Straight (35 page)

I said, “Do you want to go to his house now, before midnight?”

After a while she said, “I don’t know.”

“Well ... would you like coffee?”

She nodded, still not meeting my eyes, and pushed the linguine away. We sat in silence while waiters took away the plates and poured into cups, and if she couldn’t make up her mind, nor could I.

In the end I said, “If you like, come to Greville’s house now. I’m sleeping there tonight, but that’s not a factor. Come if you like, just to be near him, to be with him as much as you can for maybe the last time. Lie on his bed. Weep for him. I’ll wait for you downstairs ... and take you safely to your hotel before the fairy coach changes back to a pumpkin.”

“Oh!” She turned what was going to be a sob into almost a laugh. “Can I really?”

“Whenever you like.”

“Thank you, then. Yes.”

“I’d better warn you,” I said, “it’s not exactly tidy.” I told her what she would find, but she was inconsolable at the sight of the reality.

“He would have hated this,” she said. “I’m so glad he didn’t see it.”

We were in the small sitting room, and she went round picking up the pink and brown stone bears, restoring them to their tray.

“I gave him these,” she said. “He loved them. They’re rhodonite, he said.”

“Take them to remember him by. And there’s a gold watch you gave him, if you’d like that too.”

She paused with the last bear in her hand and said, “You’re very kind to me.”

“It’s not difficult. And he’d have been furious with me if I weren’t.”

“I’d love the bears. You’d better keep the watch, because of the engraving.”

“OK,” I said.

“I think,” she said with diffidence, “I’ll go upstairs now.”

I nodded.

“Come with me,” she said.

I looked at her. Her eyes were wide and troubled, but not committed, not hungry. Undecided. Like myself.

“All right,” I said.

“Is there chaos up there too?”

“I picked some of it up.”

She went up the stairs ahead of me at about four times my speed, and I heard her small moan of distress at the desecration of the bedroom. When I joined her, she was standing forlornly looking around, and with naturalness she turned to me and put her arms loosely round my waist, laying her head on my shoulder. I shed the confounded crutches and hugged her tight in grief for her and for Greville and we stood there for a long minute in mutual and much-needed comfort.

She let her arms fall away and went over to sit on the bed, smoothing a hand over the black and white checkerboard bedspread.

“He was going to change this room,” she said. “All this drama ...” She waved a hand at the white furniture, the black carpet, one black wall. “It came with the house. He wanted me to choose something softer, that I would like. But this is how I’ll always remember it.”

She lay down flat, her head on the pillows, her legs toward the foot of the bed, ankles crossed. I half-hopped, half-limped across the room and sat on the edge beside her.

She watched me with big eyes. I put my hand flat on her stomach and felt the sharp internal contraction of muscles.

“Should we do this?” she said.

“I’m not Greville.”

“No ... Would he mind?”

“I shouldn’t think so.” I moved my hand, rubbing a little. “Do you want to go on?”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” I said.

She sat up fast and put her arms round my neck in a sort of released compulsion.

“I do want this,” she said. “I’ve wanted it all day. I’ve been pretending to myself, telling myself I shouldn’t, but yes, I do want this passionately, and I know you’re not Greville, I know it will be different, but this is the only way I can love him ... and can you bear it, can you understand it, if it’s him I love?”

I understood it well, and I minded not at all.

I said, smiling, “Just don’t
call
me Greville. It would be the turn-off of the century.”

She took her face away from the proximity of my ear and looked me in the eyes, and her lips too, after a moment, were smiling.

“Derek,” she said deliberately, “make love to me. Please.”

“Don’t beg,” I said.

I put my mouth on hers and took my brother’s place.

 

As a memorial service it was quite a success. I lay in the dark laughing in my mind at that disgraceful pun, wondering whether or not to share it with Clarissa.

The catharsis was over, and her tears. She lay with her head on my chest lightly asleep, contented, as far as I could tell, with the substitute loving. Women said men were not all the same in the dark, and I knew both where I’d surprised her and failed her, known what I’d done like Greville and not done like Greville from the instinctive releases and tensions of her reactions.

Greville, I now knew, had been a lucky man, though whether he had himself taught her how to give exquisite pleasure was something I couldn’t quite ask. She knew, though, and she’d done it, and the feeling of her featherlight tattooing fingers on the base of my spine at the moment of climax had been a revelation. Knowledge marched on, I thought. Next time, with anyone else, I’d know what to suggest.

Clarissa stirred and I turned my wrist over, seeing the fluorescent hands of my watch.

“Wake up,” I said affectionately. “It’s Cinderella time.”

“Ohh ...”

I stretched out a hand and turned on a bedside light. She smiled at me sleepily, no doubts remaining.

“That was all right,” she said.

“Mm. Very.”

“How’s the ankle?”

“What ankle?”

She propped herself on one elbow, unashamed of nakedness, and laughed at me. She looked younger and sweeter, and I was seeing, I knew, what Greville had seen, what Greville had loved.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “my friend’s wedding will be over by six or so. Can I come here again?” She put her fingers lightly on my mouth to stop me answering at once. “This time was for him,” she said. “Tomorrow for us. Then I’ll go home.”

“Forever?”

“Yes, I think so. What I had with Greville was unforgettable and unrepeatable. I decided on the train coming down here that whatever happened with you, or didn’t happen, I would live with Henry, and do my best there.”

“I could easily love you,” I said.

“Yes, but don’t.”

I knew she was right. I kissed her lightly.

“Tomorrow for us,” I agreed. “Then goodbye.”

 

When I went into the office in the morning, Annette told me crossly that Jason hadn’t turned up for work, nor had he telephoned to say he was ill.

Jason had been prudent, I thought. I’d have tossed him down the elevator shaft, insolence, orange hair and all, given half an ounce of provocation.

“He won’t be coming back,” I said, “so we’ll need a replacement.”

She was astonished. “You can’t sack him for not turning up. You can’t sack him for anything without paying compensation.”

“Stop worrying,” I said, but she couldn’t take that advice.

June came zooming into Greville’s office waving a tabloid newspaper and looking at me with wide incredulous eyes.

“Did you know you’re in the paper? Lucky to be alive, it says here. You didn’t say anything about it!”

“Let’s see,” I said, and she laid the
Daily Sensation
open on the black desk.

There was a picture of the smash in which one could more or less see my head inside the Daimler, but not recognizably. The headline read “Driver shot, jockey lives,” and the piece underneath listed the lucky-to-be-alive passengers as Mr. and Mrs. Ostermeyer of Pittsburgh, America, and ex-champion steeplechase jockey Derek Franklin. The police were reported to be interested in a gray Volvo seen accelerating from the scene, and also to have recovered two bullets from the bodywork of the Daimler. After that tidbit came a rehash of the Hungerford massacre and a query, “Is this a copycat killing?” and finally a picture of Simms looking happy: “Survived by wife and two daughters who were last night being comforted by relatives.”

Poor Simms. Poor family. Poor every shot victim in Hungerford.

“It happened on Sunday,” June exclaimed, “and you came here on Monday and yesterday as if nothing was wrong. No wonder you looked knackered.”

“June!” Annette disapproved of the word.

“Well, he did. Still does.” She gave me a critical, kindly, motherly-sisterly inspection. “He could have been killed, and then what would we all have done here?”

The dismay in Annette’s face was a measure, I supposed, of the degree to which I had taken over. The place no longer felt like quicksand to me either and I was beginning by necessity to get a feel of its pulse.

But there was racing at Cheltenham that day. I turned the pages of the newspaper and came to the runners and riders. That was where my name belonged, not on Saxony Franklin checks. June looked over my shoulder and understood at least something of my sense of exile.

“When you go back to your own world,” she said, rephrasing her thought and asking it seriously, “what will we do here?”

“We have a month,” I said. “It’ll take me that time to get fit.” I paused. “I’ve been thinking about that problem, and, er, you might as well know, both of you, what I’ve decided.”

They both looked apprehensive, but I smiled to reassure them.

“What we’ll do,” I said, “is this. Annette will have a new title, which will be Office Manager. She’ll run things generally and keep the keys.”

She didn’t look displeased. She repeated “Office Manager” as if trying it on for size.

I nodded. “Then I’ll start looking from now on for a business expert, someone to oversee the cash flow and do the accounts and try to keep us afloat. Because it’s going to be a struggle, we can’t avoid that.”

They both looked shocked and disbelieving. Cash flow seemed never to have been a problem before.

“Greville did buy diamonds,” I said regretfully, “and so far we are only in possession of a quarter of them. I can’t find out what happened to the rest. They cost the firm altogether one and a half million dollars, and we’ll still owe the bank getting on for three-quarters of that sum when we’ve sold the quarter we have.”

Their mouths opened in unhappy unison.

“Unless and until the other diamonds turn up,” I said, “we have to pay interest on the loan and persuade the bank that somehow or other we’ll climb out of the hole. So we’ll want someone we’ll call the Finance Manager, and we’ll pay him out of part of what used to be Greville’s own salary.”

They began to understand the mechanics, and nodded.

“Then,” I said, “we need a gemologist who has a feeling for stones and understands what the customers like and need. There’s no good hoping for another Greville, but we will create the post of Merchandise Manager, and that,” I looked at her, “will be June.”

She blushed a fiery red. “But I can’t ... I don’t know enough.”

“You’ll go on courses,” I said. “You’ll go to trade fairs. You’ll travel. You’ll do the buying.”

I watched her expand her horizons abruptly and saw the sparkle appear in her eyes.

“She’s too young,” Annette objected.

“We’ll see,” I said, and to June I added, “You know what sells. You and the Finance Manager will work together to make us the best possible profit. You’ll still work the computer, and teach Lily or Tina how to use it for when you’re away.”

“Tina,” she said, “she’s quicker.”

“Tina, then.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“I’ll be General Manager. I’ll come when I can, at least twice a week for a couple of hours. Everyone will tell me what’s going on and we will all decide what is best to be done, though if there’s a disagreement I’ll have the casting vote. Right or wrong will be my responsibility, not yours.”

Annette, nevertheless troubled, said, “Surely you yourself will need Mr. Franklin’s salary.”

I shook my head. “I earn enough riding horses. Until we’re solvent here, we need to save every penny.”

“It’s an adventure!” June said, enraptured.

I thought it might be a very long haul and even in the end impossible, but I couldn’t square it with the consciousness of Greville all around me not to try.

“Well,” I said, putting a hand in a pocket and bringing out a twist of gauze, “we have here five uncut diamonds which cost about seventy-five thousand dollars altogether.”

They more or less gasped.

“How do we sell them?” I said.

After a pause, Annette said, “Interest a diamantaire.”

“Do you know how to do that?”

After another moment’s hesitation, she nodded.

“We can give provenance,” I said. “Copies of the records of the original sale are on their way here from Guy Servi in Antwerp. They might be here tomorrow. Sight-box number and so on. We’ll put those stones in the vault until the papers arrive, then you can get cracking.”

She nodded, but fearfully.

“Cheer up,” I said. “It’s clear from the ledgers that Saxony Franklin is normally a highly successful and profitable business. We’ll have to cut costs where we can, that’s all.”

“We could cut out Jason’s salary,” Annette said unexpectedly. “Half the time Tina’s been carrying the heavy boxes, anyway, and I can do the vacuuming myself.”

“Great,” I said with gratitude. “If you feel like that, we’ll succeed.”

The telephone rang and Annette answered it briefly.

“A messenger has left a packet for you down at the front desk,” she said.

“I’ll go for it,” June said, and was out of the door on the words, returning in her usual short time with a brown padded Jiffy bag, not very large, addressed simply to Derek Franklin in neat handwriting, which she laid before me with a flourish.

“Mind it’s not a bomb,” she said facetiously as I picked it up, and I thought with an amount of horror that it was a possibility I hadn’t thought of.