“Hello, John. I hope you’ve got a good dinner for us tonight.”
In the meantime, Flora made her way upstairs and found a ladies’ that was a marvel of floral wallpaper and mauve flouncing. She took off her coat, hung it up, and went to the mirror to comb her hair. For the occasion she had put on her turquoise wool skirt (inevitable, as she had no other) and a long-sleeved black sweater. But she had dressed without enthusiasm, not really wanting to keep this date with Brian, but knowing that she had no excuse for getting out of it. Because of that, she had taken little trouble with her appearance, yet it seemed to be one of those times when everything looked right. Her hair shone like a fall of silk, her skin bloomed, her dark eyes were bright.
“You look so pretty,” Isobel had said.
“You’re glittering like something off a Christmas tree,” Brian had told her as he packed her into his car, a shining maroon 3.5-liter Mercedes. Flora had found time to wonder whether Brian had paid for it, or his wife. The drive from Fernrigg had been immensely fast, though otherwise without incident, and they had talked of trivialities. Whether this had been Brian’s intention or Flora’s own, she was not entirely sure.
She went downstairs. The bar was crowded, but Brian had somehow managed to get the best table by the fire. When she appeared through the door he stood up and waited for her to join him. She was aware of being watched. Eyes followed her across the room as though the sight of a woman who was unfamiliar, young, and attractive, was something not to be missed.
He smiled, as much for the audience as for her.
“Come and sit by the fire. I’ve ordered you a drink.” They sat down, and he reached in his pocket and took out a gold cigarette case and held it out to her. When she shook her head, he took one for himself and lit it with a gold lighter that had his initials engraved upon it. He already had a tumbler of whisky on the table before him, but now Flora’s drink came, borne on a silver tray.
The glass was frosted with ice. “What is it?”
“It’s a martini, of course. What else would it be?” Flora was about to tell him that she never drank martinis, but he went on, “And I ordered it specially dry, the way you like them.”
As he had apparently gone to so much trouble, it seemed churlish to refuse the drink. Flora took it from the tray and the cold burned her fingers. Brian raised his whisky to her, and his eyes watched her across the rim of the tumbler.
“Slaintheva,” he said.
“I don’t speak the language.”
“It means ‘good health.’ It’s Gaelic. The only word of Gaelic I’ve learned since I’ve lived here.”
“I’m sure it’s a very useful word. I’m sure it gets you out of all sorts of awkward situations.”
He smiled, and she took a mouthful of the martini and almost choked. It was like drinking cold fire, and took her breath away. Gasping, she set down the glass and he laughed at her. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s so strong.”
“Rubbish, you ought to be used to them. You never used to drink anything else.”
“I haven’t had one … lately.”
“Rose, you’re not reforming, are you?” He sounded genuinely concerned. “I couldn’t bear it. You used to drink martinis without batting an eyelid, and chain-smoke to boot.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. Gauloises. You see, I haven’t forgotten a single detail.”
She tried easing out of this. “I do smoke still, but not very often.”
“It must be the influence of a good man.”
“I suppose you mean Antony?”
“Who else would I mean? I can’t believe there have been that number of good men in your life.”
“All right, so it’s Antony.”
Brian shook his head, a man bewildered. “What on earth induced you to get engaged to him?”
Having the conversation steered into such intimacy, so early in the evening, was a little like finding oneself skating on the thinnest possible ice. Flora became wary. “I should have thought there was every reason in the world.”
“Give me one.”
“I might, if it was your business.”
“Of course it’s my business. Everything you do is my business. But somehow it’s wrong. You and Antony don’t match. You’re not a couple. When Anna told me you were going to marry him, I could scarcely believe it. Still can’t, for that matter.”
“Don’t you like Antony?”
“Everybody likes Antony. That’s his trouble. He’s too damn nice.”
“There’s the reason you were asking for. He’s nice.”
“Oh, come off it, Rose.” He set his drink down on the table, and leaned toward her, his hands loosely clasped between his knees. He wore, this evening, a smoothly cut blazer, a pair of dark gray trousers very slightly flared, and Gucci slippers with the red and green trademark. His hair was very black, crinkling back from his forehead; his pale eyes, beneath the dark brows, were bright and watchful. In the closeness of the car she had been aware of the expensive smell of his aftershave. Now, she saw the gold gleam of his wristwatch, his cufflinks, his signet ring. It seemed that not one single detail had been neglected.
His scrutiny, and her reaction to it, were dangerous. She searched for some safer topic. “Did Anna tell you about Tuppy’s dance?”
For an instant, annoyance clouded his bright gaze, and then was gone. He leaned back in his chair, reaching for his whisky as he did so.
“Yes, she told me something, just before she went off.”
“You’ve been invited.”
“Doubtless.”
“Are you going to come?”
“I expect so.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“I know Tuppy Armstrong’s parties of old. All the same people, wearing the same clothes, saying the same things. But then, as I told you the other night, there are many penalties attached to living out here, in the back of beyond.”
He did not look a man who suffered too many penalties.
“That’s not a very gracious reaction to an invitation.”
He smiled, once more all charm. “No, it isn’t, is it, and if you’re going to be there, looking as seductive as you always do, then wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.”
Despite herself, Flora laughed. “I won’t be looking particularly seductive. In fact, I shall probably look singularly odd.”
“Odd? Why odd?”
She told him that morning’s drama of the dress, making it as good a story as she could. When she had finished, Brian was incredulous. “Rose, you can’t. You can’t go to any sort of a party in some old rag out of the Fernrigg attic.”
“What else can I do?”
“I’ll drive you to Glasgow and you can buy a dress there. I’ll drive you to Edinburgh. Or London. Better still, I’ll fly you to Paris. We’ll stay for the weekend and go shopping at Dior.”
“What pretty ideas you have.”
“I’m glad you think they’re pretty. I think they’re irresistible. Come on, when shall we go? Tomorrow. You used to enjoy living dangerously.”
“I am not going shopping with you,” Flora told him firmly. “Absolutely, flatly, no.”
“Well, don’t blame me if everybody laughs his head off when you appear in something out of the dressing-up box. But one thing’s for sure, if anybody can get away with it, then you can. Come on, drink up, John’s semaphoring from the other side of the room, and that means our table’s ready.”
The dining room was very warm and dim with candlelight, with soft piped music. Most of the tables were already occupied, but theirs waited for them in the curve of the bow window, made snug by the drawn curtains. It looked very intimate. They sat down. Another round of drinks appeared. Flora, who was just beginning to feel the impact of the first martini, looked in some dismay at the second.
“I really don’t want another drink.”
“For heaven’s sake Rose, stop being so boring. This is a night out. Enjoy it
. You’re not driving.”
She looked at his dark whisky. “No, but you are.”
“Not to worry. I know the road like the back of my hand. And I know the police force too, such as it is.” He opened a menu as big as a newspaper. “Now what are we going to eat?”
There was scampi on the menu but also oysters. Flora loved scampi, but she loved oysters even more, and she hadn’t had them for ages. Brian was complaisant. “All right, you can have oysters, but I’m going to have scampi. And then shall we share a steak? And perhaps a green salad? What else? Mushrooms? Tomatoes?”
Painstakingly, their meal was finally ordered. The waiter produced the wine list, but Brian waved it aside and asked him to bring a bottle of Chateau Margaux 1964. The waiter looked respectful, gathered up the menus, and went away.
“Unless,” said Brian, “you’d rather have champagne?”
“Why should I want champagne?”
“Isn’t champagne the suitable drink for romantic celebrations, for reunions?”
“Is that what this is?”
“It’s certainly a reunion. And one that I wouldn’t have missed for the world. As for the other, well, I suppose that’s up to you, Rose. Or is it too early in the evening to expect you to make such a world-shattering decision?”
She knew a sensation of panic. The thin ice was beginning to crack and the conversation, unless Flora was very careful, was going to slip out of her control. She eyed him across the starched white tablecloth, the red candles, the wine glasses shining like soap bubbles. He was waiting for her to reply, and to give herself time to think she took a mouthful of the second martini. It tasted, if possible, even stronger than the first, but all at once everything became immensely clear and perfectly simple. All she had to do was to be very careful.
She said, “Yes. Just a little early.”
He began to laugh. “Rose.”
“What’s so funny?”
“You. You’re funny. Pretending to be so cool and prissy and hard-to-get. O.K., so you’re engaged to that upstanding young man Antony Armstrong, but you’re still Rose. And you don’t have to pretend with me.”
“Don’t I, Brian?”
“Do you?”
“Perhaps I’ve changed.”
“You haven’t changed.”
He said it with such assurance that she was prepared to believe him. Up to this evening everything that she had gleaned of Rose’s character had been based on conjecture and guesswork. Now, unexpectedly faced with a man who obviously knew the truth, Flora found herself reluctant to be told it. Illusions were perhaps childish but they could be comforting too, and Rose was, after all, her sister. For an instant something like family loyalty battled with curiosity, but only for an instant. Flora’s finer feelings were not as strong as her curiosity, and stimulated by the punch of the drinks she had already consumed, she became reckless.
She put her arms on the table, and leaned across it, towards Brian. “How do you know I haven’t changed?” she asked him.
“Oh, Rose…”
“Tell me how I was.”
His face brightened. “Like you are at this moment. You’ve reverted to type already. You can’t help it. You could never help it. You could never resist the smallest opportunity to talk about yourself.”
“Tell me how I was.”
“All right.” His hands moved out to his tumbler of whisky and as he talked he turned it, but his excited eyes never left Flora’s. “You were beautiful. Long-legged and marvelously young. Like a colt. You were sulky and you could be selfish. You were certainly self-centered. and you were sexy. God, you were sexy and I found you utterly fascinating. Now. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
She could feel the heat of the candles, burning her face. The neck of her sweater was too tight, and she put up a finger to pull it loose. “All that,” she said faintly, “at seventeen?”
“All that. It was a strange thing, Rose, but after you’d gone, I couldn’t get you out of my mind. That had never happened to me before. I even went down to the Beach House once or twice, but it was shuttered and closed up and there was no trace of you anywhere. Like the tide, coming in and washing the sand clean.”
“Perhaps that was just as well.”
“You were special. There was never anyone quite like you.”
“You speak from experience.”
He grinned as though filled with modest pride. “The best thing about you was that I never had to pretend.”
“You mean I always knew that I was just one of a long line.”
“Exactly.”
“And Anna?”
He took a drink from his glass before answering this one. “Anna,” he said slowly, “is an ostrich. What she doesn’t see doesn’t worry her. And as far as her husband is concerned, she takes some pains to see nothing.”
“You’re very sure of her.”
“Do you know what it’s like to be loved to distraction? It’s like being buried in a feather bed.”
“Did you never love anyone to distraction?”
“No. Not even you. What I felt for you can only be described by one of those old-fashioned words that you find in the Bible. Lust. It’s a wonderful word. You can really get your tongue around it.”
With marvelous inappropriateness, their first course arrived. As disembodied hands set down plates and straightened knives and forks, Flora sat staring at the candle flames and trying to collect her scattered wits. Somebody took away her glass, and she realized that at some time she had finished her second drink. Now there was a glass of wine, shining like a great red jewel. The sweater she had put on had been a mistake. It was far too thick, the collar choked her, she was far too hot. Pulling again at the neck, she found herself looking down at a plateful of oysters. The waiter had gone. From across the table Brian asked her, “Don’t you want them after all?”
“What?”
“You have an uncertain expression on your face. Don’t they look good?”
She pulled herself together. “They look delicious.” She took a slice of lemon and squeezed it. The juice was sticky on her fingers. Across the table, Brian was tucking into his scampi with the appetite of a man with a pristine conscience. Flora picked up her fork and then laid it down again. The question stuck in her throat, but with an immense effort, she made herself ask it.
“Brian, did anybody ever find out … I mean, did anybody ever know about you and me?”
“No, of course they didn’t. What do you think I am? An amateur?” She started to breathe a sigh of relief. “Only Hugh,” he finished casually.
“Hugh?”
“Don’t sound so horrified. Of course he knew. Oh, don’t sit there gaping like a fool, Rose. He found us!” He grinned boyishly, as though recalling some youthful prank. “What a scene that was! He’s never really forgiven me, but to be honest with you, I’ve always put that down to jealousy. I always suspected that he fancied you himself.”
“That’s not true!”
Her vehemence took him by surprise. He stared at her. “Why do you suddenly say that?”
“Because it isn’t true.” She cast about for some way to prove her point. “Antony said it wasn’t true.”
Brian seemed amused. “So you’ve already discussed it with Antony, have you. That’s very interesting.”
“Antony said he wasn’t…”
“Antony would,” Brian interrupted bluntly. “All his life Hugh’s been a sort of father-figure to Antony. You know, the rugger-playing hero. Every boy should have one. Hugh pretends to be such a high-minded bastard, but his wife had been dead for three years by then, and at heart I suspect he’s just as carnal as the rest of us.”
She felt defeated. The possibility that Hugh had been in love with Rose had always been at the back of Flora’s mind, ever since that first disconcerting encounter on the beach. It had bothered her a little, but it had not really mattered.
But now it did matter.
It was hard to know when it had started to matter. Pe
rhaps that day when she and Hugh had stood at the foot of the stairs at Fernrigg and he had told her about Angus McKay, and the sun had come out and filled the house with a sudden, golden light. Perhaps this afternoon, when he had taken Jason’s picture and spread it out on the table to smooth out the folds. Perhaps when she had looked up, over Jason’s head, and caught Hugh’s look of wonderment.
She was hot no longer. Not cold. She was simply nothing. Numb. She wished passionately that she had never asked about Rose, had never found out about her; but now it was too late. The pieces of the jigsaw clicked relentlessly into place and the finished picture was repellent. Rose at seventeen, naked, tumbled on some bed, seducing—or being seduced by—Brian Stoddart.
But harder still to accept was the idea of Hugh ever having been in love with anyone as vile as Rose.
* * *
Somehow the nightmarish meal progressed. Brian, perhaps mellowed by whisky and wine, had stopped talking about himself and was describing at some length the new boat he was planning to build. He was well into this when John, the waiter, came across the room to tell him that he was wanted on the telephone.
Brian looked blank and unbelieving. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir, the girl on the exchange asked me to give you the message.”
“Who is it?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Brian turned to Flora. “I’m sorry. God knows who it is.” He laid down his napkin. “Will you excuse me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I shan’t be a moment.”
He left her, weaving his way between the tables, and disappeared through a door at the back of the dining room. To be left alone was something of a reprieve. Flora pushed her plate away from her and tried to think intelligently, but the dining room was stuffy, her head ached, and she had drunk far too much. She stared at the candle flames, but they had started behaving strangely, and refused to stay in focus. She looked around, caught the eye of a waiter, and asked for a jug of water. When it came she filled a tumbler and drank it in one long draft. She set down the glass and was aware that someone had come to stand across the table from her, his hands resting on the back of Brian’s chair.