“James, you're a quivering wreck. What is wrong with you?”
“Vincent, your father is here.”
I pause.
“You must be joking.”
I look inside the French windows. I can see the backs of The Intimates, huddled in a cautious semi-circle, their immobile bodies' suggesting gazes fixed on a focal point. I hear nervous laughter, and Francoise's face presses against the window, gauging my reaction.
“He'll know you're here now,” James says. “You have to go in, right now. Don't let him come back outside Vincent.”
“I'm not going in until you're okay.” I know it's an excuse. I know I'm the last person qualified to comfort him. But I'm desperate not to go inside. Not after that conversation with Carina, not yet. I want to preserve the feeling of it, but as ever he has arrived to deny what I might otherwise have savoured.
“I just need some fresh air Vincent, I'll be fine.”
Inside, I curse him for not needing me to stay. “Did he say something to you?”
He nods, and again begins to press his fist against his mouth. I have never seen him like this before; his body seems gripped by an escalating, almost hysterical reaction.
“It's a nervous tick. I get it when I'm nervous.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He said, ‘Still playing the disabled fool? How many fingers am I holding up?' and his stupid crony found it hilarious.”
“Anthony is here with him?”
“Yes. I can see, you know that, don't you? It's just shades of grey. All shades of grey.” He bows his head and shakes it, sadly at first, and then ferociously.
“James, take some deep breaths. He isn't worth getting this distraught about.”
“And so I said that he was holding up two fingers, because I could see that he was. ‘Not so blind after a couple of drinks then?' he said, and him and Anthony laughed. God, I despise that man.”
I put my arm around him, and the shaking starts to subside. “James, he's just a sad little bully. He'll never be half the man you are.”
He nods, and fishes for a handkerchief which he slowly pulls to his mouth. “You should go in now.” A shiver passes through my body. Nonetheless, I feel compelled towards the French windows.
Francoise is waving me inside from them. She looks eager, and I loathe her voyeuristic excitement. I uncoil my hand from James' shoulder and move towards her.
Inside my father is leaning against the dining table, gesticulating to his audience. In his hand is a tumbler that I can see has recently been drained. He looks more pointed and muscular than I remember him being. Standing next to him is Anthony, whose face is already unmasked with appreciation at everything my father says.
As I open the clasp of the door the guests stop moving and turn to face me. Gathered in a semi-circle around my father, he holds the assured pose of someone with everyone's attention. The guests fall into silence; some of them look up.
I notice Barbara and Georgina are not amongst them, but the rest of us are there. They look back at my father, gauging his reaction as I step calmly inside. The room still bears the evidence of dinner earlier, and for a few moments my eyes take in the empty wine bottles, the dirtied plates and the ruffled air of the room. All seem silent and poised, reverent even. Then all eyes turn to me.
“Can I get you anything to eat Sean?” Francoise asks, her gaze passing steadily over to him. He raises his head, his expression finding me but ignoring her.
“Have I disrupted this series of clandestine little chats you are conducting?” he asks.
“I was talking with James, father. He seems a little upset.”
“He isn't as frail as he pretends to be. I see your friends are still playing you like a fiddle then?”
“Oh Sean, be kind,” Francoise says. The tone of her voice comes as an unexpected balm. “Have some wine; let's not stand around like statues. Walter – some music please. This is a party, let's not forget.”
“It's a party alright,” I whisper. I make out Graham, standing close to my father, as if anticipating stepping between us. I try to make out his expression, but his eyes don't meet mine. For once his features are indecipherable, even to me.
“It's more like a group therapy session than a party,” Anthony says, turning to my father with a small laugh. When my father doesn't respond he throws port down his throat in one aggressive move. “Vincent, you look pale. Are your friends weighing you down?” He laughs at my father who smiles, as if trying to hide his amusement at this.
“Francoise tells me each of her beloved Intimates have an ice sculpture carved in their image,” my father finally says. “Georgina's is acting, and Graham's is mid-operation. But I struggled to find out what you were doing in yours.”
“Vincent's statue was the hardest to commission,” Francoise says, her voice wavering a little. I've never seen her nervous before, or weighed by a sense of expectation. “He's still a developing picture, your son.”
“He is rather old to still be developing,” he mutters. Graham reacts to this, as if smarting on my behalf. I know better. I know that I must keep my reaction hidden from him.
“I'm getting the sense that Vincent and his father need to be left alone for a few minutes,” Francoise declares. “Everyone, shall we go through to the drawing room?”
A few people look at me, before reluctantly starting to disperse. Graham, however, stays.
“To what does everyone owe this honour then?” I ask.
He looks at Anthony who nods as if allowing him to proceed. “You parted from me on bad terms Vincent.”
“We parted from one other on bad terms. You treated Elise abominably.”
“I didn't treat her at all,” he says, with a wan smile that he extends towards Anthony.
“I think that Vincent is wondering if you came here to apologise,” Graham says. His voice is defiant and shrill, and I feel very grateful for his boldness.
“Still hanging out with the queen then?” he replies, not looking at Graham.
Graham straightens up, and inhales slowly.
“Still having your little daydreams indulged by the spooks that you hang out with?” he continues.
Anthony laughs, unashamedly. “Spooks” he repeats. He looks at my father, and their eyes meet as they smile at one another.
Graham's face creases, as if suppressing something. Words rise up in my throat, to counter this insult to my friend, but my mouth just unhinges wordlessly. My father presses his advantage as I step back. There's now a note of triumph in his voice.
“You've spent too long prolonging these disagreements between us Vincent. If you're not prepared to apologise to me here then you will come home now so that we can sort this out man to man.”
“These people are my friends. They are not spooks,” I say slowly.
“Have you not outgrown them Vincent?” His face is red now, flushed with emotion. Graham looks at him.
“These damaged little creatures, soothing each others' petty little wounds. Do you not think you should probably sever ties with them and start to build yourself a career now?”
“We haven't discouraged him from doing anything,” Graham says.
“Tell that little fairy,” my father booms, his face turning to Anthony, “that either he leaves or I do. I am not prepared to suffer contributions from that fag.”
Anthony cocks his head, as if considering the vile comment reasonable. “Quite.”
“Pray, how have I prohibited you from anything other than laziness?” my father asks.
“You misinterpret anything I do that is not in line with your wishes as laziness. You have treated my efforts to take up writing with nothing more than disdain.” The words are out before I have considered them, and they feel horribly raw.
“You can't make a living as a writer Vincent. If Anthony here can't do it, then you certainly can't. You have to pick a profession, like a real man.”
“No,” I say, surprised at my assertiveness. “I can follo
w my own ambitions, and not those handed to me by you. If you think I lack the talent that is not my problem. If you came here to tell me yet again that I am wasting my life then you are wasting your time.”
“Your impertinence astounds me.” Setting his glass on the table and stepping forward. I instinctively step back. “I look at you, and I see that you are barely out of your swaddling clouts. An impertinent child, that is what you are; your head lost in a cloud of vague ambition. And yet you scold me, your loving father, who tries to guide you from your wilderness. Anthony, do you see what I have to put up with? From my only son?”
Anthony nods sagely.
“I am trying to save you from embarrassment, from humiliation. That is all; is that such a terrible cause for a father to take up?”
I pause to rally my words, aware of how articulate I now must be. Finally the words come.
“From now on, I am not going to let you stop me.” I speak quietly, but the words are clear and resonant. Graham raises his head, and for a moment I think I see some pride in my friend's eyes.
“This is ridiculous,” Anthony whispers, stroking his hair.
“You're right,” my father says. “What he just said was quite ridiculous.”
“You know I have it in me too, and it frightens you.” My voice is shaking now, but mercifully it's still distinct. “It suits you that I am the idiot son and you are the mighty father, so wrongfully ignored.”
“You can't write Vincent. You don't have the ability,” he hisses.
“I'll show you that I can,” I answer, my voice so faint that it almost cracks. The voice I continue with is one that comes from my very essence, the one that has been suppressed for many years. “I will show you that I have enough talent to be reckoned with. And then perhaps the two of us can make amends.”
The words hang in the air. I feel proud to have put them out there. I feel as though I have used Franz's advice, fed off my father's negativity and turned it into something powerful and real that could now alter my life for the better.
He looks up, but the usual scorn in his expression seems to be missing. “I am not going to stand around and have my support insulted in front of these strangers,” he proclaims, gesturing to Graham. “You are coming with me Vincent. Your mother would be astounded at your insolence, but there is still hope. You and I can make amends if you leave with me now. We are going home.”
I look at Graham, whose expression pleads at me.
“Vincent, get your coat. We are going,” my father says again.
I step towards him. Graham stands up straight, his face turning slowly to my father. “He is not going with you. He's staying here, with his friends.”
My father turns to look at him, with a frightening leer in his eyes. “Are you still talking to me?”
“Don't you ever speak to him like that again.”
My father looks quickly at me. “Are you coming?”
“No,” I answer, my voice hot and dry. “I'm staying.”
He stops for a moment, looks at me. His lips curl in rage, as if I have just overstepped a mark. Anthony folds his coat over his arm, considering me with a suddenly different expression.
“You are not leaving yet Sean,” a voice says, and as Anthony steps back I see Barbara and Georgina standing in the doorway.
“Barbara?”
“Can I intrude upon this reunion for a moment?”
Her makeup looks a little smeared, and her hair more tousled than I remember it being. Georgina has a calm expression on her face, and she doesn't look at me as the two of them enter the room, the door closing quietly behind them.
“This is a private discussion,” Anthony says.
“This is between me and my son Barbara. Perhaps you should just toddle away.”
“No.” Barbara's voice is pronounced and determined; completely different from its usual coquettish lilt. “I think there is something that Vincent and Georgina need to know. And this time you are not going to stop me from saying it.”
“Barbara, do not make a spectacle of yourself,” he counters.
I can't bear to look up at my father. I suddenly can't bear to look up at all.
“I am going to speak, Sean, and the two of you are going to listen.” Her voice is shaking, so much that it is barely perceptible. My father looks suddenly very uncomfortable. He leans back.
“Georgina knows,” Barbara says, her face tilted in his direction. As I look up I can just about make out her strained face leaning into his bowed head, as if she is about to weep. “And if Francoise has been as loose with her tongue as I suspect she has, Vincent knows too. And this time – ” her voice falters as she speaks, and my father raises a finger to his lips. “This time,” she continues, raising a finger back, “you can't threaten me with anything.”
The five of us stand for a moment, our expressions fixed to the floor. And then all eyes fall to my father.
When Barbara plays out her story she does so carefully and emotionally. It echoes Francoise's earlier confession almost to the letter. As it unfurls I see a gradual change in my father that surprises me. He stands mute, as if it is requiring great endurance merely to listen to her. But gradually her words start to unnerve him. The sheen on his forehead starts to glisten, and he begins to lean against the dining table as if requiring its support just to stay upright. By the time Barbara has finished, his pose has changed completely. He looks distant, as if her words have somehow winded him, but determined to not reveal that. We have all turned towards him now, and I sense that in doing so, each of us are predicting his impending response. But a response doesn't come. There is just an enormous, enveloping silence, and the slow rasp of Anthony's breath as he inhales and exhales inches from my father.
Georgina and I exchange shocked, placatory glances. My father looks sideways at Barbara but she remains defiant, her hands clasped to her hips.
As my father draws a deep breath his eyes confer with Anthony. But on this occasion even Anthony does not have a stinging remark to draw from his repertoire. He stares apologetically at my father, who finally looks up and nods at their coats, thrown over the dinner table. Reluctantly the two men move over to them. Every movement is amplified as my father coils the coat around his arm, the fabric bristling in my ears as it crumples. Anthony watches over him, but my father does not look up; he now seems unable to look anyone in the eye. We watch as the two of them gather their coats, turning to leave with a distinct lack of ceremony. He doesn't glance at me as the two of them exit the room, leaving behind a gaping silence that I can't imagine fading.
From the patio Francoise looks through the French windows as she watches her two guests leave. But clearly she has no intention of going after them. Her pose is one of gentle satisfaction, and I feel a sudden warmth towards her. Graham, Georgina, Barbara and I move silently outside.
“He was not expecting anyone to stand up to him,” Francoise says, with a small note of contentment in her voice.
“I'll be in touch with him soon,” I reply. “To let him know how I'm getting on. I've still not given up hope that one day the two of us will see eye to eye.”
“Very wise,” she says. “You're right to think that may yet be a possibility. But most of all I am glad that Barbara got to say her piece.”
Barbara smiles at her.
“I have no idea why you thought it would be a good idea to invite my father here tonight. But now that I've confronted him, I feel grateful that I had the chance to do so. I thought I probably never would – and that if I did, I would waste the opportunity.”
“You underestimated yourself,” Francoise says, curling her arm through mine. We all look to one another for comfort, now that the situation has dispersed. I want to tell Barbara that I admire her for having the courage to face up to a man so capable of viciousness. But it seems like she's in a state of reverie, as if she is replaying the last few minutes in her mind and savouring her sense of triumph. I deem it too soon to speak to her, and that Francoise feels the same. Ba
rbara smiles at Francoise, and as she does a ripple of relief passes over us. Francoise smiles back, perhaps satisfied that her manipulations have been vindicated. “Now come on,” she says, motioning with her arms. “This is a party.”
Franz, Carina and Elise are waiting by the fountains as we move near to them. “I sense that Sean and Anthony have left the grounds,” Franz announces, holding aloft a bottle of red wine. We laugh. “Our hostess has achieved her mysterious aims, and it now looks as if there will be no acts of murder tonight.”
“How anyone could ever doubt me is quite beyond my comprehension,” Francoise replies.
Elise loops her arm through mine, looking relieved to see me. “I feel this evening as if I have met your family for the first time.”
“I'm sorry I've spent so much of the evening away from you,” I answer. “It's just been so long since we've all been together.”
“You'll pay me back for it yet. Look, Francoise gave me a brooch. Isn't it beautiful?” She shows me the compact, glistening jewel clasped to the hem of her gown. It looks to me like a genuine antique diamond, the light from the French windows illuminating it as she turns to me.
“Elise, I think that is real,” I whisper, looking over to Francoise.
“I'm very sure that it's real,” she replies, laying her head on my shoulder. “Perhaps Francoise is too drunk to realise, but I'm too sober to tell her.”
I look over at Francoise, as she offers champagne to her suddenly relieved guests. Something tells me that she knows very well that the diamond is real.
Love's A House Is Not A Motel chimes from speakers positioned around the fountains. The silver flumes look poised, resolved against the black sky. Francoise is laughing gleefully as she dances, pouring out champagne for James.
Someone turns the music up and at once all of the bodies seem to throw off their shrouds. Colour passes into the exposed flesh of the women in their stylish dresses, as Graham and James hoist their arms into the air and spill champagne over one another.
The Intimates Page 12
