Rosie Thomas 4-Book Collection

by Rosie Thomas

  ‘Not at all, Annunziata, I’ve done very well,’ she heard him say, enunciating as if he was delivering the opening lines of Twelfth Night. His voice was as familiar as his face, coming from his chest and sounding as if it emerged through honey and smoke.

  Caspar Jensen carried his champagne glass over to the chair where Linda sat. He stroked her hair, then stepped back again as if following a director’s blocking.

  ‘How are you, baby? Being good?’

  Harriet understood, then. She had been walking in the garden with Linda Jensen. Linda was Caspar’s youngest child and only daughter. She had been conceived by Clare Mellen, an actress of luminous beauty and reputedly limited intelligence, with whom Caspar had been co-starring just as his twenty-year-old first marriage had been breaking up. Caspar and Clare had later married, and the marriage had survived a surprising nine years. It had come to an end in the last twelve months.

  There were two sons by the first marriage, the older of whom was beginning to make a name for himself as a film actor.

  Understanding who the pale, sulky child was, Harriet was no longer surprised that she had got away with putting her feet on Annunziata’s cushions.

  Tom Sachs was still talking, and Harriet had been making the appropriate responses. Now they exchanged the briefest of glances, a glance that said, We’ve seen who’s here, and we’re impressed, but we’re going to act as if we run into such people every day. The civilised conversation resettled into an even hum around them once again.

  Harriet recovered from an urge to laugh, and focussed on the technicalities of successful media buying. Caspar Jensen had been swallowed up into a group in the middle of the room, and Linda sat on in her chair, her gaze directed out of the window.

  Annunziata, with Martin to help her now, orchestrated her party with high skill. The groups of guests were combined and rearranged, Harriet amongst them. She came close to Caspar, but never reached the point of being introduced to him. Observing him, she noticed that he was smaller and stockier than he appeared on screen, that he held himself straight and moved with grace, and that he possessed physical magnetism that seemed natural rather than bred from his celebrity. She found that she wanted to look at him, even to move closer, to be within touching distance.

  Harriet had been talking to, or rather listening to, one of the slender women who had a more golden tan than the others. She had been extolling the joys of a Sydney summer against an English winter. ‘A terrible journey, but once you’ve recovered from that it’s paradise. Truly it is.’

  ‘I’m sure it must be,’ Harriet agreed politely.

  The woman suddenly broke off and moved closer. ‘He is rather special, isn’t he? I’ve met quite a lot of stars, of course, through Dick’s business, but there’s no-one quite like Caspar.’

  ‘Do you know him well?’

  ‘I don’t know him, actually, even though he has this house in the village. Not that he spends a lot of time here. He’s quite a recluse, I believe.’

  So tactfully that the mechanics were unnoticeable, Annunziata had been dispersing some of her guests and marshalling others. Harriet realised that several couples were leaving, and that those who remained were being corralled ready for a move elsewhere. Lunch must be ready for the chosen in another room. She found Robin at her side.

  ‘Glamorous company,’ she murmured, watching Annunziata escorting Caspar with her fingertips lightly at his elbow.

  Robin’s eyebrows made amused peaks. ‘Are you going to fall for him, like everyone else?’

  Harriet laughed. ‘Everyone? I shouldn’t think so. Did you know he was coming?’

  ‘Certainly not. If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have risked you within fifty miles of him. Shall we have some lunch?’

  Harriet followed Robin obediently.

  The dining room was a long room on the opposite side of the hallway. French windows framed with more heavy curtains looked out on the barren gardens, on which darkness already seemed to be falling. There was a big oval table laid for twelve, with miniature battalions of knives and forks and thickets of crystal glasses. Harriet saw that there were place cards at each setting, and sighed inwardly.

  ‘That’s her,’ Linda Jensen said, pointing. ‘That lady.’

  Linda was holding her father’s hand. They had come into the dining room a little after everyone else, with Martin. Linda was pointing at Harriet.

  Caspar came straight across the room, with his daughter beside him. He held out his hand, smiling, and Harriet saw the colour of his eyes. Blue, but not the intense on-screen blue that she expected. The whites were bloodshot.

  ‘I’m Caspar Jensen.’

  Harriet shook his hand. ‘I know. I’m Harriet Peacock.’

  ‘Linda says you’re great.’ There was an American intonation in great, incongruous with the magnificent Shakespearean voice.

  ‘We went for a walk in the garden. I enjoyed it too.’

  Caspar put his arm around her shoulders, hugging her like a bear. ‘Well, you’re a good girl. Booze and talk are fun for us, but they’re no entertainment for kids. Hey, look, we’re holding everyone up. Here, come and sit down by me. I want to find out what my daughter’s fallen for.’

  He pulled out a dining chair for her, and sat down alongside. Quick as an eel, Linda wriggled into the place at Harriet’s other side. Out of the corner of her eye, Harriet saw Annunziata’s expression. A second later Annunziata had made a complete circuit of the table and scooped up all the place cards.

  ‘Let’s be quite informal,’ she called. ‘Sit anywhere you like, just so long as husbands and wives are apart.’

  After another second she was directing the seating from behind the chair next to Caspar. When everyone else had found a place she managed to look gracefully surprised by the position that had fallen to her. Martin and Robin faced one another from opposite ends of the table.

  The butler and the housekeeper moved behind the chairs, placing a plate in front of each guest. Harriet glanced down at her portion. There was an artfully curled prawn, a fan of coriander leaves, and some small hummocks and pools of mousse and sauce. The first of her glasses was simultaneously filled with pale gold wine.

  Beside her Linda hissed, ‘I can’t eat stuff like this. I like french fries.’

  In as stern a whisper as she could muster Harriet hissed back, ‘How old are you, Linda?’

  ‘Nearly eleven.’

  ‘You’re old enough to know that you can eat almost anything, if you really must. Anyway, this is probably delicious. I should think you can have french fries when you get home.’

  Linda sighed and prodded the hummocks with a spoon. ‘He doesn’t like this kind of food either. He likes steak and kidney pies.’

  ‘But he’ll eat this.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Linda said darkly.

  Caspar had been talking to his hostess. Now, with an exaggerated movement that rocked his chair, he swung round to Harriet. He hooked one arm over the back of his chair, his free hand lifted the glass of gold wine to his mouth and then replaced it, empty.

  ‘Now. Tell me everything.’

  Harriet noticed something that she had overlooked before, probably because he contained it so skilfully. Caspar Jensen was three-quarters drunk.

  ‘Everything? I think that might be a rather boring catalogue.’

  His laughter warmed Harriet. It was big, rich and noisy, bigger than the artfully decorated room with its silver and porcelain, and much noisier than the surrounding conversations. Harriet felt rather than heard the talk petering out, and the pairs of eyes turning to Caspar.

  ‘Let us not bore one another, at any price.’ His hand descended on hers, perfectly familiar. Harriet sat still, not wanting him to feel that he must move it. Caspar examined her face. The effort of focussing made lines deepen between his eyebrows. ‘Is it the new big sin, do you think? Deadlier than the seven? Wha’d’y’all think?’ He lifted his hand from Harriet’s and made a beckoning gesture to draw the rest
of the table into the talk. He nearly swept his empty glass over, but he caught it in time and held it up for the butler to refill. Harriet picked up her knife and fork and bent her head over her plate.

  ‘Well? Sin or not?’

  ‘Of course it isn’t sinful to be a bore,’ ventured a woman from beside Martin. ‘How could it be?’

  Caspar leant towards her, prodding his fork in her direction. ‘How could it not be? I have known some Olympic-class bores. Men who could divert a lava stream with a single speech. Women, dear God, women who could extinguish the sun in the sky. The obsessive interest in the self, that is the sin. It stifles all else, all joy, dams all the streams. Bores are the true villains in our world. Give me some decent sloth, or gluttony. Lust, best of all.’

  Harriet wished that she could see Annunziata, but her profile was hidden behind Caspar’s bulk. The room seemed unnaturally silent when his booming voice stopped.

  ‘I think I would also include it in the list of sins,’ Martin said mildly. ‘But it would be rather low in the ranking.’

  ‘What about stupidity?’ Tom Sachs drawled.

  ‘Stupidity is an affliction, not a sin.’ It was the woman who had defended bores.

  ‘Bores are not always stupid. Nor are stupid people invariably boring. But it is my experience that the two conditions are closely associated. Triumphantly. Magnificently.’

  Harriet judged that Caspar had now tipped over the edge into being completely drunk. She knew that she should say something quiet to him, aiming to confine his attention to herself and so to limit the potential damage to Annunziata’s party. For her own part, she knew that whatever Caspar said or did while he was drunk wouldn’t affect the liking that she already felt for him. She sensed that here was someone large, to whom ordinary rules could not apply because they would always be broken, and who possessed as much capacity to charm as to disrupt. She felt awkward, and angry with herself, because she didn’t know what to do or say to divert his course.

  Harriet glanced round the table once more. Martin was smiling, apparently unruffled. Robin was smiling too, but there was annoyance in his dark eyes. Robin didn’t like the unexpected or the uncontrolled, Harriet knew that. Linda had made a praiseworthy attempt to eat her food. Now she was crumbling bread and marshalling the fragments into little heaps beside her plate.

  However, Harriet had underestimated Caspar’s self-control, and his ability to dominate a room. When he spoke again, he seemed to have shrugged off the effects of the drink.

  ‘Talking of bores, as it seems we must—’ he broke off, and the uncertain eyes studied Harriet again. ‘You will tell me, darling, if I’m committing the sin myself, won’t you?’ And then, to the company in general once more, ‘I’ll tell you about the time I was in Tokyo, with John, filming Gemini Too.’

  The anecdote, about a famous film director, was a funny one, made funnier by Caspar’s timing. There was a burst of relieved laughter. He told two more stories while everyone else around the table ate lemony soup with tiny vegetable florets drifting in it.

  The guests relaxed, and separate conversations began again.

  Harriet saw Robin looking at her. His expression didn’t change, but she felt that she could see through his eyes into his head. She clearly saw that he loved her, and that he was proud, and possessive of her. Instead of happiness the realisation gave her a moment of panic, which was followed by guilt. She smiled across the table at him, a smile with her mouth which she knew was perfidious.

  The servants had taken away the soup bowls. Caspar had tasted only a mouthful of his. The main course was being served from a pair of huge silver-domed dishes that had been placed on the sideboard. Listening to Caspar talking, Harriet didn’t immediately look at what had been placed in front of her.

  It was Linda’s gasp of shock and disgust that alerted her.

  On each plate, resting on perfect ovals of gravy-enriched toast, lay a pair of whole, tiny birds. Their eyes were closed by tiny, opaque lids and their long, straight beaks were tucked against their breasts in a parody of sleep.

  ‘What are they?’ Linda asked in horror.

  ‘I’m not sure. Snipe, or woodcock. Something like that.’

  ‘Poor little things,’ Linda whispered. ‘They should be flying over the woods. They look so dead.’ Her face was white, and her eyes were red. Harriet knew that she was on the point of tears. Harriet felt coldly angry with Annunziata for serving such a dish to a child. The tiny, filmed, unaccusing eyes of the birds made her feel sick, and so how much worse must it be for Linda? She felt profound dislike for the soft, tasteful, ostentatious display of this house, and for Robin’s mother who was responsible for it. She knew that she would not come here again.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Harriet told Linda.

  She lifted her hand to summon the butler. She murmured to him, ‘Would you take Linda’s plate away, please? She will just have some vegetables.’

  The exchange was swiftly and discreetly made. If anyone noticed what had happened, no one made any comment. Linda’s colour slowly came back, and she picked at her tiny sprouts and carrots and thumbnail-sized parsnips.

  Harriet tasted the flesh of one of her birds. It was delicious, of course.

  The course lasted interminably. A fine burgundy was served, provoking much discussion amongst the men. Caspar contributed little to it, but he drank his share.

  At last the plates with their minute, dismembered carcases were removed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Linda whispered miserably to Harriet.

  ‘You’ll enjoy the puddings,’ Harriet tried to comfort her. ‘And then it will be all over.’

  She had thought that Caspar was engrossed in his own performance, and in any case too far gone to have been aware of what was happening on Harriet’s other side. She was startled when he turned his attention full on her. ‘You did right,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘You did just right. I’m grateful.’

  But when she tried to suggest that Linda had had almost enough, and might be glad to be taken home soon, the blue stare turned glassy. She had the impression that Caspar had forgotten who she was, if indeed he had ever known it. He had thanked her, in obedience to some dim formula that persisted from sober hours, and immediately blotted it out. She recognised just how drunk he was, and had to admire his ability to stay at the table, still talking.

  Linda had brightened up a little. The puddings were as elaborate as the rest of the meal, but one of them was chocolatey enough to interest her. She dug enthusiastically into her portion, only pausing to ask Harriet if she thought there might be second helpings. It was totally dark outside. The braided tie-backs that kept the curtains looped up had been unfastened, and the heavy folds had dropped across the windows. Candles had been lit in silver holders, creating instant night out of the winter afternoon. The meal seemed to have been going on for hours. More wine was being served, viscous and deep straw-golden this time, in tiny thimble glasses. Probably Chateau d’Yquem, Harriet thought sourly.

  The crisis came, as in retrospect she knew it had to come, very quickly. The company had been talking about money. The topic had swelled from a specific debate about some aspect of venture capitalism to a more general discussion of monetarism and from there, lubricated by the straw-gold wine, to the morality of wealth. Harriet listened, fascinated. To sit amongst these people and hear them talk about money was like sitting amid ermine and strawberry leaves for a celebration of the rights of aristocracy.

  ‘It’s money that makes the world go round,’ one woman said. She had been resting her chin on one hand, but it slipped and she jerked herself upright. Harriet would have excused her fatuity on the grounds of too much wine, but she heard Caspar gasp beside her. It was as if patience, or diplomacy, or self-control had finally, and sharply, deserted him. He levered himself to his feet, resting with his thumbs on the tablecloth.

  ‘To answer your cliché with another, money is the root of every evil in this world. I’ve made more bloody money than any of you, pisse
d most of it away instead of investing and buying and selling and fucking counting it, which was at least amusing while it lasted, but I can tell you now, with no charge, that I have seen what it does. I’ve seen the rot and the rubbish. I haven’t got any money now, thank Christ. Piss it away, that’s my advice to you for yours.’ He made a grand gesture, half a flourishing bow. ‘Money stinks. Can’t you smell it?’

  There was an appalled, ominous silence. Linda sat motionless, holding her chocolate spoon. She gave no sign of having heard anything, except that her ears burned dull crimson. Martin was already on his feet, and Robin stood up too. Apparently intending to leave the table before they reached him, Caspar pushed his chair back. It would have fallen if Annunziata had not caught it. He lurched, caught at the table to steady himself, and found the rim of Harriet’s pudding plate instead. The plate and its contents tipped into her lap.

  Caspar looked down. With the unpredictable, exaggerated politeness of the very drunk he said, ‘I beg your pardon. I do most sincerely beg your pardon.’

  Martin took him by the arm. Quite kindly, he said, ‘Come on, old boy. I think that’s enough.’ Robin stationed himself on the opposite side. Caspar let them steer him away. When they reached the door he turned to look over his shoulder at the silent room.

  ‘The condemned man was led from the courtroom,’ he intoned.

  Harriet put the plate back on the table. The mess in her lap looked disgusting, as if she had vomited over herself. Beside her, Linda stared down at her hands, folded in her own lap.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Harriet mumbled.

  The women crowded around her. There were low murmurs of dismay and sympathy. The spilled food was mopped up, Harriet was spirited briskly upstairs to Annunziata’s bedroom. There was a four-poster bed and carpets the colour of full-cream milk, and silver-framed photographs of Robin at various ages that Harriet would have liked to peer more closely at. Annunziata laid out some of her own clothes for Harriet to change into, the housekeeper bore away her soiled ones.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Annunziata said. ‘Who could have known that he would behave like that?’