I was her thing of beauty and she was mine.
The Lover seemed to sense that the narrative had come to an end and with it his self-indulgence. He could see Peter struggling to absorb what he might not be able to comprehend.
‘Please don’t judge, Mr Friel, you’re far too young and it’s so unbecoming. We all find our moments of contentment, whichever way we can. Don’t judge her or me by your own, cheap standards. We had ours, and kept them. Thank you for listening.’
Peter bowed his head. He was a born listener, hated to be thanked for listening, because being invited to listen was a privilege. It occurred to him that the narrative was unique. Marianne could never have told anyone about these glamorous moments; nor could the Lover. He was not judging, except that such necessary, lonely secretiveness appalled him.
‘I should like to come back, sir, if I may, and I wouldn’t be indulging you, only myself. But for the moment, I need to know what Marianne Shearer left with you. I need to know what she was like before she killed herself.’
The mood changed in the absence of the music. The Lover turned his leonine head towards the mirror on the wall and ran his fingers through his magnificent white hair. Did these two exist to admire one another, or simply to admire him? Plain Jane with sculpted body, brushed up nicely in sophisticated frocks, kneeling to suck cock of an old Adonis? Could do worse. There must have been Love, there must have been. Peter could not bear it otherwise.
The Lover was suddenly businesslike and efficient, but still retaining his place, centre stage, the designer not only of clothes, but of his own life. Colder than an ice sculpture, equally impressive. A man resuming his alter ego as lawyer, albeit reluctantly.
‘Of course. I have something here. Not her goods and chattels, you understand, she kept nothing with me, there simply isn’t room – she came and she went, that was the arrangement. She brought herself and left no trace of herself. That was what we both wanted.’
‘Both’… I hope it was both.
‘And didn’t talk about ugliness? About cases, clients, winning, losing, rapists, paedophiles, gangsters, drug runners, pornographers, her stock-in-trade?’
‘Very little. She alluded to it, sometimes. Said there was nothing she wouldn’t defend, as long as there was the slightest chance of winning. I applauded her for it. I liked her craftiness, her lack of sentimental morality and her good, thick skin. All I know is that the last big case upset her. When was that? Last summer, it was hot and she was cold. She was distraite. Not herself. It was as if,’ he said, laughingly, ‘as if she had acquired the inconvenience of a conscience.’
‘Does conscience have obvious symptoms?’ Peter asked.
‘Like a rash, or a pimple on the nose? I don’t think so. I would have seen, since she would always expose every inch of herself. It was the fact that she was so preoccupied.’
‘You told Thomas Noble she was doing research into her own family history, and it upset her.’
‘Yes, so I did. What an attentive little queer he is.’
‘There was talk that she was going to write a book. That she was commissioned to write one about her cases, dishing the dirt on everyone.’
‘She would never have done it,’ the Lover said. ‘No one wants the truth, especially her.’
He took a deep gulp of the wine, moved across and turned on the music again. This time it was Cole Porter.
‘She was silent in my arms for six months. Thinner, easier to dress. I know she was moving house. I know she hoped I would come to her, rather than her always to me. I said no, and then she said, there’s something I want you to do for me. I said why? She said, because the child I once said was yours was never terminated, It was born and given away. Adopted, but alive. Marianne said she kept dreaming that she had seen It. Or, someone who was exactly like what she imagined that child would have become. I have no idea if she approved of this spectre, or if it was a vision that appalled her. I suspect the latter, hoped it was the former. In any event, it distressed her mightily. She was convinced she had done this person great harm.’
The Lover gazed at Peter intently, taking in every detail he might have missed on the initial inspection, although this time his regard was almost fond.
‘I did think that the creature of her imagining might be you, although I now see it’s impossible.’ He smiled. ‘I can’t see any son of Marianne’s, or indeed mine, wearing a suit as ill-fitting as that. No insult intended: I appreciate the effort you made to wear it. Nor does she appear to have done you any harm. Don’t lawyers wear decent suits these days?’
Peter laughed, amazed by such attention to detail. Very Marianne Shearer. These two would have had such fun sitting out in public, watching the passers-by, but instead hid away and merely reported to one another the stylistic horrors of the ugly present.
‘There’s a huge advantage in a wig and gown, sir. It doesn’t much matter what you wear beneath; a suit, yes, but any old suit will do. This one was borrowed, but I’m told the cloth is good. This baby… this child, how old would it be now? And did you believe her?’
Two questions in one. He could tell it was irritating and watched the Lover pausing to arrange his answers in order.
‘The child would be about your age, thirtyish, I suppose? Hence my optimism about your identity. Yes, I believed her, because she believed herself, but whether said infant still existed or had ever existed except in her mind, was another matter. I also considered that she might well have reached the age of fantasising about what might have been. There comes a discontented stage when one’s achievements, however considerable, are simply not enough and one dwells on what one cannot have.’ He shrugged. ‘Both sexes have these menopausal morbidities. Latterly, she kept asking me about my children, what they were like; she’d never have done that before. It was none of her business.’
‘Just as this… child, was none of yours?’
Peter had moved his chair to sit nearer. They could have touched.
‘No. Except for the fact that I wanted to establish beyond doubt that the child was not mine. I encouraged her to trace it, and she had all the means to do so. I believe she did exactly that, over several months. Getting closer, she would say, getting closer, and then I would change the subject. The last time I saw her, she said she had found two distinct possibilities. She refused to say more. She looked exquisite. A Jean Muir dress, early seventies, not my favourite epoch, but quite wonderful. We danced, Mr Friel, we had better things to do.’
Peter felt hot in this room, a feverish reaction to the almost laughable callousness of the Lover, who had risen, busily, but as elegantly as ever, to fetch a small case from behind where he sat. The case was pigskin, with buckles. He sat back in his chair with the case on his lap, his left foot tapping in time to distant music.
‘The instructions,’ Peter murmured.
‘Arrived on the day she made the front page of the newspaper,’ the Lover said, without emotion. ‘We were supposed to meet that evening. I saw the newspaper first, came anyway because I thought it must be a mistake. The instructions were here when I arrived. The least I could do was follow them to the letter. It hasn’t been difficult. She was very precise.’