Who was it? Because of what she had heard last night but had at once said to herself was impossible — 'How about it, Sarah?' — she had to admit it must be Andrew. To whom she had never given a thought not strictly professional.
She carefully put this letter away, to be read later when not intoxicated. To be accurate, when no longer sick. Bill's letter she did tear up and she dropped the pieces neatly one by one in the basket as if finally ridding herself of something poisonous.
It was now eight in the morning. She chose a sensible dress in dark blue cotton, partly because she thought, I will not be accused of mutton dressed as lamb, partly because a dull dress might sober her. The noise outside was already so loud she sat for a few minutes, eyes closed, thinking of that long-ago youth on his hillside — absolute silence, solace, peace. But suddenly into this restoring dream the three war planes from yesterday inserted themselves, streaking across the antique sky and vibrating the air. The boy lifted his dreaming head and stared but did not believe what he saw. His ears were hurting. Sarah went quietly downstairs. She did not want to have to talk. In a side street was a little cafe she believed was not used by the company. The tables outside Les Collines Rouges were all empty except for Stephen, who sat with his head bent, the picture of a man struck down. He did not see her, and she walked past him to the Rue Daniel Autram. Whoever Daniel Autram was or had been, he did not merit pots of flowers all along his street, though on either side of the cafe door were tubs of marguerites. This cafe had a window on the street and, presumably, something like a window seat, for she saw two young sunburned arms, as emphatically male as those of Michelangelo's young men, lying along the back of it. The forearms rested side by side, hands grasping the elbows of the other. The arms being bare, there was a suggestion of naked bodies. This was as strong a sexual statement as Sarah could remember, out of bed. She was stopped dead there, in the Rue Daniel Autram, as noisy children raced past to a bus waiting for them in the square. I have to go back, go back, breathed Sarah, but she could not move, for the sight had struck her to the heart, as if she had been dealt lies and treachery. (Which was nonsense, because she had not.) Then one young man leaned forward to say something to the other, as the other leaned forward to hear it. Bill and Sandy. This was a Bill Sarah had never seen, nor, she was sure, had any female member of the company. Certainly his first mother had never been allowed a glimpse of this exultantly, triumphantly alive young man, full of a mocking and reckless sexuality. And the charming, winning, affectionate, sympathetic young man they all knew? Well, for one thing, that person had little of the energy she was now looking at: his energy was in bond to caution.
She forced herself to take two steps back, out of the danger of being seen, and walked like a mechanical toy to the table where Stephen still sat. Now he did lift his head, and stared at Sarah from some place a long way off. He reminded himself that he should smile, and did so. Then he remembered there was something else, and said, 'Thanks for your letter, I'm glad you wrote it.' And he was glad, she could see that. 'I did get it wrong, actually.'
She sat by him. There was nobody else on the pavement yet. She signalled for coffee, since Stephen had not thought of it.
'I got another letter this morning,' he said. 'A day for letters.'
'So it would seem.'
He did not hear this, and then he did and came to himself, saying, 'I'm sorry, Sarah. I do know I'm selfish. Actually I think I must be ill. I said that before, didn't I?' 'Yes, you did.'
'The thing is… I'm simply not this kind of person. Do you understand that?' 'Perfectly.'
He produced a letter, written on the paper of l'Hôtel Julie, in a large no-nonsense hand.
Dear Stephen,
I was so flattered when I read your letter and realized you were kindly asking me to spend a weekend with you in Nice. Of course I did know you were fond of me, but this! I do not feel this could be an ongoing committed relationship where two people could grow together on a basis of shared give-and-take and spiritual growth.
I do believe I can look forward to this kind of relationship with someone I got to know in Baltimore in spring when we were both working on The Lady with a Little Dog.
So wish me luck!
I shall never forget you and the days we have all spent together. I can only say I profoundly regret the commitments which make it impossible for me to be Julie in Oxfordshire. Because there is something special about this piece. We all feel it.
With sincere good wishes,
Molly McGuire
Sarah tried not to laugh, but had to. Stephen sat with lowered head, looking across at her, sombre and even sullen. 'I suppose it is funny,' he conceded. Then he did, unexpectedly, sit up and laugh. A real laugh. 'Well, all right,' he said. 'A culture clash.'
'Don't forget they have to divorce and remarry every time they fall in love.'
'Yes, with the Yanks there is always an invisible contract somewhere.' As she shrugged: 'Am I being unfair?' 'Of course you're being unfair.'
'I don't care if I am. But they must go to bed sometimes just for love's sake. Of course, I do keep forgetting, she was writing to the old man, didn't want to hurt his feelings.'
'I believe she might easily have gone with you to Nice… all things being equal.'
'You mean, if she hadn't been in love with that… I wonder? But if she had gone to bed with Bill — or rather if Bill had kindly gone to bed with her' — here she noted an altogether disproportionate spurt of malice in herself, to match his — 'then she would have been hinting about weddings by the morning. Anyway, one has really to be in love to think that kind of thing is worth it. I mean, Nice and all that. So I was a fool to ask. Otherwise it is just a dirty weekend.'
She remembered Andrew's letter and wondered if he was in love. Because to imagine him suffering from lust, that was one thing, and fair enough — but in love, oh no, she wouldn't wish it on anyone. And she didn't want to think about it. Too much of everything: she was drowning in too-muchness.
The coffee arrived. As Stephen lifted his cup, he — and she — noted that his hand shook. No joke, love, she attempted to joke, to herself. He set the cup down again, looking with critical dislike at his hand.
'Believe it or not, a good many women fall for me.'
'Why shouldn't I believe it? Anyway, you don't have to make a final assessment of your attractiveness or lack of it just because one girl turns you down.'
'Yes, and she's only a stand-in after all,' he remarked, in one of his moments of calm throw-away callousness. 'Perhaps she feels that.'
'As you said, that it was as if two different Stephens slid together and one said something the other could never say. Oh, don't worry, I know the condition well.'
'Obviously people fall in love with you. I'm not exactly blind, though I'm sure you think I am.' He hesitated, and his reluctance to go on made him sound grumpy. 'I wanted to say something… If it's the gaucho you're… ' He could not make himself say it. 'I should watch it, if I were you. He's a pretty tough customer.' As she did not reply, not knowing how to, he went on. 'Anyway, it's not my business. And I don't really care. That's what is intolerable. I don't care about anything but myself. Perhaps I will go to a psychiatrist after all. But what can they tell me I don't know already? I know what I'm suffering from — De Cleremont's syndrome. I found it described in an article. It means you are convinced the person is in love with you, even when she is not. The article didn't say anything about being convinced she would be in love with you if she wasn't dead.'