Sophie spoke. ‘I like you, Angus.’
‘I like you too.’
‘And you are a good friend of Stephen’s.’
‘That’s true,’ I said, although I wasn’t at all sure if it still was.
‘I’d like it, we’d like it, if you could remain friends with both of us.’
I didn’t answer right away. I sat on the curved window seat and looked out over the garden to the Mediterranean glimmering through the jungle.
‘How long have you been... together?’
‘Since Madeleine’s wedding,’ Sophie said. ‘We got on really well that weekend. Stephen drove me back to Paris and we spent a week there together. Then he went down to Antibes to meet you and bring you on here.’
‘He didn’t tell me!’ I said. Sophie had just stoked the embers of my anger.
‘Didn’t he?’ said Sophie. ‘You English, you don’t talk about anything, do you? Anything important.’
‘It appears not.’ I turned again to stare out of the window. The fury was building. The bastard! Why hadn’t Stephen told me he had spent a week with Sophie? He must have known I would find out eventually.
‘I enjoyed that afternoon in Honfleur, Angus,’ Sophie said. ‘We had an extraordinary conversation. As I said, I like you, I would like to be your friend. But nothing happened. I don’t think I did anything to let you think something had happened. Did I? And it was four years ago.’
I didn’t reply. She was right, of course; I had built her up over the years to mean so much more to me than she really should. Yet foolish though it sounded, I loved her. Not just then, but now. I loved the way she was talking to me, her kindness and awkward sincerity; I loved her big blue wistful eyes; I loved the little freckles on the end of her nose and I loved her body under that white summer dress...
An idea came to me. I recognized it as a bad idea immediately; a mean, nasty idea. I knew I should squash it, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to speak before sense and reason stopped me.
‘Do you know why Stephen and I are friends?’
‘You were in the same college at Oxford,’ Sophie said.
‘Yes. But I went to a school no one has ever heard of and have a Yorkshire accent. Stephen went to Eton and is loaded.’
‘So?’
‘So at Oxford people like that don’t naturally become friends.’
‘That is absurd.’
‘Shall I tell you what happened?’
Sophie shrugged. She looked doubtful; I went on before she had a chance to stop me.
‘Stephen had a friend from Eton named Maurice. I would say his best friend. They were both good-looking — although Maurice was a good deal more feminine than Stephen, dark, exotic, graceful. They were both rich.’
Sophie was frowning. She could see where this was going and she didn’t like it. Well that was too bad for her.
‘They used to weigh up the relative attractiveness of freshers in college, and bet each other that they could seduce them. They were quite successful. Anyway, Maurice picked on me as a victim for Stephen. Apparently he thought I was handsome and rough. The wager was ten pounds.’
Sophie’s frown had deepened. Good.
‘I was difficult. Stephen tried hard, he tried damn hard. But he never earned his ten pounds.’
Sophie was staring at me, her expression one of disgust. Very good.
‘That doesn’t explain how you became friends,’ she said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But it should warn you that Stephen likes men as much as he likes women. More.’
The expression of disgust deepened. Suddenly I realized that Sophie’s distaste was aimed at me, not Stephen.
‘There is an English word “hateful”, is there not?’
I nodded.
Sophie’s disgust had turned to anger. There was moisture in her eyes, but also fire. Her cheeks were red. ‘That was hateful. You are hateful, Angus!’
She turned on her heel and left the den.
I closed my eyes. My own anger had been flattened by Sophie’s. What the hell was I thinking? She was right, of course. She was absolutely right. And I had given her a completely misleading idea of Stephen’s and my friendship, which was based on so much more than that initial failed seduction. Yes, I had misled Sophie, and I had earned her contempt. I had earned my own contempt. Yes, Stephen should have told me about Sophie, of course he should. But he hadn’t, and I should forgive him. The fact that I couldn’t do that was my problem.
I had behaved appallingly badly and I was in danger of ruining everything for everyone. I was ashamed of myself, so ashamed. I had to leave the island right away. Run. So I hurried back to the villa, apologized to Tony and to Nathan and Madeleine, and caught the 4.30 p.m. steamer back to Naples with five minutes to spare.
I had a war to fight. A war in which, perhaps, I might die.
Or perhaps Stephen would.
8
Monday 15 March 1999, Wyvis
Clémence closed the book and looked up to meet the old man’s gaze. His eyes were full of pain.
‘I didn’t behave very well, did I?’ he said.
‘Not really, no,’ said Clémence.
‘I wish I had behaved better.’
‘Do you remember any of it at all?’
‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘Yes, I do. Bits. I remember that opium den in the Villa Fersen. I remember Tiberius’s jump. I remember Stephen now, I can see him and Sophie up there.’
‘That’s something,’ said Clémence.
‘You know how I described the hole in my memory — like a gap in the centre of a picture?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s as if I can begin to see vague shapes in the middle of that picture. Disjointed shapes. I don’t know, it’s like a half-finished jigsaw puzzle where you have done the edges and are making a start at the centre.’
‘I think I understand,’ said Clémence. ‘Can you remember anything about what happens next?’
The pain intensified in the old man’s eyes. ‘That’s the thing. I’m not sure I want to see the picture. The whole picture.’
For a moment Clémence considered reading out the prologue. But the old man would discover what happened to Sophie soon enough; Clémence didn’t want to scare him off. They were making progress with the jigsaw. That was her job. And she was fascinated.
Now she knew how her grandmother and grandfather had met. They had obviously loved each other. She supposed everyone’s grandfathers and grandmothers must have loved each other at some point, but she felt privileged to see hers on the page. Especially since her family had subsequently blown itself apart.
‘Do you remember writing it? Making the jigsaw?’
‘I think so. I think I can remember writing that last scene in the opium den. I can remember the shame. I’m sure now it was me who wrote the book. I am Angus Culzie. I am Angus. The book is the truth, it’s not a novel.’
Clémence waited for him to say more.
‘It’s my life. I need to become reacquainted with it if I am going to live with it. However unpleasant it will be.’
‘So we’ll read some more tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ He stared hard at the fireplace, as if looking for an answer behind the glowing logs. ‘How old are you, Clémence? Nineteen?’
‘Twenty.’
‘About the same age as I was when I met Sophie. Have you ever loved anyone like that? Or is the world different now?’