To Room Nineteen (27 page)

‘From the BBC,’ said Graham to Barbara, again sounding abrupt, against his will. ‘Oh I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I forgot all about it. I’ve got to be interviewed,’ she said to the group. ‘Mr Spence is a journalist.’ Graham allowed himself a small smile ironical of the word journalist, but she was not looking at him. She was going on with her work. ‘We should decide tonight,’ she said. ‘Steven’s right.’ ‘Yes, I am right,’ said the stagehand. ‘She’s right, James, we need that blue with that sludge-green everywhere.’ ‘James,’ said Barbara, ‘James, what’s wrong with it? You haven’t said.’ She moved forward to James, passing Graham. Remembering him again, she became contrite. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘we can none of us agree. Well, look’ – she turned to Graham – ‘you advise us, we’ve got so involved, with it that …’ At which James laughed, and so did the stagehands. ‘No, Babs,’ said James, ‘of course Mr Spence
can’t advise. He’s just this moment come in. We’ve got to decide. Well, I’ll give you till tomorrow morning. Time to go home, it must be six by now.’

‘It’s nearly seven,’ said Graham, taking command.

‘It isn’t!’ said Barbara, dramatic. ‘My God, how terrible, how appalling, how could I have done such a thing …’ She was laughing at herself. ‘Well, you’ll have to forgive me, Mr Spence, because you haven’t got any alternative.’

They began laughing again: this was clearly a group joke. And now Graham took his chance. He said firmly, as if he were her director, in fact copying James Poynter’s manner with her: ‘No, Miss Coles, I won’t forgive you, I’ve been kicking my heels for nearly an hour.’ She grimaced, then laughed and accepted it. James said: ‘There, Babs, that’s how you ought to be treated. We spoil you.’ He kissed her on the cheek, she kissed him on both his, the stagehands moved off. ‘Have a good evening, Babs,’ said James, going, and nodding to Graham. Who stood concealing his pleasure with difficulty. He knew, because he had had the courage to be firm, indeed, peremptory, with Barbara, that he had saved himself hours of manoeuvring. Several drinks, a dinner – perhaps two or three evenings of drinks and dinners – had been saved because he was now on this footing with Barbara Coles, a man who could say: ‘No, I won’t forgive you, you’ve kept me waiting.’

She said: ‘I’ve just got to …’ and went ahead of him. In the passage she hung her overall on a peg. She was thinking, it seemed, of something else, but seeing him watching her, she smiled at him, companionably: he realized with triumph it was the sort of smile she would offer one of the stagehands, or even James. She said again: ‘Just one second …’ and went to the stage-door office. She and the stage doorman conferred. There was some problem. Graham said, taking another chance: ‘What’s the trouble, can I help?’ – as if he could help, as if he expected to be able to. ‘Well …’ she said, frowning. Then, to the man: ‘No, it’ll be all right. Good night.’ She came to Graham. ‘We’ve got ourselves into a bit of a fuss because half the set’s in Liverpool and half’s here and – but it will sort itself out.’ She stood, at ease, chatting to him, one colleague to
another. All this was admirable, he felt; but there would be a bad moment when they emerged from the special atmosphere of the theatre into the street. He took another decision, grasped her arm firmly, and said: ‘We’re going to have a drink before we do anything at all, it’s a terrible evening out.’ Her arm felt resistant, but remained within his. It was raining outside, luckily. He directed her, authoritative: ‘No, not that pub, there’s a nicer one around the corner.’ ‘Oh, but I like this pub,’ said Barbara, ‘we always use it.’

‘Of course, you do,’ he said to himself. But in that pub there would be the stagehands, and probably James, and he’d lose contact with her. He’d become a
journalist
again. He took her firmly out of danger around two corners, into a pub he picked at random. A quick look around – no, they weren’t there. At least, if there were people from the theatre, she showed no sign. She asked for a beer. He ordered her a double Scotch, which she accepted. Then, having won a dozen preliminary rounds already, he took time to think. Something was bothering him – what? Yes, it was what he had observed backstage, Barbara and James Poynter. Was she having an affair with him? Because if so, it would all be much more difficult. He made himself see the two of them together, and thought with a jealousy surprisingly strong:
Yes, that’s it.
Meantime he sat looking at her, seeing himself look at her,
a man gazing in calm appreciation at a woman:
waiting for her to feel it and respond. She was examining the pub. Her white woollen suit was belted, and had a not unprovocative suggestion of being a uniform. Her flat yellow hair, hastily pushed back after work, was untidy. Her clear white skin, without any colour, made her look tired. Not very exciting, at the moment, thought Graham but maintaining his appreciative pose for when she would turn and see it. He knew what she would see: he was relying not only on the ‘warm kindly’ beam of his gaze, for this was merely a reinforcement of the impression he knew he made. He had black hair, a little greyed. His clothes were loose and bulky – masculine. His eyes were humorous and appreciative. He was not, never had been, concerned to lessen the impression of being settled, dependable: the husband and father. On the contrary, he knew women found it reassuring.

When she at last turned she said, almost apologetic: ‘Would you mind if we sat down? I’ve been lugging great things around all day.’ She had spotted two empty chairs in a corner. So had he, but rejected them, because there were other people at the table. ‘But my dear, of course!’ They took the chairs, and then Barbara said: ‘If you’ll excuse me a moment.’ She had remembered she needed makeup. He watched her go off, annoyed with himself. She was tired; and he could have understood, protected, sheltered. He realized that in the other pub, with the people she had worked with all day, she would not have thought: ‘I must make myself up, I must be on show.’ That was for outsiders. She had not, until now, considered Graham an outsider, because of his taking his chance to seem one of the working group in the theatre; but now he had thrown this opportunity away. She returned armoured. Her hair was sleek, no longer defenceless. And she had made up her eyes. Her eyebrows were untouched, pale gold streaks above the brilliant green eyes whose lashes were blackened. Rather good, he thought, the contrast. Yes, but the moment had gone when he could say: Do you know you had a smudge on your cheek? Or – my dear girl! – pushing her hair back with the edge of a brotherly hand. In fact, unless he was careful, he’d be back at starting point.

He remarked: ‘That emerald is very cunning’ – smiling into her eyes.

She smiled politely, and said: ‘It’s not cunning, it’s an accident, it was my grandmother’s.’ She flirted her hand lightly by her face, though, smiling. But that was something she had done before, to a compliment she had had before, and often. It was all social, she had become social entirely. She remarked: ‘Didn’t you say it was half-past nine we had to record?’

‘My dear Barbara, we’ve got two hours. We’ll have another drink or two, then I’ll ask you a couple of questions, then we’ll drop down to the studio and get it over, and then we’ll have a comfortable supper.’

‘I’d rather eat now, if you don’t mind. I had no lunch, and I’m really hungry.’

‘But my dear, of course.’ He was angry. Just as he had been
surprised by his real jealousy over James, so now he was thrown off balance by his anger: he had been counting on the long quiet dinner afterwards to establish intimacy. ‘Finish your drink and I’ll take you to Nott’s.’ Nott’s was expensive. He glanced at her assessingly as he mentioned it. She said: ‘I wonder if you know Butler’s? It’s good and it’s rather close.’ Butler’s was good, and it was cheap, and he gave her a good mark for liking it. But Nott’s it was going to be. ‘My dear, we’ll get into a taxi and be at Nott’s in a moment, don’t worry.’

She obediently got to her feet: the way she did it made him undersand how badly he had slipped. She was saying to herself: Very well, he’s like that, then all right, I’ll do what he wants and get it over with …

Swallowing his own drink he followed her, and took her arm in the pub doorway. It was polite within his. Outside it drizzled. No taxi. He was having bad luck now. They walked in silence to the end of the street. There Barbara glanced into a side street where a sign said:
BUTLER’S.
Not to remind him of it, on the contrary, she concealed the glance. And here she was, entirely at his disposal, they might never have shared the comradely moment in the theatre.

They walked half a mile to Nott’s. No taxis. She made conversation: this was, he saw, to cover any embarrassment he might feel because of a half-mile walk through rain when she was tired. She was talking about some theory to do with the theatre, with designs for theatre building. He heard himself saying, and repeatedly: Yes, yes, yes. He thought about Nott’s. There he took the headwaiter aside, gave him a pound, and instructions. They were put in a corner. Large Scotches appeared. The menus were spread. ‘And now, my dear,’ he said, ‘I apologize for dragging you here, but I hope you’ll think it’s worth it.’

‘Oh, it’s charming, I’ve always liked it. It’s just that …’ She stopped herself saying: it’s such a long way. She smiled at him, raising her glass, and said: ‘It’s one of my very favourite places, and I’m glad you dragged me here.’ Her voice was flat with tiredness. All this was appalling; he knew it; and he sat thinking how to retrieve his position. Meanwhile she fingered the menu. The
headwaiter took the order, but Graham made a gesture which said: Wait a moment. He wanted the Scotch to take effect before she ate. But she saw his silent order; and, without annoyance or reproach, leaned forward to say, sounding patient: ‘Graham, please, I’ve got to eat, you don’t want me drunk when you interview me, do you?’

‘They are bringing it as fast as they can,’ he said, making it sound as if she were greedy. He looked neither at the headwaiter nor at Barbara. He noted in himself, as he slipped farther and farther away from contact with her, a cold determination growing in him; one apart from, apparently, any conscious act of will, that come what may, if it took all night, he’d be in her bed before morning. And now, seeing the small pale face, with the enormous green eyes, it was for the first time that he imagined her in his arms. Although he had said:
Yes, that one,
weeks ago, it was only now that he imagined her as a sensual experience. Now he did, so strongly that he could only glance at her, and then away towards the waiters who were bringing food.

‘Thank the Lord,’ said Barbara, and all at once her voice was gay and intimate. ‘Thank heavens. Thank every power that is …’ She was making fun of her own exaggeration; and, as he saw, because she wanted to put him at his ease after his boorishness over delaying the food. (She hadn’t been taken in, he saw, humiliated, disliking her.) ‘Thank all the gods of Nott’s,’ she went on, ‘because if I hadn’t eaten inside five minutes I’d have died, I tell you.’ With which she picked up her knife and fork and began on her steak. He poured wine, smiling with her, thinking that
this
moment of closeness he would not throw away. He watched her frank hunger as she ate, and thought: Sensual – it’s strange I hadn’t wondered whether she would be or not.

‘Now,’ she said, sitting back, having taken the edge off her hunger: ‘Let’s get to work.’

He said: ‘I’ve thought it over very carefully – how to present you. The first thing seems to me, we must get away from that old chestnut: Miss Coles, how extraordinary for a woman to be so versatile in her work … I hope you agree?’ This was his trump card. He had noted, when he had seen her on television, her polite
smile when this note was struck. (The smile he had seen so often tonight.) This smile said: All right, if you
have
to be stupid, what can I do?

Now she laughed and said: ‘What a relief. I was afraid you were going to do the same thing.’

‘Good, now you eat and I’ll talk.’

In his carefully prepared monologue he spoke of the different styles of theatre she had shown herself mistress of, but not directly: he was flattering her on the breadth of her experience; the complexity of her character, as shown in her work. She ate, steadily, her face showing nothing. At last she asked: ‘And how did you plan to introduce this?’

He had meant to spring that on her as a surprise, something like: Miss Coles, a surprisingly young woman for what she has accomplished (she was thirty? thirty-two?) and a very attractive one … ‘Perhaps I can give you an idea of what she’s like if I say she could be taken for the film star Marie Carletta …’ The Carletta was a strong earthy blonde, known to be intellectual. He now saw he could not possibly say this: he could imagine her cool look if he did. She said: ‘Do you mind if we get away from all that – my manifold talents, et cetera …’ He felt himself stiffen with annoyance; particularly because this was not an accusation, he saw she did not think him worth one. She had assessed him: This is the kind of man who uses this kind of flattery and therefore … It made him angrier that she did not even trouble to say: Why did you do exactly what you promised you wouldn’t? She was being invincibly polite, trying to conceal her patience with his stupidity.

‘After all,’ she was saying, ‘it is a stage designer’s job to design what comes up. Would anyone take, let’s say Johnnie Cranmore’ (another stage designer) ‘on to the air or television and say: How very versatile you are because you did that musical about Java last month and a modern play about Irish labourers this?’

He battened down his anger. ‘My dear Barbara, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that what I said would sound just like the mixture as before. So what shall we talk about?’

‘What I was saying as we walked to the restaurant: can we get away from the personal stuff?’

Now he almost panicked. Then, thank God, he laughed from nervousness, for she laughed and said: ‘You didn’t hear one word I said.’

‘No, I didn’t. I was frightened you were going to be furious because I made you walk so far when you were tired.’

They laughed together, back to where they had been in the theatre. He leaned over, took her hand, kissed it. He said: ‘Tell me again.’ He thought: Damn, now she’s going to be earnest and intellectual.