“There’s a ground-floor flat going in Fulham. It’s very small, of course, but if it was just for yourself…?”
“Yes.” She should go and see it. It sounded perfect. “Yes. I’ll think about it.” And she stepped out into the street and continued on her way, aimless and preoccupied.
Part of the trouble, of course, was that she was short of sleep and physically exhausted by the traumas of yesterday. It had been a hysterical evening. Flora and Rose had dined together at Seppi’s, finished the champagne, been presented with a second bottle, and sat over coffee until Seppi, with a queue of customers waiting for tables, had reluctantly had to let them leave. Rose had settled the bill with a credit card. The dinner cost more than Flora could believe possible, but Rose dismissed it airily. She said not to worry because Harry Schuster would settle the account. He always did.
They then found a taxi and drove to the Shelbourne Hotel, where Rose made derogatory remarks about the decor and the staff and the inhabitants, while Flora, embarrassed and trying not to laugh, explained the inexplicable situation to the sad lady behind the reception desk. A porter was finally persuaded to haul all the suitcases back out into the waiting cab, and they headed for Cadogan Court.
The flat was on the fourth floor. Flora had never dreamed of such luxury—so much carpeting, concealed lighting, and space-age plumbing. Plate-glass windows slid aside to allow access to a little balcony crammed with pot plants; a button could be pressed to draw the filmy linen curtains; in the bedrooms the carpets were white and about two inches deep (maddening if you dropped a ring or a bobby pin, Rose said), and the bathrooms all smelt of the most expensive soaps and oil.
Flora was carelessly assigned a bedroom (pale blue curtains made of Thai silk and mirrors everywhere) and told to unpack, which she did, to the extent of taking out her nightgown while Rose sat on the bed.
An idea suddenly struck Flora. “Do you want to know what your father looks like?”
“Photographs!” Rose sounded as though she had only just heard of such a thing.
Flora pulled out a big leather folder and handed it over to Rose, and they sat together on the big bed, dark head against dark head, their twin reflections caught in mirrors all about the room.
There was Seal Cottage, and the garden, and the wedding shot Flora had taken of her father and Marcia coming out of the church. There was the big one of him sitting on the rocks below the cottage, with a backdrop of sea and gulls, his face very brown and the breeze blowing his hair.
Rose’s reaction was gratifying. “Oh, he’s great! Like some smashing film star with spectacles. I can quite see why my mother married him. And yet I can’t either. I mean, I can only imagine her married to a man like Harry.”
“You mean a rich man.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” She peered at the photograph again. “I wonder why they got married in the first place? Do you suppose they had anything in common?”
“Perhaps a mutual infatuation. They met on a ski holiday. Did you know that?”
“No kidding.”
“Ski holidays are a bit like ocean voyages, or so I’ve been told. Wine-like air and tanned bodies and nothing to do except physically exhaust yourself and fall in love.”
“I’ll remember that,” promised Rose. She was suddenly bored with the photographs. She tossed them down on the silk bedcover and looked long at her sister. Without any change in the tone of her voice, she asked, “Would you like a bath?”
So they both had baths, and Rose piled records onto the recordplayer while Flora made a pot of coffee. In their dressing gowns (Flora’s, her old school one, and Rose’s, a miracle of drifting flower-splashed silk) they sat on the king-size velvet sofa and talked.
And talked. There were many years to cover. Rose told Flora about the house in Paris and the finishing school at Chateau d’Oex, and the winters in Kitzbühel. And Flora filled Rose in on her own history (which didn’t sound nearly so exciting), making the most of the finding and buying Seal Cottage, the arrival of Marcia into their lives, the jobs she had taken in Switzerland and Greece. That reminded her of something.
“Rose, did you say you were going to Greece?”
“I may be. But after this summer of flying around the United States, I’m beginning to feel I never want to get into another plane. Ever.”
“You mean you spent the whole summer out there?”
“Most of it. Harry’s been planning this trip for years, and we did everything from shooting the rapids on the Salmon River to riding down the Grand Canyon on muleback, hung about with cameras. Typical tourists.” She frowned. “When did your father get married again?”
It was hard to keep track of her thought processes. “In May.”
“Do you like Marcia?”
“Yes, I told you. She’s great.” Flora grinned, remembering Marcia’s swelling hips and straining blouse buttons. “In more ways than one.”
“He’s so attractive, isn’t he? I wonder how he managed to stay single for so long?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Rose tipped her head to one side and regarded Flora from beneath long, bristling black lashes. “How about you? Are you in love, engaged, thinking of getting married?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Have you ever thought about getting married?”
Flora shrugged. “You know how it is. At first, you think every new man you meet is going to end up standing next to you at some altar. And then it stops being important.” She looked at Rose curiously. “How about you?”
“Same with me.” Rose got up and went in search of a cigarette. Lighting it, her dark hair swung forward, hiding her face. “Anyway, who wants to settle down to boring old housework and yelling kids?”
“Perhaps it’s not that bad.”
“You’d probably like it. You’d probably like living in the depths of the country, in the back of beyond.”
For some reason Flora felt compelled to stand up for such an existence. “I like the country. And I’d live anywhere provided I was living with the man I wanted to live with.”
“Married to him, though?”
“I’d prefer it that way.”
Rose took her cigarette and turned her back on Flora. She went over to the window, drew back the curtain, and stood looking down into the lamp-lit square. After a little she said, “Talking about Greece—if I went tomorrow, and left you here alone, would you mind very much?”
It was hard not to sound taken aback. “Tomorrow?”
“I mean Friday. Well, that’s today I suppose.”
“Today?” Despite herself Flora’s voice came out in a squeak of surprise.
Rose turned back. “You would mind,” she told Flora. “Your feelings would be hurt.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just that you took me by surprise. I mean, I didn’t think you were serious about going to Greece. I thought you were just talking about it.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve even got a seat booked on the plane, but I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to go. But suddenly I think I will. You don’t think it would be mean of me to go?”
“Of course not,” said Flora, robustly.
Rose began to smile. She said, “You know, we’re not as alike as I thought we were. You’re so much more honest, transparently so. And I know what you’re thinking.”
“What am I thinking?”
“You’re thinking I’m a bitch to leave you. You’re wondering why I suddenly have to go to Greece.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“I think you’ve probably guessed. It’s a man. You had guessed, hadn’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
“I met him at a party in New York, just before I flew back to London. He lives in Athens, but I got a cable from him yesterday morning, and he’s in Spetsai, he’s been lent a house by some friends. He wants me to join him.”
“Then you must go.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?”
“Of course. I’m no reaso
n for you to stay in London. Besides, I’ve got to get down to finding a job and somewhere to live.”
“You’ll stay in this flat till you do?”
“Well…”
“I’ll fix it with the porter. Please.” The tone of Rose’s voice was anxious, almost pleading. “Say you will. Just for a day or two. For the weekend, anyway. It would mean so much to me if you would.”
Flora was puzzled, but there was no obvious objection, nor reason to argue with such a pleasant invitation. “Well, all right. Till Monday. But only if you’re sure it’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right.” Rose’s wide smile, the image of Flora’s own, split her face. She came across the room to hug Flora in a great gesture of affection, only to revert almost at once to her usual disconcerting manner. “And now come and help me pack.”
“But it’s three o’clock in the morning!”
“That doesn’t matter. You can make some more coffee.”
“But…” Flora had been on the point of saying, “I’m exhausted,” but for some reason she didn’t. Rose was like that. She went so fast that you went too, caught up in the slipstream of her speed, whirled along behind her, without any clear idea of where you were headed.
* * *
Rose finally set out at eleven o’clock Friday morning on the first stage of her long journey to Spetsai. She left Flora standing on the pavement outside the block of flats.
“I’ll see you,” she said, hugging Flora goodbye. “Leave the key with the porter when you finally go.”
“Send me a postcard.”
“Of course. It’s been great. I’ll be in touch.”
“Have fun, Rose.”
Rose leapt into a waiting taxi, slammed the door, and leaned out of the open window. “Take care!” she called, and the taxi moved off with Rose still waving a mink-furred arm. Flora stood there waving until the taxi rounded the corner of the square and disappeared into Sloane Street.
So that was it. It was over. Slowly Flora turned and went back indoors, up in the lift, and into the empty flat. She felt alien. Without Rose, everything seemed very quiet.
She went into the sitting room and began, in a desultory fashion, to plump up flattened cushions, draw back curtains, and empty ashtrays. Her attention was soon diverted, however, by Harry Schuster’s bookshelves. Browsing, she forgot about housework and found that he read Hemingway and Robert Frost and Norman Mailer and Simenon (in French). There were albums of Aaron Copland in the stacks by the record player, and the Frederick Remington which hung over the fireplace bore witness to his pride in his own country and the best of its achievements.
Harry Schuster was taking shape. Flora decided that she would like him. But it was hard to feel so kindly toward a mother who had gaily abandoned you at birth and swanned off to a life of married ease, taking your twin sister with her.
From last night’s session with Rose, plus photographs, Flora had built up a picture of Pamela Schuster so real that it seemed as if she had actually met her: beautiful and worldly, smelling of Patou’s Joy, dressed by Dior, or slender as a boy in faded Levi’s; Pamela at St. Tropez, skiing at St. Moritz, lunching at La Grenouille in New York; dark eyes bright with amusement, dark hair cut short, her smile a flash of white. She had all the charm and assurance in the world—but love, tenderness? Flora was doubtful.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck noon with silvery strokes. The morning had gone. Flora pulled herself together, made a sandwich, drank a glass of milk, picked up her handbag, and left the flat.
Without enthusiasm, she set out to look for a job. She returned to the flat at the end of the afternoon having achieved nothing except a sort of furious annoyance at her own indecision and procrastination. She was worn out from walking and climbing stairs. She went into the kitchen to put on the kettle and make herself a cup of tea. This evening she would have a bath, watch television, and go to bed early. Rose had insisted she stay over the weekend. Perhaps by Monday she would feel more energetic and businesslike. Just as the kettle boiled, the front doorbell rang.
For some reason that was the last straw. Flora said, “Damn,” switched off the kettle, and went out of the kitchen and down the passage to the front door.
Passing a mirror she caught a glimpse of herself looking both tired and untidy, her face shining and the sleeves of her white shirt rolled carelessly back from her wrists. She looked as though she had been scrubbing a floor and didn’t care. She opened the door.
A man—tall, thin, quite young—was standing outside. He wore a smoothly cut brown herringbone suit, and his hair was a dark copper red, the color of an Irish setter. His face was fine drawn, with pale and freckled skin—the sort that would burn before it tanned. His eyes were light and clear, a sort of greenish gray. They stared down at Flora, as though waiting for her to make the first move. Finally Flora said, “Yes?”
He said “Hello, Rose.”
“I’m not Rose,” said Flora.
There was a short pause during which the young man’s expression scarcely altered. Then he said, “Sorry?” as if he had not heard her properly.
“I’m not Rose,” Flora repeated, raising her voice slightly, as if he were deaf, or stupid, or possibly both. “I’m Flora.”
“Who’s Flora?”
“Me,” said Flora unhelpfully, and then instantly regretted it. “I mean, I’m staying here for the weekend.”
“You have to be joking.”
“No, I’m not.”
“But you’re identical…” His voice trailed away, lost in total confusion.
“Yes, I know.”
He swallowed, and said in a voice that cracked slightly, “Twins?”
“Yes.”
He tried again. “Sisters?”
“Yes.”
“But Rose doesn’t have a sister.”
“No, she didn’t, but she does now. I mean, she has since yesterday evening.”
There was another long pause, and then the young man said, “Do you think you could explain?”
“Yes, of course. You see…”
“Do you think, before you start explaining, that I could come in?”
Flora hesitated, her thoughts racing. Harry Schuster’s flat, full of precious things; her responsibility; unknown young man, possibly with criminal intentions.… It was her turn to swallow the slight obstruction in her throat.
“I don’t know who you are.”
“I’m Antony Armstrong. I’m a friend of Rose’s. I’ve just flown down from Edinburgh.” But Flora still hesitated. With some justification, perhaps, the young man became impatient. “Look, ask Rose. If she isn’t there, go and ring her up. I’ll wait.”
“I can’t ring her up.”
“Why not?”
“She’s gone to Greece.”
“Greece?”
The incredulous horror in his voice and the way that the color drained from his face finally convinced Flora. No man, however evil his intentions, could feign such shock. She stood aside and said, “You’d better come in.”
To her relief he seemed instantly at home in the flat, dropping his overnight bag and the raincoat he carried onto the chair in the hall as though he had done so many times before. Reassured by that, Flora suggested that he might like a cup of tea. He accepted her offer in a bemused sort of way. They went into the kitchen, and Flora switched on the kettle again. She began to get cups and saucers out of the cupboard, all the time conscious of his unwinking stare as he watched her every movement.
“Do you want Indian or Chinese?” she asked him.
“Indian. Very strong.” He found himself a tall kitchen stool and lankily hitched himself up onto it. “Now come along,” he said, “tell.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Are you really Rose’s sister?”
“Yes. I really am.”
“But what happened?”
In as few words as possible Flora told him: the broken marriage of Ronald and Pamela Waring; the splitting up of t
he twin babies; and the two sisters, each growing up in total ignorance of the other’s existence until the meeting last night at Seppi’s.
“You mean, this didn’t happen till yesterday evening?”
“I told you that.”
“I can scarcely believe it.”
“We could scarcely believe it either, but it happened. Do you take milk and sugar?”
“Yes, both. So what happened then?”
“Well, we had dinner together, and then Rose invited me back here and we talked all night.”
“And then this morning she went to Greece?”
“Yes.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Well, you see, I only came up from Cornwall yesterday on the train. I’ve been away from London for a year, living down there with my father and my stepmother. And actually, I haven’t a job in London yet, nor a place to live. I meant to find something today but somehow I didn’t. Anyway, Rose asked me to stay here over the weekend. She said it wouldn’t matter. Nobody would mind.” She turned to hand Antony his cup and was taken off guard by the expression on his face. She added, as though he needed placating, “She made it all right with the porter.”
“Tell me, did she particularly ask you to stay here over the weekend?”
“Yes. Why? Shouldn’t she?”
He took the cup and saucer from her and began to stir it, still not taking his pale eyes from Flora’s face.
“Did she by any chance tell you that I was arriving?”
“She knew you were coming?”
“She didn’t mention a telegram I sent her?”
“No.” Flora, mystified, shook her head. “Nothing. She didn’t say anything.”
Antony Armstrong took a large mouthful of scalding tea, then laid down the cup and saucer, got off his stool, and went out of the room. A moment later he was back, a telegram in his hand.
“Where did you find that?” asked Flora.
“Where people invariably put telegrams and invitations and letters they mean to answer when they’ve got a moment to spare—behind the Rockingham sugar bowl at the end of the mantelpiece. Only in this flat, it happens to be a large, polished lump of alabaster.” He held out the telegram to Flora. “You’d better read it.”
Under Gemini Page 6
