Sextet

by Sally Beauman

  ‘I’m not proposing to say anything now. I’ll forget the entire fucking idea. Jesus Christ, I don’t believe this…I’m going to hang up—’

  ‘No, you won’t. You’ll explain and explain now. What’s happened? It’s something serious, I can tell from your voice…’

  ‘Nothing’s happened. You expect me to answer that kind of accusation? You think I’m that kind of man? What in God’s name has got into you?’

  ‘Yes, I damn well do expect you to answer. I can hear it—you’re hiding something. You said you had to talk to Tom alone. You said it concerned Katya…’

  ‘Damn it, I didn’t say that. Do you never listen? Fine. Just for the record, Lindsay, and to set your mind at rest, I’ll spell it out to you. No, I wouldn’t set out to seduce or encourage a nineteen-year-old girl who happens to live with a young man I like and admire. No, I wouldn’t encourage her in any way if I had the slightest suspicion that she was interested in me. And, finally, finally, Lindsay, if such a situation arose, the very last thing I’d do is run with the problem to a volatile boy half my age.’ He paused. ‘I’d have thought you might have known that. The fact that you clearly don’t hurts me more than I can say.’ He paused again. ‘In fact, it makes me so fucking angry, I don’t even know why I’m continuing this conversation, so—’

  ‘Wait. Don’t hang up. Rowland, listen—’ Lindsay hesitated, feeling a rising tide of shame and distress. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I jumped to the wrong conclusions, but you sounded—I still don’t understand. Why did you want to see Tom?’

  ‘I told you. I won’t be making that visit now. It’s not really your concern—but Tom’s reading History, and it was history I wanted his opinion on; ancient history at that. As to how you think I sounded—no doubt it’s the strain of having a conversation with you. For what it’s worth, Lindsay, you’re one of the stupidest women I’ve ever known. You leap to conclusions; you don’t listen half the time; you’re so wrapped up in your own plans, and your own activities, that you never notice what other people are thinking or saying, let alone feeling…’

  ‘Wait—Rowland. That’s not true—’

  ‘I’d like to know, before I ring off, just what possible justification you think you have for what you’ve just said to me. In all the time you’ve known me, have I ever behaved in that way?’

  ‘No. Maybe not…’ Lindsay hesitated. ‘But if we’re going to be honest, you have a certain reputation, Rowland, you know.’

  ‘Do I? I see.’ He gave a sigh. ‘And you believe the gossip you hear. Well, that’s good to know. So much for your loyalty, Lindsay.’

  ‘That’s not fair either,’ Lindsay said, fighting tears. ‘I’ve always—Rowland, please, I’ve said I’m sorry. I was upset and I was confused. You’d been so harsh about all my plans. You sounded so strange…’

  ‘I may have sounded harsh, but what I said was accurate.’

  ‘You talk down to me, Rowland. You do it all the time. I don’t understand why you do that…’

  Lindsay paused, fighting to steady her voice. She had begun to cry.

  ‘You tell me I’m stupid and disloyal and incompetent, and I get to the stage where I can’t think clearly any more…’

  ‘You never think clearly, and your failures in that respect have nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You see? You’re doing it again. Why? I’ve tried to apologize. You’ve done it right from the start of this conversation. Everything I do is wrong. Why? My plans aren’t that bad. Colin says—’

  ‘I don’t damn well want to hear what Colin has to say,’ Rowland shouted, losing his temper as suddenly as she had done. ‘Learn to stand on your own two feet for once in your life…’

  ‘What?’ Lindsay had begun to tremble with misery and anger. ‘How can you say that? What do you think I was doing when I spent twenty years bringing up my son on my own? What do you think I’m trying to do now, Rowland? Don’t you shout at me. Anyone would think you were my father the way you talk to me. Do this, don’t do that…’

  ‘Your father? Thanks. I can imagine only one worse fate than being your father. I’m going. I’ve had more than enough of this conversation. I have better things to do with my time…’

  ‘I agree. Just fuck off, Rowland. I’m sick of your preaching. Don’t talk to me about not listening to other people, or not noticing what they’re feeling. You do it the whole bloody time…’

  ‘Oh, go to hell,’ said Rowland, and slammed down the phone.

  Twenty minutes after that, Lindsay was lying on her bed and Colin was lying beside her. Colin, whose perceptions of that morning’s events were jagged at best, was not sure how he came to be there, but now he was there, he knew it was the right, the only place. A trajectory begun in TriBeCa some four hours earlier had now completed its course; the laws of dynamics had determined that he had to be here, with Lindsay in his arms, and nowhere else.

  He had walked to the Pierre from the Conrad, as not one cab in New York seemed to be free; he had been soaked to the skin for the second time that day, but since Lindsay did not seem to mind that his clothes were wet, neither did he.

  ‘Don’t cry, Lindsay. Dear Lindsay, you mustn’t cry. Come here,’ Colin said, as he had already said several times before. He drew Lindsay closer into his arms, so she could weep against his wet shoulder. Every so often, he produced another of the beautiful linen handkerchiefs that Thalia had mocked and dried Lindsay’s eyes. Lindsay, who had poured out the whole story of Rowland’s telephone call to him, would thank him, attempt to calm herself and then weep some more.

  ‘I am so bloody miserable,’ she said now, in an—indistinct voice, into damp Brooks Brothers cotton. ‘I’m sorry about this, Colin. I’d quite like to die, but I may recover if I weep for the next week.’

  ‘You can cry on my shoulder for the next month,’ Colin said, feeling rapturously happy. ‘For the next year.’

  ‘He said such wounding things…’ Lindsay continued, wiping her eyes. ‘And the worst part of it is—they were all true, every one of them.’

  ‘I know.’ Colin sighed. ‘There’s always a vile accuracy about a dressing-down from Rowland. I’ve had a few. Was he cold? Something happens to his voice, have you noticed? It’s not just what he says, it’s the way he says it. It makes one want to shrivel up and die.’

  ‘I was horrible back.’ Lindsay made a moaning sound. ‘I made all those awful accusations. I told him he had a reputation.’

  ‘So he does. It’s rather longer than your average arm.’

  ‘I told him he was patronizing.’

  ‘Quite right. He can be patronizing.’

  ‘I told him he was pompous.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I told him to fuck off, Colin…’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. I frequently do.’

  ‘He was so scathing about that contract I’d signed. Colin, he made me feel such a fool.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t a great contract,’ Colin said gently, ‘but you’ll manage, I’m sure.’

  ‘I told him all about that lovely house you’d found and how excited I was. I thought he’d be pleased, but he wasn’t. He just got colder and colder, and more and more sarcastic…’

  Colin gave another sigh. He could imagine Rowland’s reaction, since Rowland knew Shute Farm well, and Rowland did not take kindly to duplicity. He knew that, given Rowland’s character, there would be consequences for himself. He could predict them precisely and he knew precisely how he intended to deal with them. On another occasion, the thought of facing Rowland’s ire might have alarmed him; not now. Now he was here in Lindsay’s arms, he felt he could have dealt with the devil himself.

  He began to stroke Lindsay’s hair and then her back—something he had been longing to do since she first burst into tears and he took her in his arms. Lindsay’s hair, soft but resilient, smelled of rosemary. In her uppermost ear, she was wearing a small gold ear-ring, with a jade teardrop. Colin found he wanted to kiss her hair, and her ear, which was
small and delicate.

  Lindsay tensed as he began to stroke her; then, soothed by the stroking, she relaxed. ‘Shall I tell you the worst thing he said?’ She turned her head to look at Colin, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘It hurt me so much. He said I was childish. He said I acted like a child—and I thought that wasn’t fair. I wasn’t childish when I was bringing up Tom—and I thought Rowland would have known that.’

  More tears spilled down her cheeks and Colin resisted the impulse to kiss them away. ‘But he’s right,’ she went on. ‘It hurts to admit it, but he’s right. I don’t understand why it is—I’m not childish when I work. I can run a department, do my work, and do it well. I feel confident then—but outside of that…I just mess everything up. I try and reorganize my life, and Rowland’s right, I’ve done it in the stupidest way. I swear I’ll never act on impulse again, and then I do. I lose my temper, just like that; I sign bad contracts; I run away from things; I can’t make the simplest decisions sometimes—’

  ‘Give me an example. Tell me a decision you need to make.’

  ‘Well, Thanksgiving, for instance; that ought to be easy enough. I was going to Washington, but that looks unlikely now. I could stay in New York. I did think of going back to England. I change my mind five times a day…’

  ‘That’s easily settled. Stay in New York and spend Thanksgiving with me. I’d like that.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ She turned to look at him. ‘I think you do. All right, that would be nice. Thank you, Colin.’

  ‘Anything else I can sort out for you?’

  ‘Oh, just my life. Just my life. Just my life.’ Lindsay looked up from his shoulder and gave him a wan smile.

  ‘Listen…’ Colin dried the last tears, kissed her forehead and positioned her so that she was more comfortably cradled in his arms. ‘You don’t want to take what Rowland says too much to heart. He’s always had a fiendish temper; he won’t have meant all he said. He can be gentle and understanding as well, you know—’

  ‘I know that. And he did mean it, I could tell.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m an equally hopeless case—much worse, in fact. Rowland reminds me of that from time to time, and if I’m in a bad mood, I remind him of the mistakes he’s made; there are plenty of them. We do all make them, Lindsay—you’re not alone.’

  He paused. ‘Shall I tell you how I started messing up my life? It was when my brother died. I had an elder brother, Edward, whom I loved very much. Edward was well, he was everything I wasn’t, everything I’d have liked to be. He was brilliant at school—he took a First at Oxford—he was effortlessly clever, very funny, and very kind. I adored him—everyone did. And my father my father worshipped him.’ He hesitated, then gave a sigh. ‘My father’s a good man—he was always gentle and encouraging to me as I limped along behind Edward, but I always knew it was Edward he loved the most.’ He looked down at Lindsay. ‘When you love someone, when you care more about that person than anyone else on earth, it can’t be hidden, don’t you think? It shows in the eyes.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Lindsay, who had stopped crying, took his hand in hers. ‘Go on, Colin.’

  ‘Well, Edward was killed in a car crash, just before I went up to Oxford. I can’t really talk about this, even now, but what it did to my father was terrible; he aged overnight. It broke him inside. You’d never know that, if you met him, because he’s very proud, for one thing, and very much old school in his views. Men should never show emotion, you know.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I was never like that—which was one of the problems—but after Edward died, I made myself this vow: I’d become Edward; I’d give my father back the son he’d lost…I knew it would be hard, but I told myself that if I worked at it every day, if I threw myself into my studies at Oxford, I might get some of the way…And you know what happened?’ He gave her a sad smile. ‘All those fine resolutions—they lasted about five weeks. Then, when I saw it wasn’t working, I went to the opposite extreme: I stopped doing any work at all, I never went to lectures, I hung around with a stupid crowd of people I didn’t even like, and I drank. I drank all the time. I was drunk by ten o’clock in the morning and I made sure I stayed drunk all day.’ He shrugged. ‘They’d have thrown me out, in due course. They’re tolerant at Oxford, amazingly so. They knew the circumstances and perhaps they made allowances, I don’t know. But I was going out of my way to get sent down and they’d have obliged me in the end. Then I met Rowland—’

  ‘And it was Rowland who helped you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Colin made a face. ‘In a very grim sort of way. No sympathy; no indulgences, but he made me see—it was my choice: sink or swim. I tried very hard to shift the responsibility onto his shoulders, of course…’ He gave Lindsay a half amused glance. ‘And I still do from time to time. But he wasn’t having that, so, gradually, I learned. I came to admire him. He could make me laugh—he could be dry, even then. He was a hard taskmaster, but I wanted his approval so I reformed, in the end.’ He glanced towards Lindsay.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking: Rowland’s my replacement brother—it’s obvious, I know. And Rowland’s never pointed that out to me, which is his supreme compliment, I always feel. He never rubs in the fact that I can’t get through life without a brother figure, without a prop of some kind…’

  ‘Colin, everyone needs props sometimes.’ Feeling a rush of affection for him, Lindsay sat up and drew Colin to face her. ‘Even Rowland does sometimes, I expect, and I don’t believe that Rowland thinks you use him as a crutch. Besides, who’s propping me up now, and doing it very well? You underestimate yourself, Colin, and you put yourself down, you know.’

  She looked directly into his eyes as she said this; her expression was so gentle, and so filled with conviction, that Colin was almost overcome. The desire to kiss her intensified.

  ‘Perhaps we’re both guilty of that,’ he said, drawing her down beside him again. ‘I feel very much as you do. I’m reasonably good at my job, but outside of that, I feel muddled and ineffectual most of the time. I overreact, or I fail to react, or I react much too late, or too soon…’ He took her hand in his. ‘I always feel as if—oh, I don’t know—as if I’m running for the last bus, and just as I draw close enough to jump on board, it pulls away—and all the passengers laugh.’ He paused. ‘Even if I caught it, it would probably turn out to be the wrong bus, going in the wrong direction. Everyone else always seems to know which bus to catch, and when it runs. Half the time, I can’t even read the fucking timetable.’ He smiled.

  Lindsay was moved by the way he spoke. She turned towards him, inside the circle of his arms.

  ‘Why do you think that?’ she said. ‘I’m sure it isn’t true. You could catch any bus you wanted, Colin, any time. You’re funny and clever and kind…’

  ‘So are you.’ Colin’s voice became unsteady. ‘You’re all those things and more. You have beautiful eyes and beautiful hair, and a beautiful voice. If it’s any consolation, which it probably isn’t, I watched you with Tom in Oxford. I couldn’t help watching you, because I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I didn’t think you were childish, not remotely so. I could see you were sad about something. I think now—well, I think that in some ways you are childlike, which is a very different thing, and a good thing. I also think you’re very womanly. I can’t look at you without…You are—Lindsay, you make me…’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Lindsay, seeing what was about to happen next.

  ‘Please keep still,’ Colin said, with sudden firmness. ‘I’m going to kiss you. Don’t argue. Don’t move an inch. Stay still.’

  To her own surprise, Lindsay obeyed him. He looked at her for a long while, tilting her face to his and stroking her hair. Then, with great gentleness, he rested his lips against hers. Lindsay closed her eyes tight. The kiss, so gentle to begin with, became prolonged. It could not escape her notice that, for a man who claimed always to miss metaphorical buses, he kissed alarmingly well.

  When this first kiss finally ended an
d Lindsay had steadied her voice, she told him so. Colin smiled again and kissed her again, and Lindsay discovered she liked the taste of his mouth; she liked what he did with his mouth, and she also liked what he began to do with his hands. It was gentle, adept and very determined.

  ‘You have the most beautiful breasts,’ he said, undoing her blouse—something Lindsay discovered she was prepared to let him do without protest or demur.

  ‘You are lovely,’ he said, kissing each nipple in turn. ‘And I have wanted to do this ever since I first walked into that room in Oxford and saw you. I may have had the mother of all hangovers, and my brain may not have been functioning too well, but the rest of my senses were.’

  ‘Then?’ Lindsay said, knowing she was flattered by this revelation, but excusing this as a weakness of her sex.

  ‘Then and since,’ he replied. ‘In the restaurant last night. At Emily’s. When I had to leave you here last night. I find it very hard indeed to look at you and not think about making love to you. No doubt that’s very bad. Oh, you’re wearing stockings. I hoped you might be. Do you know what stockings do to a man?’

  ‘I can feel what they’re doing to a man,’ Lindsay said, catching that glint of amusement in his eyes. She found herself beginning to smile, then stopping, hesitating, then touching him.

  His response was immediate: a sharp intake of breath, an involuntary leaping of his flesh against her hand. He clasped her against him, and it was perhaps then that she decided. The ‘yes’ came into her mind when she saw his physical need, saw his desire and her own power to assuage it, and realized that she could give pleasure as well as receive it. It had been too long, she thought, since she had last experienced a simplicity of that kind.

  ‘Oh God, what am I doing?’ she said, with a smile, reaching for his shirt buttons.

  ‘It looks to me as if you’re removing my shirt,’ Colin said. ‘I’d like it very much if you removed the rest of my clothes as well.’

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ she continued, undoing his belt and the zip of his jeans. Colin guided her hand, at which point Lindsay, who had been in little doubt anyway, realized just how good an idea this was.