Dancing in the Dark (8 page)

‘Mmm,' I say.

‘I tried to get her to come down and stay with us, but she says she prefers to be in a hotel.' Terry turns to Max. ‘What's the name of that funny little place she likes on the Edgware Road?'

‘Can't remember – some name that sounds like a Chinese takeaway.'

‘Lotus Flower Hotel, that's right.'

I nod, hoping they don't realize that I haven't heard about this visit.

‘We'll miss her, anyway,' Max says. ‘We're off to Corfu for a couple of weeks.'

I smile at them both. ‘You lucky things.'

‘Why don't you join us, darling?' says Terry. ‘There's plenty of room. And you look as though you could do with a holiday.'

‘I'm far too busy,' I say, though right now, the thought of a few days in the sun, doing absolutely nothing, is incredibly tempting.

Irritatingly, Fergus Costello appears at my side again, and the Cartwrights move off elsewhere with what seems to be over-elaborate tact.

‘That's what you call a truly happy union,' he says, watching as they join Charlie and Caro. ‘You look at those two and you understand what it's all supposed to be about.' His eyes slide up my face. ‘Are you married, Theodora?'

‘I was, but it didn't work out.'

‘Why not?'

‘All sorts of reasons,' I say lightly. I have to admit that sometimes I think of Harvey with regret. His reasons for wanting to get married might have been the wrong ones, but so were mine. We lasted five years before we split up; they weren't unhappy years, just rather meaningless.

‘So why did you choose him in the first place?'

‘He's twenty years older than I am. He offered me safety and I took it.'

‘What did you offer him?'

I shrug. ‘Who knows what these bargains entail?'

‘Is that how you see marriage? As a bargain?'

‘Isn't it? In return for security, he got a young body in bed. A dutiful hostess. A chatelaine to take care of his home. Which, let me say, I enjoyed doing.'

‘So why did you split up?'

‘In the end, it came down to the chains,' I say, to my own surprise. I'm not in the habit of talking so freely to virtual strangers.

‘Chains? Do you mean real, or symbolic?'

‘Both. Every birthday, every Christmas, Harvey gave me another chain. Solid. Beautiful. Expensive. Red gold, yellow gold, rose gold. I started to feel as though they were a slave collar, like a badge of servitude.'

‘Pretty classy servitude.'

‘Servitude, all the same.' On my twenty-sixth birthday, seeing the by-now-familiar shape of the package beside my plate, I'd panicked. I have nothing against gold, but I prefer it in ingots, stashed in a bank vault, rather than hanging down between my boobs. As I picked up the package and began to tear off the wrapping, I had an absolutely clear image of myself ten, fifteen, twenty years down the line, shoulders bowed, forehead scraping the ground from the accumulated weight of all the chains I'd been loaded with. ‘It was the way he looked at me when I put the last chain round my neck. Exactly the same as when he bought a new car or a new tie. I realized that as far as he was concerned, I was just another chattel. Another asset.'

‘So what happened?'

‘A week later I left him. It was all very amicable.'

‘Where is he now?'

‘Happily remarried, with a clutch of babies puking all over his Savile Row tailoring.'

‘And you have no regrets?'

‘Very rarely. What about you?'

‘I've been in a couple of long-term relationships but nothing serious.' He looks at me quizzically and I know he's wondering if I've read about him in the papers.

I pretend I haven't. ‘Does it worry you, still being single?'

‘A little. No, actually, that's not true. I'm heading towards forty, and it worries me a lot. If I'm not careful, I'll end up as a crusty old bachelor. Trouble is, I'm too much of a wanderer. I never stay in one place very long – I just have to hope that one day I'll meet someone who doesn't mind.'

‘It won't be me,' I say, before I can stop myself. ‘I had enough of the gypsy life when I was a child. I never really acquired the taste for it.'

‘Your father was in the services, was he?'

‘Erm . . . yes. Do you have a base somewhere?'

‘A houseboat in Chelsea.'

‘Very suitable.' A houseboat is not exactly a high-powered motor boat, but there's still a sense of impermanence about it.

‘I suppose even my home reflects my restlessness,' Fergus says, as though reading my mind.

‘Always ready for a quick getaway, right?'

‘Right.' He lifts his glass to the light and looks through it. ‘How would you describe that gorgeous colour?'

‘Crimson? Ruby?'

‘Vermilion. Garnet. I never understand why they talk about the blood-red wine.
The King sits in Dumfernline toun, drinking the bluid-red wine
. . . even in Scotland, one of the great non-wine-growing regions of the world, it can't have been anything like the colour of blood.'

‘Mulberry,' I said.

‘Mulberry is good.' He smiles at me. ‘Yes, I'm still single because, in my experience, women don't like being on the move all the time, they prefer to settle down in one place.'

‘I'm like that.'

‘How did I guess?'

I ignore that. ‘Are you working on a book at the moment?'

‘Naturally. That's what I do. At least . . .' He rubs at his cheek. ‘I'm
trying
to work on a book. This one's proving difficult to get down to.'

‘What's it about?'

‘Everything. Nothing. Life.' He hesitates. ‘I just got back from Mexico. I'm interested in a painter called Lennart Wells. Ever heard of him?'

I shake my head.

‘Some years ago Wells walked out of his house and vanished into the Mexican jungle. Every now and then one of his paintings appears on the market but nobody ever sees him. I thought it might be fun to try and track him down, see if he would talk to me, tell me why he literally got away from it all. It sounds like a story I could work with.'

‘Didn't Somerset Maugham already write that one?'

‘
The Moon and Sixpence,
yeah. But I'd be approaching it from a different perspective. It could be good. But it's still very nebulous.'

‘Is it difficult, being a writer?'

‘A lot of the time. But when it works, it's the biggest buzz in the world.'

‘It must be hard to think of new plots.'

‘They say there are no new stories, only new ways of telling them. That's what I like about the job. Putting words together and ending up with a story.' A sudden glow of enthusiasm shines in his eyes. ‘Ever appreciated how fortunate we are to live in a world so crammed with words, where everything,
everything
, has a name? Everything. And not just one name but many, alternate names, names in every language, hundreds and thousands of them, millions?'

‘Once you've named something, I guess that kind of ties it down.'

‘That's exactly right.' He moves closer. ‘Did you know that the English language, as spoken in the British Isles, contains more than half a million words?'

‘I didn't.'

‘But you know about writing yourself,' he says. ‘I've got copies of your books. I especially liked the one about container gardens. That's the sort of gardening I'd enjoy.'

A woman who's been eyeing us for some time now comes over. ‘You're Theo Cairns, aren't you?'

‘Yes. And this is Fergus Costello.'

‘Ah.' She tries to remember why she knows the name and then gives up on it. ‘Forgive me interrupting, but I saw one of your miniature gardens recently and thought it was absolutely exquisite. I loved the little pagoda. And the musicians –
so
adorable!'

‘They're great, aren't they?'

‘I was at a banquet at the Guildhall recently,' she goes on. ‘The tabletops you did there were absolutely stunning.'

‘Well . . .' I spread my hands deprecatingly. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.'

She leaves and Fergus leans into me. ‘The price of celebrity is eternal prominence,' he says.

I can't resist. ‘It's the other way round in your case, isn't it?'

It's a weak witticism, but he laughs ruefully. ‘It can't be true, it was in the papers.'

I dredge up further information from my memory. In addition to his exploits in the boudoir, he's also something of a literary firebrand. Writes columns for the heavyweight Sundays. He's a Booker-prize commentator who can always be relied on to produce a controversial point of view. Is often on television arts programmes, not that I ever have time to watch, or I might have made the connections sooner. Over his shoulder, I can see Carolyn watching us with a little smile on her face.

‘
Carpe diem
, that's my motto,' Fergus says, draining his glass.

‘I have no problem seizing the day,' I say, ‘as long as I know what's happening the day after.'

‘How can anyone expect to know that?'

‘If you organize yourself well enough, you ought to be able to, to a large extent.'

‘You can't possibly believe such a thing.'

‘Why not?'

‘Even assuming that you'll never be caught up in accident or chance, you'd lose all the excitement of wondering what's going to happen next.'

‘I don't like nasty surprises.'

‘What about nice ones?'

‘I don't like them either.'

‘No leaps in the dark, Theodora? No acting on impulse, running after rainbows? Just safety, security?'

‘What lovely words those are.'

‘I suspect you don't allow yourself to enjoy things.' He looks down at me. ‘I'd much rather go on talking to you,' he says. ‘But Caro will never forgive me if I don't mingle.'

After he's gone, Charlie materializes. ‘Are you well, Theo?' he asks. ‘You look as though you're not getting enough sleep.'

‘Pressure of work.'

‘Maybe you should slow down.'

‘One of these days, I may be able to afford to, but I haven't got there yet.'

‘How much money does one need to make one happy?'

‘A lot more than I've got.' I don't think about happiness, only about security, though in my case, they're the same thing. ‘It's a lovely party, Charlie.'

‘Glad you're enjoying it. Uh . . . how're you getting along with Fergus?'

‘Charles,' I say, ‘you're a wonderful father, a top-notch psychiatrist and an all-round super human being but you don't do nonchalant very well. Is this what I think it is?'

‘Depends what you think it is.'

‘A heavy-handed attempt to get uptight Theo together with free-spirited Fergus?'

His kind face goes red. ‘Absolutely not,' he blusters. ‘I didn't say anything like that.'

‘But close enough, I bet. Darling Charlie, it's sweet of you and Caro to care, but he's not my type.'

Charlie goes off to fill more glasses and I move about, too, exchanging news with people I've known – thanks to the Cartwrights – for more than half my life.

The spicy scent of the pinks in Caro's flowerbeds is intoxicating. Bending down to brush a finger against the serrated petals, I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. Delicious. When I straighten up and turn back into the party, Fergus Costello is there. For a still moment, we look at each other. I have the impression that I am standing on the edge of an abyss. I am somewhere I cannot afford to be. I take a deep breath.

He seizes both my hands. ‘Come to Corfu with me.'

‘What?'

‘Corfu . . . I'm thinking of going back there.'

‘To the Cartwrights' place, do you mean?'

‘No, somewhere else. I don't yet know where. Why don't you come with me?'

‘You don't even know me.'

‘I know enough.'

‘I don't know you,' I say, though for a minute, I am almost persuaded. Then I remember the newspaper scandal. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls,' I say.

He ignores the feeble remark. ‘Come with me.'

How tempting it is to think of taking a break. ‘I don't do spontaneous,' I say. ‘When are you going?'

‘I haven't fixed it up yet – but if you'd agree to join me, I'd organize it straight away.' He moves closer. ‘Will you come?'

I laugh. The idea is insane. ‘Are you on drugs or something? Of course I won't.'

‘Why not?'

‘I have work to do. A business to run.' I take another deep breath. ‘I can't just take off.'

‘Don't decide now,' he says. ‘I'll call you.'

‘I won't change my mind.' I recall the pictures in the papers, the sexy mouth and revealing cotton T-shirt of the woman he's supposed to have been two-timing. ‘But thank you
very
much for asking.'

He raises his eyebrow, gives a little shrug, turns away.

What I'd like to do is run after him, grab his arm, tell him that wherever he's going, I'll come along. But I think of my mother, of our footloose lifestyle, the way I felt every time I found our suitcases lying open on the floor, signalling that we were off again. I think of my house, my gardens, my strong roots.

Then Jenny takes my elbow. She looks at me, eyes glowing, teeth gleaming, hair shining with good health and joy. If anyone ever wants a poster-girl for happiness, Jenny's the one. When we were younger I used to imagine that if I touched her skin, the tip of my finger would gleam, as though the gold dust of her well-being would rub off on me.

‘Jeez,' she says. ‘You look terrible, Theo.'

‘So I needn't have bothered having my hair done and spending a fortune on a new dress.'

‘I didn't mean that. And I love the hair. But look at the shadows under your eyes. And you're as thin as a pin. What on earth are you doing to yourself?'