‘I think I could have loved him. I said that to him once.’ Her face now wet with tears, she sat down on the bed. ‘But sometimes I think that wasn’t true, that it was just my excuse. I might have been using him…’
‘Gini, I’m sure that’s not so. You wouldn’t do that.’
‘It could be true.’ Gini’s pale face became set. ‘You see, I wanted Pascal to give me a baby, and he was resisting and resisting. That hurt me so much…’
She made a small choking sound. Lindsay, distressed, sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.
‘Gini, don’t, please don’t,’ she said. ‘You’d been ill then. These things can happen. Loving one person doesn’t prevent your being attracted to someone else…’
‘Maybe it was that simple.’ Gini gave her a doubting look. ‘I wish I could be sure, but Pascal changed his mind after I had the affair with Rowland. He was afraid of losing me then, so he gave way about the baby. Perhaps I just used Rowland to manipulate Pascal…’ She gave a small anxious gesture of the hands. ‘Oh, I hope that wasn’t so. I can’t bear to think I did that. Maybe Pascal sees it that way now. He might. Tonight—you know what he said to me tonight? He said I was tenacious, that I always get my own way in the end
‘He said that? Gini, don’t cry.’ Lindsay took her hand. ‘Why did he say that?’
‘Because I asked him to stop covering wars.’ Gini turned her face away. ‘I always promised myself I’d never do that. But I did—after Lucien was born. I was so afraid then. I had these terrible dreams—about snipers, mines, bombs…I wanted Pascal to be safe. I wanted to believe he’d be there when Lucien was growing up…’
‘That’s understandable. Any woman would want that,’ Lindsay said gently. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself for feeling that way. Even if you’d said nothing, Pascal must have known he’d have to make a choice…’
‘I coerced him—’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘That’s how he sees it. His first wife made the very same demands, and now I’m doing it. I’m turning into a second Helen. I was always afraid that would happen…’ Bending her head, she began to cry again. ‘Oh, Lindsay—I feel afraid. I was sitting downstairs tonight and I just felt afraid. I looked at Rowland, and I thought about all the decisions I’d made, and it seemed to me…’ She hesitated. ‘It seemed as if I couldn’t be sure of anything. Not my own motives, not the choices I made. Nothing. I was looking at my own life story, and it seemed so arbitrary. Maybe I could have written it differently…’
‘You regretted Rowland?’ Lindsay said quietly.
‘Perhaps. In passing.’ Gini rose and turned away. ‘And I felt guilty for that. I have a son now. I love Pascal. But…’ She hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Love, love, love. I’ve always cared about it too much perhaps. My father made sure of that.’
There was a silence. Lindsay looked at her friend with affection, with pity, and with a certain fear.
‘Is that wrong?’ she began slowly. ‘Love matters more than anything, surely?’
‘Count the crimes committed in its name,’ Gini replied, her manner resigned and her tone hardening.
‘You don’t mean that,’ Lindsay said.
‘Probably not. I’m a woman.’ Gini’s tone became dry. ‘All for love—which might be a strength, or a weakness. Tell me…’ She hesitated, wiping the last tears from her face, then turned back to Lindsay. ‘Tell me, Lindsay. Do you love Rowland? Does he love you? Is that what that scene was about tonight?’
‘I don’t want to answer that. I don’t want to talk about it at all…’ Lindsay rose, and began to put on her black coat. ‘Please, Gini. Leave it. I’m late and I have to go…’
‘He’s not right for you.’ Gini made the statement in a flat way; she gave a small sigh. ‘Lindsay—I have to say this. I know Rowland. I know him through and through, and I wish him well. I wish you well. But whatever’s happened between you, you’re wrong for each other. You do know that?’
‘Do I?’ Lindsay turned to face her friend; she felt her heartbeat quicken, as the room became unnaturally quiet. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘For a hundred reasons—every one of which you know yourself.’ Gini paused, then lowered her gaze. ‘Not least, he’d damage you. He’d try to be faithful to you, and then he wouldn’t be…’
‘I see. Thanks. Well, that’s clear, at any rate—’
‘Lindsay, I don’t mean to hurt you…’ Gini’s face became troubled. ‘But someone has to tell you the truth. Just look at it from the most obvious point of view of all—Rowland should marry. He should have children. He needs a woman who can give him children…Not someone your age, Lindsay.’ She hesitated again. ‘I know that’s hard, but you have to consider it—in Rowland’s case and in Colin’s.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t discuss Colin, if you don’t mind.’ Lindsay turned sharply away. ‘Gini, please, don’t say any more…’
‘I liked Colin.’ Gini frowned. ‘He seems sweet-natured, witty, great charm…A bit feckless, perhaps—’
‘Don’t you dare.’ Lindsay swung around, white-faced. ‘Don’t you dare to presume you know him. Leave this alone, Gini. What gives you the right to lecture and interfere? I’ll make my own decisions—’
‘Then think before you make them,’ Gini replied, her tone also sharpening. ‘Have an affair with Colin, by all means; have an affair with Rowland, if you don’t mind getting hurt in his case, but just remember—for any man who wants a family, needs a family, you’re too old. You can’t start having babies again at forty-one. Lindsay, you’re nearly forty-two—you might not be able to have children now. You already have a son, and I know how much he means to you…’ She broke off, her troubled gaze resting on Lindsay’s face. ‘Rowland wants children, I know that. Does Colin?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lindsay averted her gaze.
‘How old is he? He’s never been married? He’s never had children?’
‘He’s my age. And no, no marriage, no children—’
‘Ah, Lindsay.’ With a sigh and an expression of concern, Gini moved forward and rested her hand on Lindsay’s arm. ‘Then think. Whatever you may feel about Rowland or Colin, you can’t be selfish here; you must surely see that?’
The words were quietly said, and firmly, for all their tone of regret. After Gini had finished speaking, Lindsay could still hear them echoing and re-echoing in her head. The words shocked her, though indeed, as Gini said, the sentiments expressed were obvious enough. She felt herself give some small, numbed gesture, as if warding the words off.
‘Selfish?’ she heard herself say, in a low voice.
‘You can hurt someone by loving them,’ Gini replied, her eyes becoming sad. She put her arms around Lindsay, and for a while the two women stood together quietly in this embrace.
It was hard to hear such an unpalatable truth from a friend, Lindsay thought, turning towards the door when she was sure that she had composed herself. She walked along the corridor, Gini following more slowly. Reaching the stairs, Lindsay looked down at the lobby, where the rest of their group was now awaiting them. With a dazed disbelief, she saw that Rowland McGuire and Pascal Lamartine were now deep in conversation, as if they had put aside their past enmity. Markov and Jippy were waiting to say goodbye, Jippy’s face still white, pained and anxious. The actor, Nic Hicks, was signing autographs, and there at the foot of the stairs, waiting for her, was Colin.
Seeing his face light as he caught sight of her, Lindsay felt a surge of misery and distress. Colin could not hide his feelings for her, and had no wish to do so. Lindsay, looking at the openness of his gaze and the transparency of his affection, felt ashamed. The last thing she would have wished to do was injure him, yet now she saw injury was inevitable—and for that, she blamed no-one but herself.
Her farewell to Gini took place outside, on the sidewalk, and Lindsay felt, as she kissed her, that it was in some ways a final farewell. She pressed her cold lips against her friend’s cold cheek,
and she knew it would be a long time before she could forgive her for what she had said. Plain-speaking should not, but did, cause rifts; nor was she entirely sure that Gini’s reasons for speaking out were as pure as she claimed. Perhaps her motives were altruistic, but perhaps also jealousy had played a part, she thought, as she watched Gini briefly clasp Rowland’s hand, then turn away without a backward look. It made no difference—she saw that with a pained clarity. Whatever had prompted Gini to speak, her arguments concerning Lindsay’s age were unanswerable. However much that particular truth hurt—and it hurt very deeply—it was one which could neither be argued away, nor escaped.
Chapter 15
HOW LONG HAD THIS truth lain in wait for her? Lindsay asked herself, approaching the stairs at the Conrad. She looked at the red-carpeted stairs, with their sentinel slaves, holding up torches that gave insufficient light. She followed the flights of stairs with her eyes, as they wound up and up, and doubled back. Gini’s arguments had a remorseless logic, and she could not understand how, afflicted with a peculiar blindness, she could not have seen this. Or had she seen it—and merely turned away her face, refusing to confront the issue, as she had in the past refused to confront other issues of equal seriousness in her life?
Am I infertile? I might not be infertile, she thought, looking at the red tide of that staircase. She brushed the last of the snow from her black coat; beside her, a radiator sighed; it murmured of biology and bad timing; of statistics and birth defects. She looked at Colin, at the silent figure of Rowland, at the terrible actor, who was bounding up the stairs, still with an endless, irrepressible, meaningless flow of words on his lips. These men were her own age. Any one of them could hope, even expect, to be able to father a child for the next twenty years and beyond; she herself did not share this uncircumscribed fecundity, and it had never occurred to her how much that might matter until now. Redundant yet again, she thought, and although she could smile at that, the pain and rebellion in her heart were acute. She glanced over her shoulder, feeling an instinct to leave, a longing to leave; but the evening, of importance to others, had to be endured, she knew that. Disguising her feelings with some remark, she crossed to the stairs and began to mount them. At the first landing, she heard a sound that sent a pang of recognition straight to her heart; she stopped.
‘What was that?’ She swung around, looking along the shadowy galleries. ‘I can hear a child crying…’
Above her, Nic Hicks continued to mount the stairs; both Colin, who was next to her, and Rowland, who was behind her, came to a halt. They listened.
‘I can’t hear anything—can you, Rowland?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘You can. Listen—there it is again…’
Colin hesitated, then with a glance at Rowland, took her hand in his. ‘Darling, I really can’t hear anything…’
‘Neither can I. Lindsay, are you all right? Colin, she looks terribly pale…’
‘Lindsay? Darling? Darling—look at me. Christ, Rowland, I think she’s going to faint.’
Lindsay heard this exchange from a great distance. The words were fuzzy and obscure, receding from her fast. A small serene catastrophe occurred: she watched placidly as the bannisters tilted, the stairs somersaulted, and the dome above her head moved in a slow and beautiful arc, coming to rest beneath her feet.
Someone caught her, as she commenced a slow, obedient, dizzying trajectory; when the world reassembled itself and recognized its usual rules once more, she found she was sitting on the top-most stair of the first flight, with her head between her knees. From this antipodean viewpoint, she discerned that the man on her left had his arms around her, and the man on her right was holding her hand. The man on the right was somewhat calmer than the man on her left.
‘Oh, God, God, God; said the man on the left. ‘She’s ill. I thought she didn’t look well at the Plaza.’
‘Let her breathe. She’s coming round. She’ll be fine in a minute. Lindsay, keep your head down,’ said the man on the right.
‘Stop pushing her. You’ll hurt her—’
‘I won’t. For God’s sake—’
‘Go and get her some water. Frobisher will give you some water, and ice. Or a key—I remember now—that’s what you do. Something cold down the back of the neck. Or is that for a nose-bleed? Oh, Lindsay, Lindsay…’
The man on her right sighed and rose to his feet. Lindsay listened to his footsteps mounting the stairs to the next landing. There was a jingling sound. The man on her left began fumbling with her collar. Something small, cold and metallic was inserted against the back of her neck.
To her surprise, upside-down Lindsay found this object produced a discernible effect. Its small chill cleared her vision; she looked down at the red stairs, and seeing they were no longer playing tricks, slowly raised her head. She found herself looking into a pair of blue eyes, alight with anxiety and concern. As she raised her head, a transformation came upon this face.
‘Oh, it’s worked. Thank God. I only had a Yale—this stupid little Yale. Lindsay—look at me. Can you hear me? Are you all right?’
Lindsay found she could hear him. It seemed to her astonishing and marvellous, that without a muscle moving, the expression in these eyes could alter with such eloquence. She saw anxiety become relief, relief become joy, and joy modulate to love; the love, which moved her very deeply, struck in her some chord, for she recognized the quality of this emotion at once. It was in this way that she looked at her son; this love, unqualified, poignant, and direct was always powerful—and she could sense its power at this moment. The last residual skewing of her vision ceased: the walls stood upright, at right angles to the floor; the last hissings and whisperings she had been hearing, which might have come from the radiators, although she thought not, also ceased. She had a sense that something in this interior shielded its eyes from the powers here and scurried off.
‘A Yale key?’ She gave a low sigh. ‘Oh, Colin.’
‘I know, but it was all I could find.’ He paused. ‘It’s the key to my apartment in England. I have this sort of apartment in my father’s house. The house is terribly large. It’s called Shute Court, but everyone just calls it Shute…’
There was a silence. ‘Shute?’ Lindsay said. ‘Colin, I don’t understand…’
‘That farmhouse belongs to it as well. It’s—well, it’s part of the estate, and the estate’s enormous. My family has had it for four hundred years. It will all be mine one day. Lindsay, I’m rich.’
There was another silence. Colin had spoken in the tones of one confessing some mortal disease. His blue eyes were fixed steadily on hers and his face had become very pale. Lindsay wanted to weep and to laugh. She took his hand in hers.
‘I think now might be the moment to faint again,’ she said.
This reply appeared to delight Colin; his face lit. He drew in a deep breath, as if about to dive into icy water from some great height, and clasped both her hands in his.
‘I want you to marry me,’ he said. ‘I want you to overlook everything I’ve just told you and marry me.’ He paused. ‘I know I proposed before, and I think I meant it then, but there’s always the possibility you didn’t believe me, considering a few minor factors…I’d never met you; I was blind drunk.’
‘I’m not narrow-minded,’ Lindsay said, in a reproachful way, her vision beginning to blur. ‘Colin—’
‘I’m not very good at proposing.’ Colin gave an agitated gesture. ‘On the telephone. On the stairs. I was going to do it in two days’ time, by moonlight. I thought if I did it by moonlight, you might accept.’
‘I’m glad you did it here, on the stairs. I’m so—’
‘Lindsay, why are you crying?’
‘I’m not really crying. Well, I am a bit. I’m—taken aback. Colin, I’m touched, more than touched, and I’m honoured…’
Colin, who could hear the ‘but’ coming, lifted his hand and quickly laid his fingers against her lips. He looked into her eyes intently. ‘Don’t g
ive me your answer now. I was incapacitated the first time I asked you, and you’re incapacitated now. It’s not really fair to propose to someone who’s just fainted. No, don’t say anything.’ His expression became tender; he frowned. ‘Now keep still. I’m going to fish that key out.’
The process of retrieving the key was complicated and took some time. Having finally extricated it, Colin held it up and looked at it somewhat sadly.
‘This is yours,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘It’s all yours. I’m yours. I tried to tell you that in my fax from Montana. Did you notice?’
‘Ah, Colin—yes, I did.’ A tear fell onto her knee. ‘I wasn’t sure that was what you meant.’
‘If I didn’t mean it, I would never say it.’ He paused and gave her a sad, steady look. ‘I believe I could make you happy, Lindsay. I don’t have any illusions about my failings—but I know I could do that. I could make you happy tomorrow and next year and thirty years from now. And thirty years from now, if you were my wife, I’d know I’d achieved something worthwhile in my life, and I’d be completely content. That doesn’t sound very romantic, perhaps, but it’s my best qualification. I would never alter, Lindsay, I promise you that.’
‘Ah, Colin,’ she said, turning her face away to hide her tears. ‘People do alter. They alter very swiftly, despite all their best intentions…’
‘No,’ Colin said with great firmness. ‘I give you my word. Semper fidelis, in my case. And I know I won’t have to translate that, my darling.’ He paused. ‘Look at me, Lindsay. And when you’re considering your answer, just remember: I am not going to miss this particular bus, not if I have to go on chasing it for the next ten years. And I give you fair warning of that.’
Taking her hands in his, he drew her gently to her feet and turned her to look at him. ‘You look so beautiful. The colour’s come back to your cheeks. Your eyes—well, I won’t ask you why you have tears in them; I know you’ll tell me in due course. Meanwhile, I’m going to kiss you.’ His manner became sterner. ‘So don’t argue, don’t faint again, and don’t move an inch.’