Losing Nicola

by Susan Moody

  ‘I suppose not.’ I start to clear away the plates.

  After a glass of port, more cheese, a tiny slice of tart, the three of us stroll arm-in-arm along the moonlit front. ‘Orlando,’ I say, ‘I know you don’t want to talk about it, but remember that night?’

  ‘How could I forget? Especially since you won’t let it rest.’

  ‘A couple of things I was wondering about . . .’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘When we were all in the dining room, and you were standing at the window, looking out, could you see anyone out there?’

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s so long ago, Alice. How on earth do you expect me to remember something like that?’

  ‘But did you?’

  ‘I’m honestly not sure. There was a full moon, throwing shadows all over the place, and remember how the shrubbery hung across the drive? There might have been someone, but it was impossible to be sure.’

  ‘Second question: what did Nicola say when she came over to you? You didn’t seem surprised that she appeared.’

  ‘That’s because although my back was turned to the room, I could follow every step the little bitch took. That uncurtained window was like a mirror. I saw her giving poor Miss Vane the evil eye, and Mr Elias, and the way she snubbed poor Julian, and agitated Bertram Yelland – not that I’m an apologist for the old pervert. I saw it all.’

  ‘I only met her once, but boy, that was enough,’ says Erin. ‘You don’t often meet someone who’s so effortlessly – evil’s too strong a word – so effortlessly unpleasant.’

  ‘Unpleasant’s too weak a word,’ says Orlando.

  ‘What I mean is, she seemed completely oblivious to other people’s feelings.’ She paused. ‘Say, do you remember that book called The Bad Seed? She kind of reminded me of the kid in that.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘That was Nicola exactly.’

  ‘So, Orlando,’ asks Erin. ‘When the little monster came and stood next to you, what did she say?’

  ‘I was the one who spoke first. I told her she was a piece of shit, a sadistic little slut. I told her several things.’ I can feel his arm shaking.

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She gave me that nasty little smile of hers and then she said, she said . . .’ Orlando pauses. ‘Jesus, all these years later, she still has the power to make me flaming mad.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘It seems such a silly thing when you look back on it, but at the time, it meant such a lot.’

  ‘What was it, Orlando?’ Tensely I wait for some hideous revelation that will alter forever all that lies between us.

  ‘She said . . .’ He laughs, a little shamefacedly. ‘. . . that she knew all about the Secret Glade – not that she called it that – and that she and Julian were going to go up and strip it bare before you and I could.’

  He’s right. The distance of time has changed my perspective. Now the whole affair seems infantile, trivial. But at the time, given how seriously he took his role as hunter and gatherer, he must have perceived her words as a breathtaking threat.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What could I do? Precisely nothing – except get up there with Alice as early as possible, keep an eye out for the two of them.’

  ‘Hmmm . . .’ Erin said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘She was probably just winding you up and had no intention whatsoever of doing anything of the sort.’

  ‘Exactly – too much like hard work for our Nicola. And Julian was incapable of getting out of bed before lunchtime, if you remember, Alice.’

  ‘I do.’

  Erin squeezes my arm against her side. ‘What say we leave Nicola in her final resting-place and talk about something else?’

  ‘Fine.’

  But it’s not. Because, much as I love Orlando, I am suddenly aware of the fact that not only was he quite capable of killing Nicola, I now know that he also had a motive.

  ‘Since we’re talking about something else, who was that woman I saw you with the other day?’ Erin asks.

  Orlando looks at me. ‘Woman?’

  ‘In that fish restaurant at Victoria. Wheeler’s, I think it’s called.’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Don’t prevaricate, darlin’. London’s a small place, and I’ve seen you with her twice before. You know the one I mean: tall, blonde, rather distinguished-looking.’

  Orlando seems disconcerted for once, then annoyed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Come on, Orlando.’

  ‘It’s not illegal to dine with someone of the opposite sex,’ he says.

  Erin laughs. ‘Why so defensive? You’re a very desirable catch – rich, distinguished, successful. Any woman would be glad to step out with you.’

  ‘The person I believe you’re referring to is a principal flautist with an American orchestra. We’ve worked together for a number of years. We’re just good friends, as they say.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  We stop and look at the houses in the moonlight. ‘Isn’t it strange how, give or take a coat of paint here, a flowerbed there,’ Orlando remarks, ‘everything’s exactly as it was when we were children?’

  ‘Except us,’ I say. I feel downhearted, imagining Orlando with a tall blonde flautist. He’d already mentioned her once, but had implied that he hadn’t formed a relationship with her because of her penchant for clowns. But if Erin was correct, this obviously wasn’t true. I want him to find True Love, of course I do, as much as I want it for myself. But not just yet. And definitely not with a blonde flautist.

  When we arrive the following evening, the Town Hall reception room is full of people holding glasses of wine and milling about in the vague way that pre-concert audiences do.

  Gordon is waiting for us by the door. He does a double take at the sight of Orlando. ‘Goodness,’ he says.

  Orlando shakes his hand. ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ he says.

  Gordon pouts. ‘Then twenty years of unremitting effort have been in vain.’ He takes my arm. ‘Come along, all of you,’ he says. Today he wears an expensive jacket of camel cashmere, with a dusky green tie, and well-cut trousers. ‘This is going to be fun.’

  Already, in the short weeks that I’ve been here, I recognize several faces. I wave at Vi Sheffield, at my neighbours from the flat below mine, at one or two others. Although I look for her, I cannot see Louise Stone. Perhaps she doesn’t care for classical music. Orlando is seized upon by various middle-aged women who recognize him from his television appearances and want to tell him how much his company had meant twenty years earlier to their lonely mothers, widowed by the attritions of time as much as by the war.

  ‘Look,’ Gordon says, indicating the other side of the room. There is Bertram Yelland, gesticulating with a full glass of wine, one of Deirdre’s nibbles in his hand. He is surrounded by a group of self-consciously arty people. A peasant skirt here, a beret there, a jacket of pretty patchworked velvets, a leather waistcoat. ‘Go and say hello, while I talk to Erin.’ He gives me a friendly push.

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Now that you’re a local, dear, you’ll have to do it sooner or later.’

  I push my way through, and introduce myself into the edge of the circle. At first, nobody takes any notice of me, giving me time to observe Bertram. He is older, fatter, angrier of mien. He is wearing a collarless white linen shirt and baggy black trousers. The ends of his artistically unruly hair are grey.

  ‘And you are?’ he says rudely, when he finally deigns to notice me.

  I smile, about to utter something enigmatic, but he frowns. ‘I’ve seen you before somewhere.’

  ‘You probably don’t recognize me face to face.’

  I see the possibility of kinky sexual encounters he has forgotten about flit briefly through his mind. ‘Er . . .’ His fan club titters.

  ‘A woman of mystery,’ someone in a cambric shirt tucked into hipster jeans says, stroki
ng his grey ponytail, grinning as though he’s just said something exceptionally witty.

  ‘I own a couple of your paintings,’ I say.

  ‘Ah!’ Yelland brightens. ‘A collector.’

  ‘Not exactly. I have some of your early works.’

  He makes an attempt at being ingratiating – at least, that’s how I interpret the flabby smile which creases his face and makes it obvious that he has not spent any money on dentistry since I last saw him.

  ‘What paintings are you talking about?’ From a passing tray, he grabs another of Deirdre’s canapés, something lividly pink and green with a slice of black olive on top, and thrusts it into his mouth.

  ‘Somebody recently gave me one of your canvasses.’ I gesture vaguely towards the windows of the hall. ‘A view of the pier before they rebuilt it.’

  ‘I did that from memory.’ His dissipated but still handsome face looms towards me as his eyes take me in. I feel that somehow I’ve penetrated his aureole of self-satisfaction. ‘You’re very striking, you know. I’d rather like to paint you.’

  ‘I don’t want to be painted,’ I say.

  ‘Oh . . .’ Yelland rears back, disconcerted. The fan-club murmurs. I gather his suggestion that I act as his model is an honour not lightly bestowed, at least, not down here in the sticks. Some of them move away, as though leaving us to a private moment together.

  I smile. I’m wearing a jumpsuit made of peacock-colored silk, with several gilt belts round my waist, and soft rose-pink ankle high boots. ‘In any case, you already have.’

  Dramatically, he slaps his forehead. ‘Am I growing old? It’s hard to believe I’d forget a girl like you.’

  ‘It was quite a while back.’

  ‘I used to live here many years ago,’ he says. ‘Are you local?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I’ve just moved back here.’

  A look of faint apprehension travels across his face. ‘Wait a minute. You aren’t . . . you can’t be one of those blasted kids, can you, the ones further along the front, with that mad mother, what was it, Flora or Fanny or something?’

  ‘Fiona.’

  ‘Mad,’ he says quickly, ‘but very kind. She was good to me. Not the finest gourmet cook in the business, though . . .’ He guffaws loudly. ‘Yes, you must be . . .’ He snaps his fingers. ‘. . . Alice, that’s it. Alice, and her brother Orlando.’

  ‘Orlando’s over there.’ I point him out.

  He gazes at Orlando. ‘Hmm,’ he says in a tone I cannot interpret. His glance shifts. I see that final summer push its way into his mind, the cranking up of mental gears as those years are suddenly alive again, a recollection of Nicola, the hesitation with which he wonders whether to mention her to me, ‘Yes, indeed, it comes back to me now.’

  A thin woman with Mary Quant hair lays a possessive hand on his arm, giving me a raised eyebrow stare of infinite contempt. ‘Darling, do come and meet Peter Agnew.’

  He shakes her off. ‘One moment, and I’ll be with you.’ He dips into an inside pocket, muttering that he could swear he . . . and brings out a dog-eared card. ‘I have a cottage here now, in Mariner Street. You must come and have a drink, a bit of a gossip. I’d love to know how things are with you and the rest of the family.’

  ‘I’d enjoy that,’ I say, meaning it. Unprepossessing as he still obviously is, there are things he may be able to explain or amplify. ‘When are you next here?’

  ‘I’m staying on down here for a few days, while the weather’s fine.’ He grins, showing me his terrible teeth again. ‘No time like the present.’

  ‘I’ll call you in a couple of days.’

  We’re finally shepherded to our seats by a man whom I take to be the musical director. We’re five rows back, in the middle; I’m seated between Orlando and Gordon. The choral group starts to file on stage while he explains the change in the programme and tells us how delighted we all are to welcome back to Shale our old friend Alexander Elias. We are doubly privileged, he adds, since in addition, Mr Elias has agreed to play some Mozart for us.

  The chorus sings some a cappella madrigals rather well, and follow this with a couple of Negro spirituals. Nobody seems to find any incongruity between the English accents and the plantation vocabulary. Finally the singers file off to much clapping. Helena Wilburton appears and bows to the audience, acknowledging applause. She is generously built, with piled-up auburn hair and a low-cut green gown. She stretches one arm towards the wings and he comes on, Sasha Elias, in a black velvet jacket and black tie. He nods at the singer, bows his head to us, seats himself at the grand piano. He plays a rippling introduction to a Schubert liede, and the soprano launches herself into song.

  I sit with my hands folded in my lap. I breathe deeply, slowly, deliberately relaxing myself. Outwardly, I appear calm – or so I hope – but I am in turmoil. I can feel Orlando glancing at me from under his eyebrows. As Sasha plays, glancing up at the singer from time to time, I realize how familiar to me he is. I am not conscious of having observed him in such detail, yet the twist of hair at the nape of his neck, the swollen knuckle of his right ring-finger, the star-shaped imperfection in his eye are as known as my own face in the mirror.

  His face is rounder, the worry lines smoothed out by the flesh beneath. If there is more grey in his hair, I can’t see it. He bends over the keys, he straightens up to smile at the singer as she swoops and soars and emotes.

  Erin nudges me. ‘I like the look of that,’ she murmurs. At first I think she is talking about the rather fine wooden ceiling above our heads, carved and vaulted like a mediaeval hall, but she is in fact indicating Sasha.

  ‘Nice,’ I agree. Afraid his gaze will eventually roam the audience, I sink lower into my seat.

  The small local orchestra files onto the stage after an interval, and Sasha appears again. Again, they are unexpectedly good, given their amateur status, and he conducts them with a brio which I can see brings them to the peak of their performance.

  ‘Well, this is an extraordinary surprise!’ He is smiling, his eyes crinkling so they are almost hidden in the folds of his face. He holds my hand in his. ‘Alice! I would have recognized you anywhere!’

  Behind him, Orlando is watching us as he talks to Deirdre, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘You too, Mr Elias. Sasha,’ I say. But is it true? He has filled out. His accent has all but disappeared. He is taller than I remember him, and more handsome. Though the lines of his face have changed, it is still an interesting face, with high cheekbones with hollows beneath them. He wears his curly hair fashionably long; he waves delicate thin fingers as he talks. He is not tranquil. He moves constantly. Beneath the impeccably cut dinner jacket he wears, it is easy to see that passions seethe.

  What I find inexplicable is the fact that after so much wishing, I am at last here, my hands clasped in his, his eyes smiling into mine – and I feel nothing. Not a thing. I’ve wasted so much of my life on Sasha Elias, worn him round my shoulders like a cloak, and now he has fallen away from me, like wisps of fog in sunshine.

  I can think of nothing to say to him. I no longer care that he didn’t try to find me in Paris. Embarrassed, all I want to do is get away. Erin arrives at my side and hastily I introduce the two of them. It seems they have an acquaintance in common, a composer from San Francisco, and I am happy to escape and move over to Orlando, who turns in mid-sentence, takes my hand, and holds it tightly at his side.

  ‘Is that Julian Tavistock?’ he says. I look over and find Julian staring at us both. His expression is, for some reason, apprehensive. In the harsh overhead light, he seems pale. Sweat shines greasily on his broad forehead.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be wearing well, does he?’

  ‘Not at all. He’s only a couple of years older than you are, and he looks old enough to be your father.’

  ‘Something’s obviously bothering him.’

  ‘Could be anything,’ I say. ‘Perhaps he’s embezzling the bank’s funds. Perhaps his wife’s having a
n affair. Perhaps he’s afraid he might have cancer, or he can’t get it up, or something.’

  Julian is pushing his way towards us, his wife trailing behind him. ‘Hello, you two!’ He shakes Orlando’s hand. ‘Long time no see, old boy!’

  I can tell Orlando debating what answer to give to this absurd remark. Finally he settles for, ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Catch you on the telly from time to time, of course. You’re looking good,’ Julian says. ‘Life’s obviously treating you well.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Can’t complain, can’t complain!’ Julian’s joviality seems forced. As before, I find it hard to detect the good-looking adolescent of twenty years ago beneath Julian’s flabby jowls. Between us lie so many things that, for our different reasons, we cannot give voice to. ‘Bit of a turn-up for the book, having old Elias back here, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  ‘Remember the fun we had that summer, when we decided he was a spy?’

  ‘Not really.’ Orlando turns to me and raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you remember that, Alice?’

  ‘I wonder if he does,’ I say.

  ‘I remember your sainted ma came round to our place and gave us the rounds of the kitchen,’ says Julian. ‘I suppose we deserved it, little devils that we were.’ He looks suddenly stricken. ‘That was the summer when . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Orlando says smoothly. ‘I do know.’

  Walking back afterwards in the warm dark, Erin is full of Sasha Elias. ‘I just can’t believe how many mutual friends we have in London,’ she says. ‘And you know what’s a real coincidence?’

  ‘What?’ I roll my eyes at Orlando.