Madeleine stopped dead, as though she might have seen her own ghost. She forced herself to speak. ‘Tom – what are you doing here?’
Tom was inclined to ask her the same question, but his voice had for the moment deserted him. In her make-up and low-cut dress she was briefly a stranger to him, and it took a few muddled seconds before he linked her appearance with Johns. Johns, the wretch he had lately been feeling sorry for. It was inconceivable that he was – that she was –
Roddy had taken upon himself the role of host, and was playing it with undisguised glee. ‘Maddy, this is Mr Johns, the gentleman I was telling you about. And this is – oh.’ He paused theatrically, between Madeleine and Tom. ‘I believe you two already know each other.’
Tom’s stare held in it both an appeal and a horrified dawning that Madeleine could hardly bear to meet. Johns, blind to the unfolding calamity, had stood up to greet his escort for the night – and found himself ignored. Madeleine, flushed and sick with despair, glared at Roddy. He had got his revenge. But how did he know about her and Tom? Her instinct was to slap his face; instead she turned on her heel. Roddy was quick to interpose himself.
‘Now, Maddy. Mr Johns here has come all the way down from Stanmore, just for the pleasure of your company. Wouldn’t be polite to let him go without a good time, would it?’
‘He can take his good time and stick it,’ she hissed, trying to sidestep him, but again Roddy blocked her exit.
‘Why are you cutting up rough?’ he asked her. He now held her by the wrist as she struggled to get past. Tom, roused at last from his stupor of disbelief, stepped forward to unhand Madeleine. This merely gave Roddy his next cue.
‘Oi, what’s this?’ He turned a puzzled look on Tom. ‘I’m trying to have a discussion with an employee. D’you mind?’
As Tom pushed him away, Madeleine broke free and made for the stairs. Roddy reared back, palms aloft in a gesture of feigned innocence. Johns had belatedly decided to join the fray, and raised his voice at Tom.
‘What’s the to-do about?’
Tom ignored him. He took out the packet of cash whose delivery he now realised was part of a vindictive scheme. He was quite particular that you should deliver it, Jimmy had said. With a contemptuous glare he tossed it to Roddy, who caught it against his chest. ‘I’d better count it,’ he smirked, but Tom wasn’t going to wait. He clattered down the stairs in time to catch Madeleine scrabbling with the door chain.
‘Wait,’ he said, staying her hand. For a long moment she kept her back to him. He could see her shoulders shaking. When she turned to face him tears and mascara had smudged her eyes.
‘Well? What do you want to say to me?’ There was defiance beneath the misery in her voice.
Tom was still too stunned to have prepared anything. He gazed at her, then shook his head, embarrassed. ‘I – I don’t know what to say.’ It was the truth, but the truth can sound inadequate, too.
Madeleine stared back at him. ‘Goodbye, then.’ She opened the door and slipped out. He stood in the hallway, irresolute; then he thought of something he had to tell her, and hurried out into the night. It was cold, damp and cheerless. She was nearly at the end of the mews, and he called after her. She didn’t stop. By the time he caught up she was halfway down Berwick Street, her long coat swinging furiously behind her.
‘Madeleine, stop. Please.’ He was catching his breath, and she came to a halt. The light from a nearby cafe spilled on the pavement in front of them. ‘Look, you know we were supposed to go to the pictures – on Monday? I’m sorry but I’ve stupidly made another arrangement.’
She looked at him narrowly, not quite believing her ears. ‘Is that it? Is that the way you drop someone you’re ashamed of?’
Tom recoiled in surprise at her bitterness. ‘I’m not trying to drop you.’
‘Oh, I see. So you know a lot of other tarts, then . . .’
He flinched at that, then said quietly, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Something was goading her to drive him off. She didn’t know what it was; perhaps she couldn’t bear to hear him pity her. Her voice was suddenly calm. ‘I just wanted to have one person, one friend, who took me for what I am. D’you understand? Who didn’t look at me like – like you’re doing now.’
At a loss to tell whether her observation was just, Tom fell silent. Madeleine, brushing away a tear, seemed to nod to herself, as if coming to a private conclusion. She began to walk away, and this time he didn’t stop her.
Stephen had been keeping a low profile since the papers had got hold of the story about his “association” with the British People’s Brigade. While Gerald Carmody’s scheme to raise BPB funds under the guise of a theatre charity was now known for a fraud, Stephen’s lawyer was still trying to prove his client’s innocence in the matter of his alleged financial contribution. All the gossip columnists wanted to know was how one of London’s most renowned society portraitists had fallen under the spell of a Fascist splinter group. More fuel was heaped on the bonfire of his reputation when it emerged that he had undertaken a commission to paint Lady Trevelyan, a prominent friend of Mosley and a frequent hostess to Ribbentrop.
Whenever Stephen saw the photograph of himself and Carmody, or the one of him at a party talking to Lady Trevelyan, he was struck by how shifty he looked. It occurred to him that a stranger chancing on his face in one of these photographs might reasonably assume he was guilty on all charges. At breakfast the day after her defection from school, Freya had looked up from a newspaper she had been studying and said, ‘This one doesn’t look like you.’ Stephen peered over her shoulder at another photograph of him, bleary and blurred, on a night out.
‘Good God, where did they find that? It must be years old.’
Freya stared more closely at it. ‘Are you sure it is you?’
He pointed at the caption. ‘It’s got my name under it. They must be pretty confident. Don’t let your egg go cold.’
Ignoring the egg, she began buttering some toast. ‘So are you famous now?’
He gave a half-laugh. ‘Having your photograph in the Mail isn’t anything to do with being famous.’
He poured himself more coffee. They’d been getting along well since her unscheduled arrival the day before, though he wondered what she had thought of Nina making up a trio with them at the Corner House. Freya, always watchful, would probably know that there was nothing innocent about an attractive woman showing up unannounced in the middle of the afternoon. He had later negotiated a sort of deal with her: he would not report her absconding from school to her mother, and, by unspoken implication, she would not mention Nina’s accompanying them to lunch. Freya would return to Tipton the next day, and Stephen would contrive to hush up the incident with her headmaster. He had also promised to reopen the discussion of her unhappy schooling once Cora was back in London. ‘Don’t just agree with her about everything,’ Freya had said warningly. Stephen was amused – and chastened.
‘I’m going to be out most of the day,’ he informed her a little while later. ‘Will you be all right here?’
Freya nodded, then narrowed her eyes. ‘Is Mrs Ronson coming in?’
She had realised the snag before Stephen. ‘She might be. If so, tell her you’re not well. I’ll sort it out with her later. Have you got anything to read?’
She shook her head. ‘I finished Barchester.’
‘Right.’ He supposed it was expecting too much of Tipton to supply her with further material. He went up to the study to collect his things, then went back to the kitchen to kiss her goodbye.
‘Here,’ he said, dropping his pocket Oxford classic of Jane Eyre onto the table in front of her. ‘She didn’t much like her school either.’
Parking his car, Stephen crossed into Dover Street and entered the Nines. He hadn’t shown his face in the club for a while, uncertain of his standing among the members since the Carmody affair. He met nobody he knew on his way up to the dining room. Taking down the dust sheet he found the mural gazing p
atiently back at him, patches here and there still awaiting his attention. He had neglected it these last few weeks. In the hiatus the project had lost a little momentum, and he felt a keen obligation to get it finished. For the next couple of hours he applied himself, finessing this section and that, eventually becoming so absorbed in it that he didn’t even hear the door open.
A discreet cough alerted him to the incomer. Julius Anstruther, the club secretary, was a tall, episcopal figure with a great swatch of white hair that drooped across his brow like a cap. He murmured Stephen’s name in greeting before he closed the door behind him, and shimmered over to examine the wall painting.
His perusal of it seemed deeply considered, and Stephen felt curious to hear his verdict. ‘It’s a marvellous piece of work, really,’ he said eventually. His voice was so clipped as to sound nearly strangulated. He nodded at the blanks that still required painting. ‘Three more to go . . .’
‘That’s right. I should be done within the next two weeks.’
Anstruther nodded again, this time a more ambiguous movement that seemed to withhold complete accord. Stephen knew that the secretary had been one of the earliest supporters of the mural, so he had no fear of being relieved of the job. The silence in the room had lengthened, however, and he turned about so as to give Anstruther a view of his back.
The voice came again, slower this time. ‘Next two weeks,’ he repeated, musing on this forecast. ‘There’s something we need to discuss beforehand. Something rather disagreeable, I’m afraid.’
‘I see,’ said Stephen, still looking at the wall.
‘Would you – care to sit down while we do?’
‘I’d rather not,’ said Stephen, facing him nonetheless.
‘Very well. It will not surprise you to hear the club has been concerned about’ – he allowed himself a wince of distaste – ‘the recent publicity surrounding your . . . affiliations. We value our good name, and it behoves us to keep a vigilant watch on anything that might jeopardise it. Ordinarily, political donations –’
‘Sir, if I may briefly interrupt? For the record, I have not donated money to a political party in my life – ever. Now, let us speak honestly. I know the committee has met to consider my membership. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me its decision.’
Anstruther, who evidently preferred the English manner of circumlocution, seemed taken aback for a moment by this forthrightness. He squinted at Stephen from under his brow, and after a pause continued. ‘Let me say it was not unanimous. Doubts were raised as to your culpability in the matter. But – I regret to say – the majority vote was against. I’m obliged to ask you for a letter of resignation.’
Stephen nodded, gazing off into the distance, then looked directly at the secretary. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ He began to douse his brushes in white spirit.
Behind him Anstruther coughed again, and said, ‘Wyley, one moment. The members are not yet privy to this information. I myself argued for postponing the announcement so as to enable your work here to be completed. It would be . . .’
‘A stay of execution,’ Stephen supplied.
Anstruther tipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘As it were.’
Stephen took another long look at the mural, recalling the club’s importunate plea to take the job back in September. He had only agreed to do it as a favour to Ludo. Quite ironic, he thought, to be handed his papers like this, dismissed from something he’d never really wanted in the first place. Feeling a weariness seep through his shoulders he said, ‘Don’t delay it on my account. Now that I’ve heard the sentence I’d rather not wait in the dock.’
Ten minutes later he had boxed up a few personal things and was heading out across the hall when he heard his name called. He looked up to see a man wearing an immaculate double-breasted suit in a light grey herringbone. It was Everett Druce, the financier he had met through Ludo. He offered his hand and said pleasantly, ‘I’ve been trying to make some time to see you. For the mural, I mean – I hope I’ve not been holding you up.’ His voice carried a reedy resonance in it, like an oboe.
‘No, not at all,’ said Stephen with a rueful half-laugh. ‘But I’m afraid you’re too late. As of today I’m no longer a member here.’
Druce frowned in puzzlement. ‘Surely not?’
‘The committee fears I’m a liability to the club’s good name. You may have read stories in the papers . . .’
‘Of course. But I didn’t imagine they were true.’
‘The club chooses to believe otherwise, so – I’m gone,’ said Stephen, looking about the place. Druce’s expression had turned thoughtful.
‘That’s too bad. But may I assume you would now be free to take on more private commissions?’
‘I suppose so,’ Stephen conceded.
‘Well, then. The only reason I agreed to sit for the mural was the opportunity of being painted by you. What say you to doing the portrait anyway – as a favour to me?’
Stephen was briefly lost for words. After so much haemorrhaging here was unexpected succour to the wound. ‘I really don’t . . .’
Druce misread his hesitation. ‘I’d pay whatever your fee is, of course.’
‘I’d be very pleased to,’ he said, touched by this stranger’s show of support. Druce returned his smile, and handed him a card inscribed with his home address.
‘As you see, I don’t live very far from here. You can have a look round the house at the same time – I keep a small collection. Say, next week?’
Stephen nodded, and they shook hands on it. Then he heard Druce being hailed by another member, and he exited the Nines for the last time.
III
The Distinguished Thing
17
THE BENTLEY BUCKED and hopped on its way down Charlotte Street. Tom had still not got the measure of the machine, and his passenger wasn’t slow to advise or to chide. Dressed in an ochre-and-green tweed suit, Jimmy had spread a car blanket over his knees to ward off the November chill. They were exchanging thoughts on the play they had seen the previous night.
‘How about that young Adamson?’ he mused, referring to the pretty but gormless star of the evening. ‘The accent was a put-on, surely?’
‘He’s a twit. Everything about him is affected, right down to the way he coughs.’
Jimmy laughed. ‘Yes, even his lungs are affected!’
He took out his notebook and jotted the line down. He could use that in his review. The car made another inelegant judder as they pulled up outside L’Etoile. Jimmy scratched his head, and felt a parody coming on.
‘The car he sat in / Like a refurbished throne, / Bumped on the pavement; the chassis was beat an’ old, / Rubber the tyres, and so enfumed that / The windows were dirt-thick with ’em . . . That’s as far as I’ve got.’
‘“Enfumed”?’
‘Poetic licence, dear,’ Jimmy said, preening himself in the rear-view mirror before casting the blanket off his lap. ‘Are you going to pop in?’
Tom shook his head. ‘Work to do. I suppose you’ll want collecting.’
‘The birthday boy will be sorry not to see you. Hmm. Say half past three?’
Jimmy climbed out and with a double tap of his cane against the car watched Tom drive off. He had sensed Tom’s low mood all morning, and wondered if it might have to do with Miss Farewell. But something warned him off the subject. On entering the narrow front room of L’Etoile he saw László amiably engaged in discussion with a waiter, who looked at a loss, as waiters tended to be when buttonholed for their opinion of Rosenkavalier or Siegfried’s Funeral March. László behaved to all with the same high-minded but even-handed courtesy, and didn’t appear to notice the odd looks he got in return.
‘My good man,’ said Jimmy to the waiter, ‘I did telephone to reserve the corner banquette.’ He indicated with a nod that the table was occupied, and the waiter hurried off with a promise to look into it. He turned his beam on László. ‘My dear fellow. The happiest of happy birthdays to you!’
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br /> László’s face creased into his most endearing jack-o’-lantern smile. ‘James! I have taken the liberty of starting upon this intoxicating beverage.’ He indicated his huge Martini glass, inside which a plump green olive was lolling.
‘Do you drink from it, or merely swim in there?’ asked Jimmy.
László looked at him. ‘Will Thomas not be joining us?’
A line came to Jimmy as he shook his head – The frog he would a-wooing go. Poor László. He had nursed an unspoken tendresse for Tom which the years, and Tom’s perfect obliviousness, had done nothing to diminish. Jimmy preferred not to enquire too closely into his old friend’s sexuality. Beyond the shared joke of their being inverts, László had always seemed to him somewhat neuter, and quite probably a virgin. His deep regard and respect for women was, like everything else about him, old-fashioned. He had learned that when László was in his youth, still a piano prodigy, there was a girl he had hoped to marry. No chance of that now: who would dream of taking him on?
The restaurant’s maître d’ interrupted his reverie. He was explaining, sotto voce, that the four diners had been in possession of the corner banquette since midday, and were refusing to budge. Jimmy looked askance at them.
‘Actors,’ he sighed.
‘I believe they are, sir,’ replied the maître d’, giving a regretful little bow as he withdrew.
He leaned towards László. ‘I wouldn’t mind, only you know they’re repertory actors.’
His good mood was restored when a waiter brought him a Martini of similar dimensions to his friend’s. He speared the drowning olive with a cocktail stick and popped it in his mouth. He sat back and gazed around the room, his attention briefly snagged on a woman, her back to him, wearing a hat that looked like a squashed Chinese pagoda.
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