayed late and Nick didn’t know why. He tried his pocket once more for loose bills and handed them over without a word. It’s too much, sir!
Merry Christmas. One and all.
Yes, sir.
They rode the tiny lift to the second landing. Quite a night, sir, said Cyril, eyes cast just above the snow-dusted shoulder of Nick’s black overcoat. No wind, though.
Nick waited on the landing while Cyril wriggled in the key. There you go, sir. Good night.
He dropped his coat on the ornate bench just inside the door and took a breath, the dish detergent on the old marble slabs. He could see himself down the long foyer framed in all the gilt of the grand empire mirror. A slim tall line in a well-cut suit, Derek Voose’s high-nipped waist, sharp shoulders to suggest ease not force, a blade. Nick had dark hair like his father, long behind the ears, and his mother’s deep-set gray eyes, her long expressive hands. He watched himself, watched their quick movement straighten the hang of his jacket. First he caught the hem. It slipped away like water; he caught it again. When he pulled the turtleneck high against his throat, he felt the clutch again, but then it was gone. He dragged a light hand over the top of his head, smoothed away something invisible.
He walked the wide hall to the drawing room and in the mirror, meant for someone’s castle, saw he was steady on his feet. He had a gait Jean liked to joke about. She could spot him she claimed, across a stadium, a concert hall, any lobby in the world, by the sure steps, long legs crossing with such light confidence. She always knew he’d arrived she said, even before she saw him, because others started to glance up, felt him moving in like a virus. He was solid enough—that’s what he saw tonight—though the man at the Connaught poured with a heavy hand. He made his entrance, but she wasn’t there.
The lamp still lit by the chair she favored had fooled him. He’d imagined her listening to every step but too pissed off to speak. There was a crush in the downy pillow of the silver sofa, two drinks on the side table, embers nearly extinguished in the fireplace smelling of creosote and old coal centuries thick in the chimney and the pine knots she threw in. There was a pale lick of Scotch in the bottom of one glass and he stood and drank it down, watery. She’d left the Christmas tree lights on, all white, all steady. No gifts beneath, not yet.
He felt a heavy pull to sit, to stop here. But he jimmied the half-crushed box from his trouser pocket, jazzy gilt geometrics, something from the chemists on Bond Street and the bracelet he’d loved and bought on a whim at auction, something spectacular for Jean to cancel out the Vivienne bangle, Harry dragging on him to get the hell out, the party would start without them. But he kept it up, kept the nod going until the others all backed down and Harry convinced them to take a personal check drawn on a U.S. bank just this once. Something Nick would have to take care of soon, something he’d be stupid to put off another day. But he’d pocketed the bracelet—forget the jewel case, they were in a rush!—he just stuck it in his overcoat pocket and left it there like a wish for days. Handed it over to hatcheck girls, and tossed it wherever he pleased until this morning, when he stopped in and found the last cardboard gift box in the bin at Boots and placed his treasure inside.
He could stand straight. Or he could close his eyes and feel the floor rush close. His fingertips were red and pinched, and he was warm in this room; she kept the heat so high he could smell his own aftershave and sweat. The pine scent, the coal grease, the dish soap, and him too warm, all together, all the same. She’d worn her nightie to receive her guest, whoever it was; he’d bet on it. She’d put on the velvet with a front zip and let whatever dope had popped by for a nightcap see her without her face on; she’d curled her legs under her, or she’d pulled aside the opening slit and let her calves show, crossed at the ankles.
He slumped a little against the archway. He could sit in her chair, stretch out on the long silver sofa, or pick one of the low curving couches she’d placed around the fireplace, sit and be swallowed. He was certain he didn’t want that. He found his whiffer again, took two more swift inhales, unlocked the fist closing in his chest, then sank to a propped up sit, then tipped. That cool smooth stone on his cheek a relief. He wouldn’t sleep, just rest and think.
He awoke to find Jean sitting in a T-shirt against the mirror. Her eye makeup smudged under her eyes made her skin pale; her hair looked even whiter blond and like a frozen whip swirled on top of her head. She’d cut it short. He was opposed, but he didn’t have a vote. My god, he’d said. Why chop off your best feature?
I have other features, she’d said, but with a frown. Why did she ever listen to him? The great arbiter of good taste she called him, but often she seemed to believe him. They’d painted white on white streaks in her wheat blond hair and left just enough on top to disguise the clips on a hairpiece. She had options. And she had ballerina legs. She’d spent about forty-five minutes in a dance class in high school and look what she got.
Jean?
Um.
Lily okay?
Sure she is.
He found the gilt box wedged under his hip, tried to plump out the crushed corner, Here, he slid it toward her, across the floor; it crashed like a toy racecar into the squat marble pedestal she sat on.
This for Lily?
No. I have something. It’s at the office. I’ll bring it.
Now?
Not now. Open it. Please.
She watched him, studied him. What’s wrong with your head?
What? Nothing.
You’re tilting, to the left. Is something wrong?
You keep asking that.
She plucked the box up and held it close to her belly, as if it were something to warm her. She closed her eyes and rubbed one lid.
It’s bad for you, he said. Sleeping in your makeup.
How do I look?
Perfect. He raised himself up against the archway. But it makes some kind of trouble, and erodes your lashes. Eventually.
I’m not worried.
No. Is that my T-shirt?
No.
Looks like it.
It’s not.
Never?
She wrapped the hem around his gift. Good night, sweetheart. She stood up, purple panties with a polka-dot frill a little stretched out like something she wore often.
What are those?
What?
Is Lily here?
Where else would she be?
I heard you calling me, he said, rubbing the back of his head against the archway. Taking his knuckles and pressing them into his temples.
What are you talking about?
You called me. I heard you.
Do you need a doctor?
No. He rubbed down the muscles of his thighs.
Numb?
Not really.
A little?
I was at the bar, crowded; you’d be surprised. And I could hear you as if you were standing right next to me.
I wasn’t.
Why not? He looked at her, considered the white blond flame of hair, the blue smudge of makeup, the lean long muscles of her limbs for no good reason, the stony look in her eyes, the plum-color sleep mouth turned down, the frilly nylon panties. Her feet were bare.
I’m going to bed; she’ll be up early. Jean raised one arm, pushed the other down in a pretty spiral stretch. Her nails half covered in a chipped iridescent blue polish.
He reached for the lower hand. What is this shit?
Mary Quant. It’s nice.
It’s garbage. Stay. Please.
She bent forward, put her hand on his cheek, his forehead. You’re warm.
He held it there, turned, put his mouth against her thumb.
I’m thinking about going home, she said. I’m tired.
I know. I know that.
Soon, she said. I called the tenant today.
He nodded, watching her as she rocked a little side to side, then slid down to sit on her heels, an odd curved squat. He watched her, the sharp intake of breath, round belly tucked inward, breasts against her knees.
You’re gorgeous, he said as if stating a fact across a distance, as if she’d already left.
I’m not doing anything. She sat on the floor and let one knee rest against him. She ran her blue-tipped nail along his closest thigh. Feel this?
No.
Now? She pushed down slightly into the muscle.
Yes, there.
She pressed forward and reached to bite his lower lip.
Feel that?
His chest contracted. Um, he said.
She covered his mouth with hers; he thought of a mouse running and his breath went shallow and quick.
She slid a leg across him and the archway molding jabbed into his back. He was wheezing now, but she was fully engaged with his zipper. She shimmied his trousers from his hips, a quick lift off; he could lift her still this way. He could. If he could just catch his breath. She pulled aside the baggy crotch of the purple panties, and deft, she was on him, eyes closed. Who are you, she said, sneaking into my house in the middle of the night. It was quick, quick and he was desperate to breathe, and soon she lay away from him with a cheek to the floor, while he fumbled for his trouser pocket and his whiffer, and pushed down and took a first inhale, again, his head was exploding; he took a second, and forced himself to wait, to let the stuff disperse. A last, a third, he could breathe again, but his hands shook, and his cock lay like something crazed and stupid in his lap.
Cyril was asleep in the vestibule. A red leather chair with a high back, his gray-striped waistcoat unbuttoned just at the top. He had a sputter on the exhale. Nick walked softly past, down the wide stair to the lobby, too cold even with banked fires in both hearths; he’d never get used to the cold here, and the dark. Sir?
He turned round just at the front door, Cyril?
I’m very sorry, sir. It’s locked and bolted, you never know who might wander in. Let me retrieve the key.
Of course, Cyril. Yes. Thank you. He watched the old man climb the steps to the key safe and reach up to turn the iron clasp. Everything difficult as if to make it seem more precious. Soon all that strain would be replaced with ease and access, the precious quality reflected only in the purchase price. He could already see it. He was a visionary. Everyone said so.
23
Jean amazed herself by coming to the Clarks’ New Year’s Day fete all alone. Please, Paula Clark had cooed over the phone. I won’t know a soul.
At your own party?
You know what I mean. Be a darling, please. I need you here.
They’d only met once or twice at Derek Voose’s big Mount Street parties, but Emma had steered her clear of Paula Clark. Very silly woman, said Emma. Entirely devoted to childish maneuvers. Trust me, she laughed. Back far, far away.
But when Jean saw Paula again at the Little Flower she liked her. Emma wasn’t infallible. It was a PTA meeting, though it wasn’t called that, more a tea in the old Guinness library for the mothers of ninth graders just before the Christmas break. Most of the tiny class were boarding students, so Paula, Jean, and two women in full veil were the only parents available to accept the rough dry scones with forced smiles.
When Mother Clarence offered Jean her tea it was as if they’d never met before, a surprise and a relief. Jean tried not to wince as the tea hit her tongue; the milk was slightly off. How do they do it? said Paula. I mean it’s exactly the same! Immaculate Heart, New Haven, identical acidic tea, flat biscuits I’d swear were baked by the same person.
Jean gave a grateful smile and settled the cup and saucer on her crossed knee. They had that much in common: two East Coast convent girls with daughters in need of grounding. Structure. Discipline. And good lord, a little style, laughed Paula. Her daughter was a hopeless lump she confided, and Jean resisted the temptation to say all she felt about Lily’s perplexing appearance. That was private. But to hear Paula’s description of plump Beven in a red satin minidress with gold tassels had her weeping with guilty laughter.
Please say you’ll come, Paula said offering her invitation. I cannot do it without you.
Jean understood the Clarks had about twelve of these gatherings a year. All the movie people, all the oil people, that’s how films get made. Already her husband had credits they could live off for the rest of their lives, Paula said. And we have enough stories, believe me. But what would they do?
She tipped her head toward the old nun stationed by the teapot with a shaking hand, eyes burning with concentration. It’s the same for me; a vocation is a vocation. In movies there’s immense work and believe me I do my part. The rest is playtime.
Playtime? Jean shrugged.
Well, I know, poor darling.
At this Jean felt a quick sag along her spine. She made herself look up. Paula’s face was full of kindness, a simple kindness, all the arch complexity stripped away and she saw a girl she might have gone to school with. For a half moment Jean remembered who she’d been then, full of possibility. Don’t say a thing, said Paula, holding up a hand. We won’t speak of it again. Jean wondered what she was talking about.
Emma refused to go with Jean to the party. Good lord, she’s impossible. See for yourself. And Anna Percy-Flint never went to movie parties on principle. Thieves, charlatans. Jean decided not to invite Nick. She could be independent, too. There were the usual double-parked cars on the quiet square, and the occasional honker who made all the smoking chauffeurs get in and drive the periphery. The Clark door was ajar and lit with luminaria, brown paper sacks cut with s
hapes of swimming nymphs. Rupert Clark’s new project had a fiendish woman with a swimming pool where she lured her victims in broad daylight. She wore a seaweed green bikini with seed pearls stitched along the darts. And here was Paula wearing a preview as a hostess gown. The same bikini, with a diaphanous caftan in pink chiffon, scattered seed pearls clustered near her naval. Cunning, yes? she grinned to Jean, tugging down the front so the pearls glimmered. She smelled so fully of patchouli that Jean had to check her revulsion. Had to refocus her eyes to meet her new friend and offer approval and pleasure, the only possibilities.
Paula Clark’s three-year-old scrambled out of the arm hold of Kendra his nanny and slammed into the legs of his approaching father. Oof, cried Rupert and let his long silver hair fly forward as he reached down to straighten the miniature cashmere blazer on his tiny son. Trevor, please, he said. But the invitation was more a please, do it again, as he grinned helplessly at Jean and extended a hand more manicured than her own. Darling? He tilted a chin at Paula but kept his eyes fixed in a corny way on Jean. Is this the new find? Good work!
Hiding in plain sight, I’m afraid. Our daughters are schoolmates thanks to Paula. Jean Devlin.
Lucky girls! smiled Rupert. Let’s do more for those nuns, Paulie. Really we don’t do half our share, he said this while stroking Trevor’s head, and the grand sprawl of the other hand played at the seed pearls on Paula’s caftan. But this family rhythm was interrupted by a small man in a leopard-skin vest whispering from behind his shoulder. Rupert frowned. Oh good fuck, he said. Tell her it’s a party not a crime scene. Vivienne is threatening to leap out the window again. You remember the last time, Paulie. What a bore. Excuse me! More about those needy nuns, you two. Here, Kendra, take him somewhere neutral. Trevor burst into a roar as his nanny wrestled him off through a pocket door beneath the grand front staircase. Shh, sweetie, shh, said Paula, watching them until the door pulled shut. Then she turned and kissed Jean on both cheeks. Welcome to paradise!
The Loved Ones Page 20
