Peter picked up the crystal glass which stood on a small rosewood table by his chair. He wanted to hold it up to the light to see the colour of the pale wine reflected in one of the mirrors. Instead, he sipped.
‘She liked Sauvignon best, lately,’ the Lover said, noticing. ‘As long as it did not come from New Zealand. In some things she had very little taste, as well as quite unreasonable prejudice.’
There was nothing unharmonious in this room, Peter was thinking. Maybe Marianne Shearer, visiting mistress, was allowed to bring a little of the ugliness of her own world, simply by way of contrast. No new object here, except the CD player, and over there the fridge, hidden by another screen. Peter presumed that the lavatory, hidden behind the only door, worked perfectly.
‘If you can’t tell me anything about how Marianne died, or where she hid her intentions, sir, perhaps I shouldn’t take up any more of your time.’
Peter felt a longing for anywhere else, a place of lesser perfection where people lived messier lives. He wanted to be in a fully functioning kitchen with children yelling offstage, and then felt guilty. He had no idea what this man’s life was like or what made him what he was. Perhaps Marianne did.
‘I quite understand if there’s no need to bother you further, but thank you for the wine and the sight of this room. If you ever look down, you might see me craning my neck upwards, wishing I could come back or tell someone about it.’
Stanton, QC, laughed softly, a wicked laugh. Peter remembered Marianne Shearer’s gaudy cackle. They would have made strange music together.
‘She told me you were a born diplomat,’ the Lover said. ‘She said you might have been an excellent liar, if only you’d tried. You aren’t her son by any chance, are you?’
Peter put the glass back on the table with great care. There was hardly a suitable reply.
‘I don’t think so, sir. I’m one of five, with marked resemblances to one another and to our parents. If there’s nothing else, perhaps I should go.’
‘One of five, are you? I have five. I made five. Such gorgeous creatures. Grandchildren, too. Hence mess, hence discretion.’
Peter got to his feet. He saw himself in one of the mirrors and heard Marianne laughing.
‘Please stay,’ the Lover said. ‘Please stay.’
He swallowed.
‘I need you for a while. Please stay.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Lover turned on the music. The sound of it drifted round the corners of the room. He sat centre stage and softly lit.
‘I met Marianne when she was very young. Still a student, young and raw and looking for a place.’
Peter was calculating. Perhaps forty-five to her twenty, something like that. Miss Shearer, drawn to an older man.
‘She was allocated to be my pupil. I gather you were once hers. One hopes she behaved better towards you. We slept together, which is a polite way of putting it, since we never actually slept. It was deliciously incestuous; she was the same age as my eldest daughter and quite irresistible in her naive belief that screwing senior men was a short cut to influence rather than ridicule. Women were still called chicks in those days. She was an ugly minx, so ambitious she shone with it like the grease on her skin, nothing she would not do. Poor creature: all we men wanted was an extra orifice, an extra mouth when our wives – my second wife by then – were busy with our children. She said it was love. I said how can it be? She became a nuisance, I got her thrown out of our set of chambers. Told her crime would suit her better, because she would understand the tarts and the crooks. Still, there was a charm about her. She would never dress like anyone else.’
The Lover rose from his chair and refilled the wine glasses with a flourish. He detoured towards the CD player and altered the volume to background noise only. Peter struggled to detect exactly what the music was.
‘Then she got pregnant and pretended it was mine, but I knew it wasn’t. I might have taken risks, but not that kind. I called her a liar. She went like a lamb. She knew she’d gone too far. A quiet termination and back to business. She said, you wait, I’ll show you. I’m going to be big news, I’ll show you what I’m worth one day. Then she disappeared. I never asked where, never tried to find her, but I missed her.’
He smiled at memories. Peter did not.
‘I met her five years after I threw her out, walking through the Temple. She was as sleek as a seal with her hair cut in a cap, walking as if someone had trained her to dance. A grownup woman with success in her eyes, and she said how do I look, Lover boy, do you still not want me? I invited her here. She came in dressed in a real Lanvin evening jacket. High-necked, satin. Her mother or grandmother might have had such a thing. Held together by a single button, yellow silk, cross-cut, topstitched heavy-duty thing. Of course I wanted her.
‘It came to be a ritual. Every week, Miss Marianne Shearer came to this room where I take refuge, supposedly at the end of a day of my committee meetings. She dressed; she undressed. I am always besotted with beautiful clothes, while my dear wives never cared. She was the ideal model. She loved what I loved and I loved to dress her. She was the perfect shape, she could bend double, pliable as the cloth, and still, nothing she wouldn’t do, no position she could not reach. We would dress in our best; we would meet, undress, dress, eat a little, drink a little and dance to the light of the silvery moon. Where else is there to dance to the music of one’s choice? Away from all the ugliness, while each presents their best, their very best?’
Peter was silent. The music was definable. A muted, big band sound.
He leant forward, imagining Marianne Shearer waltzing across the room. Did they roll back the carpet? Did anyone hear? Did she laugh at their charade? Did they laugh at one another, did she tease him and which of them dictated what they did?
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Ah. There was an unspoken rule that we didn’t dwell on anything unpleasant. Bar gossip, a little character assassination here and there, the nicer things we had seen and done. Music, news, clothes, the latest abominable fashions. I would find her something new to take home with her sometimes, to wear next time. She was a collector, so was I; I collected for her and paid in clothes. She really was the most glorious undemanding mistress. She was a reason to shop. Every evening a joy, a respite from ugliness for both of us. I’m sure you can understand. You must need it yourself, don’t you?’
Yes, not quite like that, a walk in the park.
Peter took another covert look around. Other than the sound system there was no machinery, no TV: no doubt the Lover abhorred such things, too.
‘How did you make contact between times?’
The Lover looked surprised.
‘Contact? Why should I want regular contact? I wanted nothing to do with the ghastly criminal side of her life. We made the next appointment before we parted and always kept it. She had my number for emergencies. There was only once, I think.’
‘Did she ever talk about her work?’
‘Rarely. Sometimes. Mostly she left it behind. Sometimes we danced for hours and that was all. I was her thing of beauty and she was mine. It was as if when we were here, we had all the time in the world.’
Ugliness banned. Peter recognised the tempo of the music just before it drew to an end. A quickstep, dancing music. Somehow he imagined it would be Strauss, for waltzing. He was in the wrong century and the Lover was addicted to the decades of his youth. The reverie and the storytelling ended with the music. Peter wondered if at the end of her weekly star turn, Ms Shearer took herself home in a taxi, or was sent away with a new dress. It sounded to him like a peculiar, repressive abusive fantasy, but what did he know, only that he pitied her when perhaps he should not. Old Moses here would return to his fuller life, restored and benign. She might return to hers refreshed and dignified, still precious, desired and cherished, a creature of loveliness. Perhaps these were moments of glory and perfection that could make her immune to need. Enough. She would go back to fighting and winning and guarding a collection of clothes, and, once a week, she would be beautifully perfect. Each to his own. It made him sad. What about the joy of talking in bed about anything and everything, planning a future with five children? Daring to love someone surely meant venturing out and shouting about it.