by Patrick Gale
‘What was she like then?’
‘The same, physically. Ash-blonde hair, perfect skin, long, intelligent face, sexy voice. Candida was born twenty-seven, born to have a public.’
‘You know she’s been top of one of those lists for the last three years?’
‘Woman men would most like to marry?’
‘No. The woman most desirable as a mistress. Did everyone think she was your girlfriend?’
‘I thought she was my girlfriend. We did everything together.’
‘Everything?’
‘Nearly. We kissed a lot and went to lots of French films over in Notting Hill. We spent hours together. Then she told me that I didn’t find women attractive, not sufficiently. I asked her what she meant and she dragged me off to Soho to other cinemas to prove her point.’
‘And did she?’
‘No. Porn always made me laugh so we had to leave. I didn’t believe her, not really. I just took it as her typically devious way of saying that she wanted us to be just friends. She didn’t run off with anyone else, and neither did I. They were a fairly grim bunch at school so we used each other as camouflage and let people think what they liked. Then we went to university, of course …’
‘Of course.’
‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘No.’
‘We went to university and met Jake. Or rather, he met us. He trailed after us everywhere. Lectures, library, mealtimes – we couldn’t shake him off. We were rather silly and exclusive, you see. Eventually he was terribly brave and actually asked us round to his room for lunch. It was awfully touching. He’d blown most of his grant cheque. There was champagne, caviare, smoked salmon and strawberries. Everything. And we’d never really spoken. He’d just sat near us and listened in and occasionally volunteered a comment or two. Of course he didn’t have a sense of humour and he was totally obsessed about having gone to a grammar school and having a father who’d made his money in showroom dummies – both of which we told him couldn’t matter less – but he was horribly attractive.’
‘Was he?’
‘Oh, not physically. I mean, he was good-looking but not half as stunning as some people. No, the main thing was – this is fairly horrible – the main thing was his devotion and complete lack of self-esteem. We were vain and exclusive and he was devoted and rich (rich by our standards, anyway, probably not by his now) so we let him into our little club of two.’
Robin broke off to kiss Faber. Faber kissed him back then sensed that he was trying to slip past the subject and firmly pushed him away.
‘What happened next?’ he asked.
‘I want something to eat.’ Robin bit softly at Faber’s shoulder.
‘Tell me,’ Faber insisted.
‘Candida found herself a boyfriend. Not just anyone, of course, but the current college sex symbol. You won’t have heard of him. William Warner. He was one of the ones that burned out – like me. He was a rowing hero who somehow happened not to be hearty but a sensitive, intelligent soul who was heavily involved in some campaign for the release of literary dissidents in Central America. Suddenly Candida was spending days on end in his rooms, professing a new interest in radical politics but getting so much sex she could hardly write a cheque, much less hold an intelligent conversation. Naturally that left Jake and I alone together.’
‘And?’
‘And I brought him home to stay and he took me to stay with his parents and we took rucksacks and a tent and spent a summer touring Greece.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. You don’t seem to understand, we were very naive. In fact I …’
‘What?’ Faber felt himself smile.
‘I’ve only lost my virginity this evening.’
Faber wondered how he should react.
‘No wonder you’re ravenous,’ he said. ‘My God! What’ll it be? Beans on toast? A bacon sandwich? There’s really nothing very edible in the house.’
‘A bacon sandwich would be lovely.’ Robin made as if to get up.
‘You stay right there,’ said Faber, pressing him back against the pillows. ‘I’ll bring it up.’ He headed down to the kitchen, jokily muttering, ‘Poor ravished thing,’ caught his own eye in a mirror and beamed.
Twenty
‘OK, Joy. Tell him to come on up,’ said Jake.
He set down the telephone and lost two minutes to blind panic. He had been meaning to ask Robin out for lunch ever since the christening, he honestly had, and Candida kept nagging him about when they should invite him over for dinner to meet some old friends, but Jake had been frantically busy. And too plain cowardly. Now Robin had turned up out of the blue, claiming that they had an appointment and, to save face, Jake told his assistant that this was true but that he had forgotten to enter it into his desk diary.
‘In you go!’ Joy chirped and ushered Robin into Jake’s office.
‘Very smart,’ said Robin, looking around him. ‘Very smart indeed. This all yours? Like the picture, what’s it meant to be?’
‘The blue blob’s Candida and the pink blob’s meant to be Jasper.’
‘Candida Albicans.’
‘What?’
‘You remember. It’s the proper medical name for thrush. It used to make us laugh.’
‘Oh yes.’ Jake chuckled obediently.
‘It is good to see you on your own,’ said Robin, grasping Jake’s hand and shaking it vigorously between both of his. ‘Hope you don’t mind my barging in but I thought that perhaps you were feeling nervous about it all and I should just force your hand. Were you?’
‘Feeling nervous? No.’
‘Good. Can you make lunch?’
‘Of course.’
‘Sure?’
‘Don’t be stupid. Of course I can.’
‘That girl thrust this glass into my hand.’
‘It’s a new mineral water we’re launching. It’s quite good. Not too bubbly.’
‘Got anything stronger?’
‘Not really. Let’s go out.’ Jake held open the door, waiting for Robin to stop admiring the view. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Joy, I’m just going for a bite of lunch with Robin here. If Saskia needs me, tell her I’ll be back by three.’
‘OK, Boss,’ said Joy.
‘No. Make that two-thirty.’
‘Does he pay you well?’ Robin asked her, leaning on her desk.
‘Can’t complain,’ she told him and laughed, throwing her hair out of her eyes.
‘I haven’t had lunch with him in over eight years,’ Robin told her confidentially.
‘What a lot he’ll have to tell you,’ she said.
‘Come along,’ said Jake, holding open the lift door.
Robin admired the interior of the lift in much the same, slyly ironical way he’d admired the view.
‘I like your lift, Jake. Is this malachite real?’
‘Yup.’
‘Good lord.’ They stopped at the next floor to let in some typists, giggly from too much coffee and too little sleep. One of them stared at Robin with frank admiration but he didn’t notice, being too busy smiling at Jake. ‘That’s a strange name for her to have – Joy,’ he said suddenly. ‘Not very Chinese.’
‘She’s Vietnamese. Her sister’s called Pamela, which is stranger still.’ The lift stopped again and they walked out into the atrium. ‘Where shall we eat?’ Jake said.
‘You choose. London’s moved on and left me behind.’
They went to a French-Vietnamese restaurant in Joy’s honour and, Jake realised, because none of his professional contacts ate there anymore.
‘How’s Candida?’ Robin asked as they sat down.
‘Fine. Tired but fine.’
‘And my bouncing god-daughter?’
‘Rosy-cheeked and filthy-tempered.’
‘Good. Cheers, Jake.’
‘Cheers.’
Candida had talked about Robin in her sleep for seven nights running. She would mutter his name then prattle on incomprehensibly, stopping from
time to time to let out little moans of need. She would wake in a bad mood, taking care to wake Jake too, although he had two hours’ sleep to go, and would blame her crossness on Perdita. This morning she had claimed that the baby woke her three times between midnight and dawn. Jake had appeared to accept this lie although he had lain awake all that while and had given Perdita her bottle each time she asked for it, without Candida waking once from her troubled dreams.
‘So tell me about this wonderful job of yours,’ Robin asked, having gleefully ordered the most rarefied items on the menu because Jake was paying. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘Six years. Nearly seven. Do you remember, I’d already made contact with them through that time I spent there during our last Christmas vac.’
‘That’s right. You were researching a thesis.’
‘Essay.’
‘It was longer than an essay. I remember. It said very clever things on marketing the Conservatives; rather frightening.’
‘Anyway, I sent them a copy of it when I applied – they hadn’t advertised, you see – and the pushiness seemed to appeal to them. They took me on unconditionally.’
‘What as?’
‘Nothing much, but they let me sit in a corner having ideas which they then made lots of money out of. Did you see that toothpaste advert that ran all year a while back? The one with the little girl in a space station?’
‘We don’t have telly on Whelm.’
‘Oh no. Of course not. Anyway, that was one of mine. Then I realised that they needed me so I threw my weight around and made them give me a decent salary and a desk of my own and so on – I was in a sort of corridor to start with.’
‘Poor thing.’
‘And now I’m called Creative Director and I don’t do very much at all. I suppose I’ve sold out really.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Yes, I have. I mean, when I went there as a student it was very much a case of spying on the enemy camp. And then they started paying me – well, you know how I never had a bean to spare – so that rather numbed me. Also I felt I was at least being creative. I’d think how you used to go into raptures about ads for carpet cleaner and public service announcements to stop children getting run over and that would make me feel less grotty. Everyone else was being properly creative, you see.’
‘Not making any money out of it, you mean?’
‘Not exactly. I mean, Diana and Toby were acting, Roger buried himself in Cornwall and wrote things, Clem left banking and took herself off to art school …’
‘But advertising’s very creative …’
‘In a way. But it’s still dubious. I mean, my team were so creative with the Tories that we got them back in. Twice. And then the Tories went and cut back all the government grants to the properly creative people.’
‘There’s no point being moral about it. Creativity’s got nothing to do with morality. And besides, you must be fearfully rich now.’ Robin chuckled and began to lay waste the first of his valuable hors d’oeuvres. ‘You can’t deny it,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Not now that I’ve seen the house. And dear Candy must be worth a bomb, by now. I thought she was just a continuity girl, I hadn’t realised she was a star!
‘Don’t buck the system,’ he went on. ‘It works so beautifully. Now that you’re stinking rich and feeling guilty about it, you can both start paying your poor contemporaries to be creative for you, like paying an architect to build a chantry round your grave then paying in perpetuity for nuns to save your soul in it.’
‘You’re playing devil’s advocate, naturally.’
‘No, I’m not.’ Robin sipped his wine then laughed at Jake outright. ‘Well, there’s no need to look so upset.’
‘But you’re the one with ideals. You’re the one who’s turned his back on all this. You should be coming amongst us snorting disapproval.’
‘Why on earth? I can appreciate comfort and achievement like the next man.’
‘You’ve just spent eight years in a monastery! Now you are playing devil’s advocate.’
‘Just a little.’
Jake relaxed.
‘How’s your sea bass?’ he asked.
‘Delicious. Piquant and perfect. You’re hardly eating a thing. Here. Try some of this.’ Robin slipped him a piece of fish wrapped in crisped seaweed. ‘Of course it isn’t really seaweed – they just call it that – it’s actually sea spinach or something. They dry it and shove it through a shredder. What’s wrong? Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Not very. We had people round again last night – third time this week.’
‘Lord. Oh well. Cheers.’ Jake’s guest drank to him then munched on unabashed. Jake toyed with a piece of duck. ‘Of course,’ Robin declared, ‘when you expect me to come along and disapprove of how you’ve sold out, what you’re actually saying is that you want me to attack you for having run off and married Candida when you were meant to settle down with me.’
Jake felt his face burn,
‘That’s hardly fair,’ he said.
‘Or proper,’ said Robin, apparently still intent on his food. ‘Sorry. Tell me about Jasper. Does he give his parents hell?’
As the conversation was swung away from this emotional precipice as violently as it had been launched towards it, Jake felt relief, also a lingering disappointment. Since first taking the initiative so dramatically eight years ago he had been assiduously learning to do so with more aplomb. In his first year of marriage he had enrolled himself on an expensive course in Gloucestershire to learn assertion techniques and, in equal secrecy, had returned for remedial weekends every year since. Now that he was back in Robin’s company Jake’s training evaporated and he doubted that he could possibly have withstood a thorough raking-over of the past. Once again Robin was taking the lead acting as though he were always right, and once again, damn him, he was. Maddening though this might be, Jake had quite forgotten how pleasurable his old passivity was. He sat back, drank more than his regulation two glasses, regained his appetite and let himself be entertained.
When Robin had to leave the table briefly Jake caught himself picking at the label of their second bottle and thinking, What a waste. What a sad, sad waste.
Robin came back, bringing with him a faint whiff of soap.
‘I’ve suddenly noticed!’ Jake exclaimed.
‘What?’
‘Your beard and hair. You must think me terribly rude for not saying anything. I honestly hadn’t noticed.’
‘Better, isn’t it?’
‘Much. You look like you again. The beard made you look like a cross prophet.’
The waiter took away their collection of little dishes and asked if they would like anything else. Robin successfully persuaded Jake to order a mango (‘They slice them up so prettily,’ he said, ‘Look. Like two golden hedgehogs.’) then said that no, he would have just a small, black coffee.
‘You always did that to me,’ Jake said.
‘Did what?’ Robin asked, clean-shaven innocence itself.
‘Egg me on into ordering a pudding then have nothing yourself – make me feel like a greedy child.’
‘Well, quick,’ he was all concern now. ‘Call him back and tell him you don’t want it after all. He won’t mind.’
‘But I do want it,’ Jake protested. ‘Besides, you know I’d never have the courage to cancel it. Here it is anyway,’ he added.
‘There. You see?’ said Robin as the golden hedgehogs were set down between them. ‘Isn’t it perfect?’ He smiled at the waiter who nervously returned the gesture and left them alone again. Robin waited until Jake had taken his first mouthful of mango, which was quite delicious, of course, then grinned. ‘Just wanted to see I still could,’ he confessed and blew lightly on his coffee.
‘I saw you got on very well with Faber Washington at Perdita’s christening,’ said Jake to show he was not quite unmanned.
‘You noticed. He’s enchanting. Have you known him long?’
‘I don’t
know him at all, in fact. He’s much more my sis’s friend – you know they were at the Slade together?’
‘Yes. I think Candida told me first.’
‘And of course Candida knows him slightly from when she sat for him when Jasper was little. You saw the painting?’
‘Oh yes. Wonderful. If you’re meant to be buying some work by young artists for your company collection you should get some of his.’
‘He wasn’t cheap several years ago. God knows what his stuff costs now.’
‘Quite. Just the sort of thing your colleagues would appreciate, I imagine.’
‘Mmm,’ said Jake and pushed aside the wreckage of the mango. ‘Where did he go to school?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondered. He sounds so educated.’
‘For a black person or for a painter?’
‘Neither.’ Jake refused to be baited. ‘For some reason I thought he was American. The surname, I suppose.’
‘He went to Barrowcester.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s quite a sad story. You know what those do-gooding cathedral cities are like. Faber’s little town in Africa happened to be in Barrowcester’s adopted overseas diocese. A group of Barrowers thought it would be rather noble of them to club together and “educate” an African. They got the bishop of Faber’s diocese to seek out a candidate from a suitably poor and amenable background and were sent young Faber. He came from a big family and his parents were thrilled to get rid of him and give him a future in one fell swoop. He was brought up in Barrowcester, spending holidays with anyone who’d have him (far beyond the adoption committee’s means to fly him home all the time, of course) and by the time they’d finished with him he’d lost contact with his family and felt about as African as Elgar.’
‘Has he never gone back?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And what about the girl?’
‘Iras?’
‘I suppose he adopted her to return the favour, as it were.’
‘Yes, only he was rescuing her from state care rather than uprooting her from her family. You know she’s a prodigy?’
‘Really?’
