The Intimates (2 page)

My thoughts were disturbed by the sound of clinking glass, which cut across the babble of conversation, smothering it. Francoise was rising to her feet, a faint smile on her face. People elbowed one another into silence, every face craned up at her. Basking in the light of this attention she assumed an elegant pose.

“Friends,” she began, smiling warmly around her. “
Thank you
for coming tonight to share this wonderful evening with me. And Elise; I'm glad that you could join us too. As you know,
The Intimates
was inspired by the six of you, who I met when I finally began a university education – the last wish of my father just before he passed away. Some of you had been close since childhood, but I came to join this unusual group later in life. In time each of you became as precious to me as a family member, without the attending conceit that so often affects such bonds.” The guests tittered politely.

“I had left school at eighteen,” she continued, “and as a daughter of privilege I had been given the room to indulge myself at a time when many are consumed with establishing a stable footing in the world. My sole achievement was a controversial journal article I'd written, satirising the harmless pretensions of my father's friends. Amongst that affluent little group it caused quite a stir – with its pointed caricatures and waspish observations. It offered me brief celebrity status and the opportunity to enjoy a few years masquerading as a novelist, while lazing about on boats. Fortunately, on my return to university this appetite for decadence was quenched when I met the seven of you. Inspired, for the first time in years I started to write a book which many years later would become
The Intimates
. I wrote it as a shrine to an intriguing time of my life and to an enchanting set of artists. See it simply as a testament to each of your wonderful talents. It occurs to me this evening how naïvely it was written; I hope that you bear this in mind when I present my dusty portraits of each of you later on tonight. But perhaps its naïvety lends it some charm.

“At that time Franz was starting to light up the world with his gift for music, having encouraged each of us to address our talents. While Barbara was taking on the world of film, her daughter was becoming drawn to the stage. This interest had begun in her childhood when Vincent wrote plays for the two of them to act out in his garden.” Georgina smiled at me, and I felt myself blush with the attention. The guests laughed, and Elise squeezed my hand. “Vincent too had begun to find ways to express his potential, and James and Graham had started to bow to the evidence that they had something unique to offer. Since then life has taken each of us on a course, which I could not have predicted, which I was naïve to prematurely prescribe. As a young woman I felt my writing contained a watermark of destiny, but I now see that as the arrogance of youth. My predictions for each of you were deeply flawed, and the blame for that inaccuracy lies purely with me. As I spend time in your company I realise that my portrayals could never have done any of you justice. Each of you has blossomed in myriad ways I could not have foreseen, with a versatility the world can encompass but that my adolescent worldview could not. So tonight let us celebrate that, and let us celebrate too a rare evening together, to warm ourselves against the chill of passing time. I am privileged that each of you have returned for an evening in my company, to celebrate perhaps the only piece of work I will ever be determined to finish.” At this the guests laughed generously.

Francoise raised her glass. “To The Intimates,” she toasted. “
The Intimates,
” came the echo; Elise's voice a step behind the rest.

I took a sip of wine, felt its curious effect begin to take hold. What was restraining my thoughts from returning fully, permitting them to only stumble into my consciousness? Was it sleep, or wine that spread itself like a film over my mind's eye?

I remember the music that struck up as the guests sipped wine after dinner. When it started to fill the room I saw Barbara start, her tight face stifling an indignant anger. Francoise had urged her maid to play one of the vinyl's kept by the gramophone, and without meaning to offend the maid had put on the soundtrack to
Double Cross
, not knowing it was the box office flop which had ended Barbara's acting career. The compressed anger in Barbara's face was obscured by the lull of that music, which carried my mind's eye to another scene.

It was a similar song, a gypsy waltz stuffed with accordions which I'd heard as I stepped through a cobbled street. Musicians were pressed against a wall, swaying as they pumped their instruments in the early summer evening. Adrenalin had seeped through me, spurred on by the abandon of the music. I'd passed a bed of roses that bristled in the warm wind. A hopeful feeling told me I was meeting a girl, but an aftertaste told me that my father might be joining us too.

I was dressed in a new suit, carrying lilies, walking through the outskirts of a city. The open shutters above me flapped out from ochre buildings, reminding me of Florence. The music faded quickly as I cut down an empty street, seeing a café bordered with ivy. Women were laughing with brooding boyfriends as they stepped into the square, arm in arm. I smiled at a waitress as I passed into the diner. I sat for a while on the balcony there, watching the people pass, thinking how my life seemed to charge itself with visits to such effervescent places. I sipped a glass of red wine as I waited, watching housewives stop their bicycles to chatter to one another as dusk descended.

I recall looking for a flash of red in the distance, listening for the clack of high heels. Soon Elise steps cautiously onto the balcony, this time in a delicate summer dress that exposes her slim arms. At this moment it occurs to me how differently Elise is portrayed in this memory than at the party. It's as if an invisible film separates the two images. A film that I can't break through. On the roof garden she seems caught up in the pleasures of the world. Perhaps she is relieved, relieved that she's met a man so keen for her to open up. As I recall her walking over to me I remember the overarching emotion being one of hope. That tonight I would prompt her to uncoil, but the time would soon come when she would do the same to me. I wonder if since that night, rather than reciprocating, she has instead learnt to cling. Watching this memory I therefore cannot help but feel a sense of nostalgia.

She smiles warmly when she sees me, and I see her face is carefully made-up. She's wearing her favourite French perfume, the scent of which always culminates in desire. She kisses my cheek as the waiter gestures for her to sit opposite me, with a very Italian flourish. The moment the waiter turns away I pull her into me and her face breaks into a smile. She warns me not to smear her lipstick, but then thinking better of it she kisses me lightly on the cheek.

From our seats we can see the city bustle in its colours below. With quick, slim fingers she tears off strips of bread and sprinkles them with olive oil. I'm glad to be in her company, she makes me feel relaxed and open. She laughs generously, her hand touches my waist, and she looks up at me through long, dark lashes. If I overstep the mark she retreats into her chair, and I long to capture with a camera the moments when she considers the city below, unmasked in her seat. I urge myself to make her laugh more, and as I do I ease gradually towards her, my mouth approaching the nape of her neck. She laughs knowingly, and the very English elegance in her smile is a sight I want to preserve as I know I will experience it all too briefly. I snatch a kiss at her neck and she pushes me gently away, but I've preserved that smile a little longer. I provoke her, tease her, admonish her to unwind and she does gradually, as bottles of wine come and go. I earn intimacy with her, ducking and diving and pushing with words, and when her revealing eventually occurs I step back and bask in it. I feel I am where I should be, opposite a petite woman with red lips, high above a colourful city.

Just before my father arrives I realise I have worked to make her laugh in the hope that it will be her primary memory of the evening. I find myself looking repeatedly at my watch. “He'll be here any minute now,” I say, and she takes three sharp sips of wine, suddenly looking very vulnerable. She has never met him before.

My father has an unerring ability to make even the most comfortable places feel hostile. He bristles with indignation if the wine isn't precisely the right temperature. He retracts into moody silences if a topic isn't expanded in enough detail, and smiles in a long-suffering manner if you try to steer the conversation in a direction he is reluctant to go. Merely sitting opposite him is an exhausting experience. His many pregnant pauses, his readiness to disrupt the flow of someone else's thought, and the way he refuses to acknowledge certain remarks is all very draining. The words of the many people who have told me he's the great playwright of our time often linger in my ears, but they're never enough to dispel the discomfort I feel in his presence. I often remind myself of how fortunate I am to be his son, but in an instant that feeling turns to resentment the moment he arrives.

Elise snaps open a compact to check her lips, as I sense him move onto the balcony. The waiter is bent deferentially over, but my father ignores him, one hand in his blazer pocket as he makes his way over to us. Elise steps to her feet, rather too quickly, and he moves back as if surprised by her assertiveness. I tell myself to remain seated. There is a look on his face that's at once bemused and distant.

“This is Elise.”

“Elise Zielif
s
ki, isn't it?” he says, without a smile.

“Yes, it is,” she answers.

“Are you descended from Polish Jews?” he asks, and she gathers herself as he sits down.

“I am.”

He pauses, for so long that I wonder if she could have made such an innocuous remark differently. “Did you hear what she said?” I ask.

“My son, Vincent, is a lapsed Catholic,” he says, waving a hand at me. “Your mother would be intrigued by this match. Wouldn't she Vincent?” The waiter appears behind him. “I'll have an '87 Rioja.”

“How is the new play coming on?” I ask him.

“People ask me that question as though my trials are something I like to reflect upon in my spare time, and they're not,” he snaps. “The stage decorators are incompetent, the producer is a dilettante, and the actors would be far more comfortable in a circus. It's an endurance test, like so many things, and as the writer I endure more than anyone. If Anthony was not directing it the whole affair would be quite beyond the pale. He's the only one there who shares my passion for hard work you see; though even he has insisted I take a short break from it all this evening. But he'll be here before long, to draw me back towards the theatre. Apparently he's the only one there with enough spine to take on that duty.”

“Elise is a teacher,” I offer. “In the city.”

“Is that so? Who do you teach, children in the ghetto?”

“She's a primary school teacher.”

“She can tell me that.”

Her eyes pass between the two of us.

“It's a good school,” she says. “The parents teach their children in their spare time so much that I sometimes feel I'm just offering them an education supplement.”

I close my eyes, wishing I'd advised her to always answer his questions objectively.

“How long have you been friends?” he eventually asks, looking at me.

“We're dating.” I answer.

“We met eight weeks ago, at a concert,” Elise replies. “He had to ask me out four times before I agreed.”

“And did you find that flattering?” he asks. Elise shrugs, with a confused look. “A lesser woman may have perceived him as a man with few options.” He flashes a smile.

“Thanks,” she says. “Vincent talks about you all the time. I'm trying to persuade him to show you some of his recent writing.”

“And have you been successful so far?”

“It's an ongoing discussion,” I say.

He sits back in his chair. “Vincent feels my criticisms of his work are needlessly in-depth and elaborate.” He leans into Elise and with a hoarse stage-whisper, “I think he finds my advice boring.”

“More relentless than boring.” I regret my words as soon as they have left my mouth. Within moments, swilling wine around his glass, he is imparting brusque criticisms in a stately tone while looking around him for agreement.

“I've said before Vincent, in a piece of writing you
must
postpone it's pinnacle, you
must
make your reader earn that climax, and yet you fritter it away in the preamble, so that when you connect those threads at the peak you make only a minor hill, when a mountain was more than necessary.” Elise retracts. “In a debate I imagine your arguments would begin with the strongest, and then progressively weaken. Your opponent would sense your strongest argument had dribbled out of you, and he'd crush you, like that.” He thumps his hand on the table, making Elise jump, before reaching for his wine.

“Writing is the same;
you
have the absolute knowledge in the palm of your hand. You
must
refrain from revealing yourself – and seduce them with it. We've talked about this before, and yet you are never prepared to listen to me.”

“Please keep your voice down. People are looking at us.”

“But you don't,” he continues. “Your writings lack the conviction of eventual resolution. They are like the ill-informed ramblings of the bourgeois.” He spat each word bitterly into his glass. I kept my eyes fixed on him.

“Many struggling young writers would chew off their arm to have a father like me, to point out the flaws in their work. Yet you find me so utterly redundant. Really Elise, you should speak to him about this. He finds his old man such a tiresome bore.”

Elise opens her mouth and draws breath, but I sense that she realises there is nothing helpful she could say at this point.

“Do you not agree with me either?” he snaps, when she closes her mouth without speaking.

“Please don't bring her into our disagreements.”

“It's a healthy debate Vincent. A rigorous bit of verbal rough and tumble. She teaches disenchanted children in the back alleys of our cities, I'm sure she can handle a little jousting.”