The telephone rang. Gussie picked up the receiver.
‘Hullo, yes. He’s downstairs. Hang on a minute. Gareth,’ she yelled, ‘telephone.’
He grimaced apologetically at us as he came in and took the receiver.
‘Vinnie, baby, how are you? Yeah. I’ve missed you too. Sweetheart, I haven’t a hope this evening. I’m knee-deep in people, and later I’ve got to work. I’ve got one hell of a day tomorrow. Listen, darling, what about Wednesday evening?’ God, that Welsh voice could turn it on.
Trying not to listen, I turned to Jeremy. He smiled at me reassuringly.
‘What other writers do you like?’ I said.
‘Keats, of course, Thomas Campion, some of A. E. Housman.’
‘What do you think of Robert Browning?’ I asked.
‘Why?’ said Gareth, coming off the telephone. ‘Is he marrying anyone we know?’
Gussie giggled. ‘You mustn’t mob them up; they’ve been having high-powered intellectual conversations all evening. Don’t you think, Tavy, that the colours of Gareth’s curtains would be ideal for my bridesmaids?’
After that I was forced to listen to her rabbiting on about her wedding. I lounged on the floor, propped against the sofa, lacing my fingers behind my head to show off my bust, and rucking up my skirt. With my other ear, I listened to Jeremy’s conversation with Gareth.
‘Is that bird really your secretary?’
‘Mrs Smith?’ said Gareth. ‘Quite a doll isn’t she?’
‘Doesn’t she mind working at this hour?’
‘Mr Smith is an in-work actor; irregular hours suit her. So stop eating your heart out, you’ll never get your spoon into that pudding.’
The telephone rang. It was South America on the line. Gareth, claiming it was business, took it into the bedroom. Jeremy and I helped ourselves to more drink.
‘Does he always carry on like this?’ I said.
‘With girls? Usually, not always. He isn’t trying to prove anything, he’s just a glutton. He can’t pass anyone up.’
‘He ought to get married,’ said Gussie. ‘He needs the love of a good woman.’
‘He’d need the love of four good mistresses as well to keep him going,’ I said. ‘Are you installing a telephone on the boat?’
‘No, that’s one of the conditions of his coming down, no telephones,’ said Gussie. ‘I’m going to make some coffee.’
She wandered out of the room. I got to my feet and strolled over to the fireplace to examine the pile of invitations — parties, dinners, business functions. Jeremy came over and stood beside me. I looked up at our reflections side by side in the huge mirror above the fireplace.
‘How odd,’ I said slowly. ‘Have you noticed how alike we are, both blue-eyed and blonde? We could be brother and sister. I’ve always felt incest has the edge on all other relationships.’
Jeremy’s breath was coming rapidly and his eyes had gone almost glazed with lust.
‘You must know I don’t feel remotely brotherly towards you.’
I looked up at him, running my tongue slowly along my bottom lip.
‘How do you feel?’ I said softly.
‘Bloody disturbed — and I’m not amused by sleepless nights either.’
‘Oh, nor am I, nor am I. We can’t do anything about it, you know.’
‘Of course we can’t, but that doesn’t stop me being obsessed with you. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in my life.’ He paused. ‘I suppose lots of men have told you that.’
‘A few. Not many of them meant it.’
‘Well I do,’ he said angrily.
‘Do you not want me to come on the boat?’
‘Of course I want you to. . and, well. . Gussie would be so disappointed.’
‘You realize how difficult it’s going to be, being thrown together all the time.’
‘We shall probably both go mad, but rather that than you staying away because of me.’
I took a step towards him. ‘We shall both have to rely on self-control, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t do that,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘It’s not infallible in my experience. .’
We spun around, appalled to find Gareth watching us. His eyes weren’t laughing now. There was a calm, bland, dangerous look about him, but all he said was, ‘Your glass is empty, Octavia.’
Then Gussie came bustling in with the coffee. How much had he heard? I bit my lip with vexation.
After that we talked about plans for the weekend, who should bring what, what route we should take. I didn’t contribute much. I was too shattered. I couldn’t look at Jeremy.
‘When are you planning to drive down?’ Gareth asked.
‘Lunchtime on Friday. And you?’
‘I’ve got meetings all day. I won’t be able to make it much before five.’ He turned to me. ‘When do you knock off work?’
‘I don’t work,’ I said haughtily.
‘No, I should have realized that. Your private life must be a full-time activity. I’ll give you a lift down.’
‘No,’ I said, much too quickly. ‘I want to go down early with Jeremy and Gussie; then I can help them get the boat cleaned up.’
Suddenly his swarthy face was a mask of malice. ‘Don’t you think the young lovers should have some time on their own? Three’s a crowd and all that.’
‘Yes, you go with Gareth, Tavy,’ said Gussie, pleased that her match-making was working out. ‘It’ll be nice for him to have someone to drive down with. It’s a rough old job getting the boat ready, but it’ll be all beautiful by the time you both arrive.’
‘I’m not afraid of hard work,’ I snapped.
‘No, of course you’re not,’ she said soothingly. ‘You can do the cooking on board, if it makes you any happier.’
It didn’t. There wouldn’t be any Luigi’s restaurant to take food away from, on the backwaters of the Thames. I started to yawn.
‘Octavia’s tired,’ said Jeremy. ‘We must go.’
As we were going down the stairs, the telephone rang again. Gareth took it on the first floor.
‘Charlotte, darling, great to hear you. Hang on love, I’m just seeing some people out.’ He put his hand over the receiver. ‘I’ll see you all on Friday.’ He turned to me. ‘What’s your address?’
‘Eleven Mayfair Street.’
‘I’ll collect you about half-past five.’
‘Isn’t he a scream?’ said Gussie, as we went out into the street.
‘Oh blast, I’ve forgotten that list of houses he gave me.’
She charged back into the house.
Jeremy and I looked at each other. His eyes showed as two black patches in the pallor of his face.
‘Do you think Gareth caught the gist of what we were saying?’ I said.
‘I expect so. Doesn’t matter. Did you fancy him after all that?’
‘He’s not my type. He looks like a lorry driver.’
‘What is your type?’
‘You are,’ I said.
Chapter Three
Next day the weather soared into the eighties. London wilted, but I blossomed. I felt absurdly and joyously happy, and spent most of the day lying naked on my balcony, turning brown and gazing up at a sky so blue that it reminded me of Jeremy’s eyes. I refused to go out with anyone that week, and made sure of ten hours’ sleep every night by taking too many sleeping pills. I spent a fortune on clothes for the weekend. I was only faintly disappointed Jeremy didn’t ring me. But I was ex-directory and he could hardly have got the number from Gussie.
On Thursday morning I had my recurrent nightmare — more terrifyingly than ever before. The dream always started the same way; my father was alive still, and although I was grown-up, I was paralysed with childish fears of the dark, creeping down the stairs, hearing the sound of my parents’ quarrelling getting louder and louder, not daring to turn on the light because I knew my mother would shout at me. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I could distinguish what my mother was saying in a voice slurred with drink.