Lovers and Liars Trilogy (176 page)

‘I know,’ Colin blushed, ‘and I should have kept my mouth shut now. It’s the hangover—my tongue runs away with me. Forget I said any of this, all of you; it’s probably all gossip, anyway. Tomas Court never said a word about it, needless to say. One of his assistant directors told me…Ah, food! I’m the prawns, I think. Rowland, were you soup or salad? Lindsay, you were definitely salad…’

‘Spaghetti. I was spaghetti.’

‘No, no. Salad. A small green salad, wasn’t she, Rowland?’

‘Yes.’

Lindsay accepted the salad meekly. She pronged a lettuce leaf with her fork and moved it around in a puddle of vinaigrette. She nibbled the leaf and wolfed some more bread. She gulped the rest of her Perrier and then, as the conversation resumed, decided that perhaps, since Colin had already poured it, a little wine might be risked. She drank a glass of something red, which Colin instantly refilled. Lindsay, joining in a conversation about Oxford, talking fast, did not notice this.

Suddenly a hamburger had arrived; she had no recollection of ordering a hamburger—Lindsay felt courage flow back. Colin had just finished a long disquisition on the subject of Balliol College; there was a lull in the conversation—the perfect moment to spring her surprise. In fact, she had several surprises to spring, but the others could wait for another occasion. Now, she had to make her main confession; she fixed her eyes firmly on Rowland’s green Christmas sweater.

‘I’ve resigned,’ she said, in a very small voice.

Either no-one heard this remark or no-one understood it, for there was a surprising lack of reaction. Her voice seemed oddly unreliable; Lindsay cleared her throat.

‘I’ve resigned,’ she repeated, so loudly this time that heads at the nearby tables swivelled. ‘I’ve resigned from the paper. I am no longer a fashion editor. That is, I am, but only for a bit. I shall cover the New York collections next week and then I’m owed some holiday time, and then, soon, I’ll be free. I’m giving up fashion. I’m giving up journalism. I’m remaking myself. I’m going to write a book: a biography of Coco Chanel, probably. So now you all have to congratulate me and drink to that.’

This announcement
did
produce a reaction. There was a brief, surprised silence, then a babel of questions: How? When? Why? Into this babel, Lindsay continued with her speech.

‘I decided months ago really,’ she went on. ‘I just had to make myself do it. I’ve been working in fashion too long. I need a change…’

‘Challenges!’ Colin Lascelles put in. ‘Quite right! Fresh fields and pastures new! I’ve
always
believed in that…’

‘Woods. Fresh
woods
and pastures new,’ Katya corrected. She leaned across and kissed Lindsay. ‘Well done. You were
wasted
in fashion. I think that’s totally brilliant…’

‘Brave!’ Tom said, rising and also kissing her. ‘That’s great—do I still get my allowance? Only kidding. Wow! I never thought you’d actually do it…’

‘A toast.’ Lascelles refilled glasses. ‘To the fair Lindsay—may she succeed in whatever she does next…’

There was another buzzing outburst of questions and exclamations; Lindsay found these made her curiously blind and deaf. Then, as the blindness and deafness began to recede, she began to realize: Rowland McGuire had taken no part in this.

He left the food in front of him unfinished. With deliberate care, he aligned his knife and fork on the plate. Slowly and reluctantly, Lindsay raised her eyes to his face; his expression at once made her want to look away, but she found she could not.

‘I see,’ he said finally, in a quiet voice. ‘Is this definite? Have you talked to Max?’

‘I’ve given Max my letter of resignation, and talked to him. Yes.’

‘When did you do that?’

‘Last week. One day last week.’

‘While I was away?’

‘Yes, as it happens. That—that has nothing to do with it. I don’t work with you any more, Rowland.’

‘No, indeed not.’

Rowland’s displeasure was very evident. His expression was cold; his tone was cold. Upon the convivial table a frost settled. Lascelles glanced at Lindsay, then at Rowland, his brow puckering, and his blue eyes puzzled.

‘Well, I say good luck to Lindsay…’ he began.

‘I’ve no doubt you would.’ Rowland’s cold green gaze turned in his direction. ‘Since you know nothing about the situation, that’s easy enough.’

‘Oh, come on, Rowland, what’s the matter with you?’ Lascelles frowned. ‘I’m in favour of change. What’s Lindsay supposed to do—stick it out for the pension plan and the gold watch? Nobody does that any more. If she doesn’t feel fulfilled working in fashion, she ought to move on…’

‘Is that the problem?’ Rowland’s gaze returned to a hot-faced Lindsay. ‘You don’t feel fulfilled?’

He pronounced the final word with distaste. Lindsay glared at him.

‘As a matter of fact, yes. And there’s no need to be so supercilious. “Fulfilled” is as good a word as any other. Colin’s right. Lots of people change jobs at my age; they have to, these days. I’ve been doing this too long. I’m sick of offices and deadlines. I’m sick of all the bitchiness and neuroticism. I’m sick of trying to find something new to say about some damn stupid dress. I’m sick of studios and crazy locations, and planes and hotels. I want to be in one place, and above all, I want to do something else.’

Rowland heard her out in silence. He frowned.

‘This isn’t one of your snap decisions then? You’ve been considering it for months? You never mentioned it to me.’

‘You never asked,’ Lindsay retorted. ‘And I don’t make snap decisions.’

‘Oh, but you do.’

‘Well, this isn’t one of them. Listen, Rowland, if we were still working on the same paper, yes, I probably would have asked your opinion, but we’re not. You edit the Sunday now; you’re stuck up in that vast editor’s suite, having meetings morning, noon and night…’

‘We work in the same building; we work for the same group. What is this? I see you virtually every day. Three weeks ago, I was round at your flat and I raised this very issue; I got no response. You could have discussed this any time you wanted, Lindsay…’

‘Well then maybe I
didn
’
t
want to. Maybe I just wanted to make up my own mind, Rowland. I am capable of that. And you may find it hard to imagine, but there are other things I can do besides edit fashion pages…’

‘I’m aware of that, as you have every reason to know.’ This remark, quietly made, produced another silence. Katya, who had been watching this exchange with close attention, saw that Rowland’s words seemed to distress Lindsay. Her face had been bright with defiance; she began some defiant reply, then something in his tone, perhaps a note of specific reproach, made her reconsider. She turned to Tom, who had also been watching with growing indignation.

‘Tom? I haven’t done the wrong thing, have I? I
had
to decide.’

‘Whatever you decide’s OK with me.’ Tom shot Rowland an angry glance. ‘Mum’s had lots of other job offers,’ he went on. ‘People are always trying to poach her…’

‘Oddly enough, I’m aware of that too.’

‘There was that TV company, last year. They wanted her to work on a big series—a history of fashion. That American magazine was chasing her. That publisher’s been pursuing her for ages. Markov told me…’

‘Markov. I see. I might have known it.’ Rowland’s expression hardened. ‘Is he privy to all this? Is he behind this decision? That’s bloody typical.’

‘Who’s Markov?’ Colin Lascelles interrupted, swiftly. ‘Can someone explain? I don’t understand any of this. Why is there a problem? Lindsay—’

‘Who’s Markov? Well now, let me see.’ Rowland leaned back in his chair, a dangerous glint in his eyes. ‘Markov is a fashion photographer—a very gifted one; a somewhat subversive one. Markov is, without a doubt, one of the most affected men I’ve ever met in my life. However, he’s clever. I even like him—up to a point. The trouble is, Markov is wildly irresponsible…’

‘No, he’s not,’ Lindsay interrupted hotly. ‘You scarcely know Markov. He’s changed a lot since he met Jippy. He’s a good, clever man, and I’ve known him for fifteen years, Rowland. I adore Markov, so you can just stop this…’

‘I don’t deny any of that,’ Rowland cut across her. ‘Will you listen? I said Markov is irresponsible, and if you think for ten seconds, you’ll know I’m right…You’ve always been blind to Markov’s faults—’

‘Shall we have some more wine?’ Colin interrupted, signalling to the waiter. ‘Rowland, why don’t you calm down? I—’

‘Just stay out of this, Colin. Listen to me, Lindsay. Markov loves nothing better than stirring up trouble; he’s an inveterate
meddler
, and he loves a drama. Is Markov going to worry if a job falls through? If you’re out of work? All he’s interested in is gestures and
schemes
…’

‘Just a minute, Rowland. Could I speak?’

‘And you, for some reason I’ll never damn well understand, actually
listen
to Markov. He comes to you with some hare-brained plot and you buy it. He says “Jump”, and you jump. That man has an irrational, disproportionate influence over you, Lindsay, and I can hear him talking now. California-speak. “Fulfilment”? “Challenges”? Give me a break.’

‘Damn it, Markov has
nothing
to do with this,’ Lindsay snapped. ‘And yes, I will have some more wine, Colin, thank you. Amazing as it may seem to you, Rowland, I made this decision on my own—without your help; without Markov’s help. I didn’t need your advice then and I don’t want it now. Stop being so damn pompous. What gives you the right to run my life?’

The final question silenced Rowland, who had been about to interrupt. Possibly her remarks hurt him, Lindsay thought, at once regretting them. Rowland coloured, then turned away. From inside the hot swell of anger within her, she felt misery and shame welling up. Why, why, why did I do this, she thought. For several reasons, as Rowland had implied, she owed him a better explanation than this. Now, at a table with three other people present, and with a pleasant lunch irretrievably ruined, she could see no way of retracting that last unjust statement, or making amends. Then she realized that the reactions of the three other people present were rather different to her imaginings. Tom and Katya, she saw, were suppressing smiles; Colin Lascelles, who had seemed somewhat anxious, was refilling glasses; catching Tom’s eye, he winked.

‘Cat and dog,’ Tom said. ‘Tooth and claw. Argue, argue, argue. Sorry, Colin, they always do this.’

‘They never agree on anything,’ Katya put in. ‘Not a movie, or a play, or a book.’

‘She tells him he’s interfering…’

‘And arrogant, Tom. Don’t forget that.’

‘He accuses her of—What does he accuse her of, Katya?’

‘I’ve lost count. Not listening. Not thinking. Talking too much. Being a typical woman—that’s certainly come up.’

‘Wasn’t he domineering? Blind? Insensitive?’

‘Definitely.’ Katya made a delicate pause. ‘And there, of course, Lindsay was right.’

‘He had a point too; Mum does
talk
. Never draws breath.’

‘Oh, Rowland does as well,’ Colin said, joining in with a smile. ‘He may take time to warm up, and he may choose his company, but once Rowland
starts
talking, there’s no stopping him. Opinions too. When I first met Rowland, he was insufferable. If you
coughed
, he had an opinion. If you
sneezed
, he had an opinion. My sister, who was once very much in love with Rowland, used to say that…’

‘Enough. That’s it. Stop it right there…’ Rowland raised his voice. ‘We get the point.’

He hesitated, then smiled, then extended his hand to Lindsay across the table. His green eyes rested thoughtfully, but no longer coldly, on her face.

‘I was wrong. I’m sorry, Lindsay. I wish you every possible good in anything you may do. I hope you know that.’

‘I’m sorry too. I take back what I said.’

Lindsay clasped his hand; the handshake that then followed was so warm, so friendly, so fraternal, that Lindsay wanted to weep on the spot. Since she could not weep, she drank another glass of wine, and since that made her feel extraordinarily strengthened, another after that.

She waited until conversation resumed and the atmosphere eased. She waited until Rowland, Katya and Tom became embroiled in an argument first about books, then Thomas Court’s
Willow Song
, its connections to
Dead Heat
, and the significance of the spider sequence.

Katya was speaking with force; Lindsay sometimes suspected that Katya felt challenged by Rowland’s Oxford first; always trenchant, she tended to become more so when Rowland was present; indeed Tom had once accused her of showing off. Now, she whipped
Othello
into the argument, then harnessed Freud; she crunched Tomas Court’s view of women under her chariot wheels, then quoted some German philosopher Lindsay had never heard of, at length. Rowland listened patiently enough until Jung’s aid was also marshalled, at which, seconded by Tom, he launched a counterattack.

The air in the room was altering, Lindsay thought; cigarette smoke, perhaps; anyway, it was now eddying pleasantly, and was assuming a mauvish hue, wafting like mist. Realizing there was a key question she needed to ask, she turned back to the amiable, blue, innocent eyes of Colin Lascelles, and interrupted him.

‘Tell me
all
about your sister, Colin,’ she said.

Colin did tell her all about his sister, and very interesting it was. This subject, and variations upon it, opened a door, she found. Through that door, Lindsay began to see a younger Rowland McGuire, a different Rowland McGuire. She was busily inspecting these Rowlands, and trying to work out how they related to the Rowland she knew, although, of course, she did not know him enough, when she realized that other, less metaphorical doors must have opened, since they were no longer in the restaurant, but walking past glorious buildings, in a now darkening street. She was arm in arm with Colin Lascelles; he was leading her through a gateway, advancing into a large, misty quadrangle; there were lighted windows, dark-gowned, hurrying figures; a chapel bell was tolling.

‘It was here! It was on this exact spot!’ Colin, releasing her arm, waved his own like a windmill, ‘Chateau Margaux 1959! Two and a half bottles! And I was still standing up. Then I started to topple—very slowly, like a great pine; an eight-hundred-foot pine. I’d braved the storms for thousands of years, and then some giant took an axe to my roots. One blow! That’s all it took. It took me a century to fall. I could see the paving-stones coming up…and then Rowland caught me. He saved me! He’s been saving me ever since. It’s thanks to Rowland that at this exact moment my life makes perfect sense! I have to thank him. Where is he? He was here a second ago…’