A Conspiracy of Friends (25 page)

He moved further into the room. “I’m getting a very authentic feeling, Eddie. You know how it is when you realise that your vision is absolutely spot-on for the space? It’s all very well doing it on paper, Eddie—it can be so different from actually confronting the virgin space. Fortunately it hasn’t happened to me too often, but I have occasionally found myself working with a space that just
refused
to give itself up to the plan—like a Sabine woman
resisting
abduction by a
pushy
Roman! Well, perhaps not quite, but something not too dissimilar.

“Not here, though. Everything is going to work perfectly—it really is. Fabrics, wall colours, surface textures. Everything. But let’s not just stand here and talk. I’m positively
rolling up
my sleeves, Eddie. Let’s get your boys in, and they too can roll up their sleeves and get down to work.
Aux armes, citoyens!
”

Eddie had hired a team of local decorators to assist Cosmo, and this firm’s men duly arrived in a green van.

“Green,” said Cosmo as he watched the van draw up. “You see what I mean, Eddie? Green is the key here. That is the
leitmotiv
. Green, with mere touches of blue to remind us that
el mar
is out there—
el mar
in which the great fish swim and
cavort
in all their Hemingwayesque strength and beauty!”

“Sure,” said Eddie.

O
VER THE NEXT
few days, Eddie and Cosmo Bartonette worked feverishly to finish the decoration of the Hemingway Bar. Eddie was surprised by the energy of the celebrated interior decorator: he had imagined that Cosmo would direct operations but do little physical labour himself. The contrary proved to be true, with Cosmo lifting and shifting furniture and other items with as much gusto—and effect—as the crew of cheerful mesomorphs hired by Eddie.

The transformation of the empty room was largely completed by the end of the third day. The walls had been painted dark green—a choice of colour about which Eddie had been unenthusiastic at the beginning but now fully accepted—and they had been hung with the fishing trophies that Cosmo had sent over from London. A large stuffed marlin, its colours accentuated by varnish, now dominated the space behind the bar, and here and there on the other walls there were tuna, barracuda and one or two unidentifiable fish, all mounted on trophy boards, on which the details of their capture—probably apocryphal—had been inscribed in black lettering.

Then there were numerous framed photographs that were to occupy almost all the remaining wall space.

“I feel very proud of these,” said Cosmo, as he began to unpack the pictures from their crates. “Look at this one, Ed. This is absolutely
gen
, apart from the signature, which I did and I’m frankly rather proud of. It’s Hemingway standing outside Sloppy Joe’s bar, his local, you know—
quel nom!
And that’s Scott Fitzgerald, or his friend, Bill Bird. Who knows? So I signed Fitzgerald’s name—because who on earth knows how Bill Bird signed his name?
Pas moi
.

“And this one here—what a frame, Ed! See? That’s Hemingway—you can tell by now, of course, I don’t need to explain to you. But
that’s him in Africa, on safari. The elephant’s dead, by the way—its eyes are open but our bearded friend has dispatched him, I’m afraid. He dispatched rather a lot of things, I regret to say, but let’s not go there. I expect the people who come to this bar will not be exactly
sensitive
.”

And so it continued until, at the end of the third day, Cosmo sank into a copious leather armchair—one which he had designated as Papa’s Chair.

“Well!” he exclaimed. “Here I
sink
. Papa himself—that’s what old Hem was called, Ed—Papa himself could have sat here and ended the day with a whisky. I’ve worked far harder today than he ever did—old fraud. Oops, not the thing to say in the Hemingway Bar, but I feel I deserve a little bit of
truth
after working like a Trojan all day. Did the Trojans work, Ed? You bet yours they did! Whoever they were!”

“Yeah,” said Eddie. “They worked all right. Always working.”

“Quite so. But listen, Eddie boy, would you be kind enough to fix old Cosmo a large G and T? None of your smelly old rum, if you don’t mind. Gordon’s and Shh-you-know-who, and not too much of the latter. Ta terrifically.”

They sat at the open window, sipping their drinks, the glasses cold and moist against their hands.

Cosmo looked thoughtful. “You know something?” he suddenly asked.

“Maybe,” said Ed. “Depends what.”

“You know, I don’t think I
like
this Hemingway character.”

Eddie shrugged. “He seemed all right to me.”

“He was fighting against something, you know,” Cosmo went on. “There he was trying so terribly hard to be tough. All the time. Woke up in the morning and presumably had to remind himself to be tough. And they aren’t, you know, Eddie. Men like that aren’t really tough.”

Eddie shrugged again. “Depends. Some are.”

Cosmo shook his head. “No, I don’t think they are. And I’m saying that because … Well, I may as well let you into a little secret: what you see with me isn’t really what you get.”

Eddie glanced at Cosmo over the rim of his glass. He was not sure where this conversation was leading and felt slightly uncomfortable.

“No, don’t worry,” said Cosmo. “I’m not going to embarrass you. Let me tell you right now, Ed, I’m straight. There, I’ve said it. I’m straight. I’ve got a partner in London—a woman. We’ve been together for eleven years.”

Eddie could not conceal his surprise, and Cosmo smiled at the reaction.

“Yes, I knew that would make you raise an eyebrow. You see, in order to get on in the interior design business, you have to camp it up a bit. Which is what I’ve been doing all along. I do it so well that it’s become second nature.”

“Oh,” said Eddie.

“When I started in the business,” Cosmo continued, “I was just myself, and it didn’t work. I was treated with condescension because people thought, how could somebody as straight and boring as this have a good eye? That’s what they thought—you could just see it. And so I decided it would be better for business if I acted up a bit, and that’s what I did. Business went through the roof. I was a really good actor.”

Eddie smiled. “You certainly fooled me.”

“There you have it,” said Cosmo. “The pretence works.”

Eddie smiled. “So what now?”

“I drop it with you,” said Cosmo. “I finish the job here and go back to London. And start to camp it up again.”

“Not easy,” said Eddie.

“No, you’re wrong. Very easy.” Cosmo sighed. “You know something else, Ed?”

“Yes?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then Cosmo said, “Do you think we could go fishing?”

Eddie stood up and looked out of the window. The evening sun was on the water—a shimmer of red. “I’d love to. There’s Captain Banks—he does stuff for us in the marina. He’s got a boat. He’ll take us out tomorrow, if you like. He says that there are marlin running …”

“Great,” said Cosmo. “I love fishing.”

Eddie looked out at the sea again. He loved fishing too, but he was thinking of something else. He realised that he had rather enjoyed the past few days of interior decorating.

F
OR A SHORT
while after reading the letter Maggie had slipped into his weekend bag, William paced about his flat like a caged lion. His feelings were in turmoil but the predominant emotion brought about by her letter was one of panic. It seemed to him that he had very little room for manoeuvre: Maggie had not suggested a visit to London; she had
announced
it. There had been no enquiry as to whether he thought it a good idea, or whether it suited him; she simply said that she was coming to see him and that he was to keep Friday evening free.

And she had gone further. She had repeated—in quite unequivocal terms—her declaration of love for him. Such a declaration
can be emotionally taxing at the best of times, even when it comes from one in whose breast one hopes such sentiments might be harboured; but when it comes from out of left field, as he thought of it, it can be completely destabilising.

The metaphor that crossed his mind—from out of left field—was unexpected, and for a few moments he was distracted from thoughts of Maggie and her impending visit. Coming out of left field was, he assumed, a baseball expression. William had very little notion of the rules of baseball; it seemed to him that it was rather like the game of rounders, which he had played as a child, and that left field must be the section of the field on the batter’s left. Or was it batsman? That was cricket—another obscure game, but at least one which made perfect sense to him, and to all rational, unexcitable people.

But speculation on metaphors provides at best temporary relief from dread of the sort William was now experiencing. He felt trapped. If he did nothing, Maggie would arrive, and he would be faced with the embarrassment of spelling out to her that they had to avoid seeing one another. In other words, he would have to tell her that their friendship, which went back many years, was over. It would not be an easy task. And if he sought to forestall or prevent her visit, either he would have to come up with some excuse as to why he was not able to see her, or he would have to give her the same brush-off by telephone—which would be excruciatingly difficult—or by letter, which would be heartless. And yet, she had chosen to declare herself in writing, and so he was surely within his rights to reply in the same coin. But was it a matter of rights …?

He sighed. There were occasions in life when the only course of action open to one was to disappear. That was how the late Lord Lucan must have felt, he thought, when he realised that he had made a terrible mistake and that his options were somewhat restricted. Or those other people he had read about who left their
clothes on the beach and departed, under false identities, for South America. It was strange how South America was the preferred destination for people in flight. Was it because there were few questions asked in South American countries, or was their attitude towards fugitives particularly welcoming? If it was the latter, perhaps the immigration forms at their airports had a special box you could tick: where it asked for the reason for travel, alongside
business
and
tourism
there would be a box which said
flight
.

He stopped pacing. His situation was not as bad as Lord Lucan’s. He had done nothing wrong. He had broken no laws, and had not even encouraged Maggie in any way. He had behaved with complete propriety throughout and had nothing to reproach himself for. So what he should do, he decided, was to take a deep breath and do what the British always do in the face of crisis: put the kettle on for tea. That was what they did when they heard the Spanish Armada was heading their way: they had tea. That was what they did when they realised that the Luftwaffe was droning towards them; those pictures of the pilots sitting on the grass in front of their Spitfires—what were they doing? They were drinking tea.

He went through to the kitchen and filled the kettle. A few minutes later, he was sitting in a chair, a cup of tea in his hand, and feeling much calmer. It was then that Marcia arrived.

William was not expecting his friend, but when the door buzzer sounded and he heard her familiar voice through the intercom, he felt a sudden surge of relief. Marcia was
safe
. She was just the person he needed to talk to; indeed she was just the person to take the whole matter off his hands. He would confide in her, ask her advice and then simply get her to sort out the situation for him. How fortunate he was to have such a friend.

Marcia arrived with a tray of sardine canapés.

“The Portuguese embassy again,” she explained airily. “They
were having a small reception for a terribly dull professor who’s here to lecture on some poet or other. Nobody came. Almost as bad as the party at the Icelandic embassy for that person who wrote sagas, or read them or whatever.”

Marcia, whose business Marcia’s Table specialised in catering for diplomatic receptions, often brought William leftovers from these occasions. He had had sardine canapés from the Portuguese embassy before, and rather enjoyed them.

“You’re a real honey,” he said, taking the tray from her and putting it down on the table. He kissed her lightly on each cheek before picking up a canapé; in general it is better to kiss people before you eat sardines, he thought, rather than afterwards.

She was slightly surprised by the warmth of his greeting; she often found William distracted, as if thinking of something else altogether.

“Where’s Freddie de la Hay?” she asked, looking around the room. “He usually greets me.”

In his distress over Maggie’s letter, William had momentarily forgotten about Freddie’s disappearance, and Marcia’s question brought it back to him.

“Oh Marcia, I’ve had an absolutely terrible weekend. Really awful!”

She reached out to touch him gently on the forearm. “Terrible? What’s happened?”

He told her about Freddie de la Hay, and she gripped his arm in sympathy. “William, darling, how …”

“Yes, it’s awful, just awful. Freddie’s dead—I’m sure of it. But it gets worse. I’ve …”

She put her arms about him. “Darling, you just tell me. Then I’ll sort it out. Meantime, have another canapé.”

A
MONG
M
ARCIA’S MANY
good points was an ability to listen sympathetically. As William helped himself to a surplus Portuguese sardine canapé, he told her of his fears for the safety of Freddie de la Hay. Marcia agreed that the situation was not encouraging but urged him not to give up on Freddie just yet.

“
Nil desperandum
, William,” she said soothingly. “It’s the only Latin I know, I’m afraid, but it’s definitely true.”

“Latin makes things sound weightier than they really are,” said William. “But when you come to look at the situation, putting aside Latin expressions, it’s not very good.”