‘It’s just like that moment,’ he said, ‘you know, in the movie we saw — when Haden Frost looks at — what’s her name? — Lucille Villars. What was it called? And you just know. You know they’re going to jump into bed.’
I frowned, thinking. ‘What movie?’
Cleve ran his hands over my breasts. Kissed my nipples, kissed my right ear.
‘Come on. You said it yourself. The sexiest look between actors in the cinema. Ever.’
‘I said that?’
‘The sexiest look ever.’
‘Haden Frost wasn’t in Dark November.’
‘I know. It was I Want Tomorrow.’
‘I haven’t seen that film.’
He wasn’t really listening, that was his mistake.
‘We talked about it for half an hour, honey. Remember? How in movies these looks — if they work — can do more than ten pages of dialogue. That’s the acting skill. .’ He stopped, realising suddenly.
I sat up slowly, my brain working fast. He rolled back off me, reached for his cigarettes.
‘I haven’t seen that movie,’ I repeated. ‘We never had that conversation.’
He was good, Cleve, didn’t give anything away. He took his time lighting his cigarette and smiled at me, shrugged.
‘Sorry. Must have been talking to Frances about it, then.’
‘Probably.’
I snuggled back down next to him, not wanting him to see my face and the shock registering on it. That’s when I knew he was seeing somebody else. Frances never went to the movies because of her wheelchair. There was another woman in Cleve Finzi’s life. Now we were three.
*
THE BARRANDALE JOURNAL 1977
Lunch today at the Glenlarig Hotel with Alisdair McLennan, Greer and Calder’s son. He was up on a visit with his two children, parking them with his parents as much as he could. He wanted to meet me, he said, wanted to talk about Vietnam, hence the lunch. He was in his thirties, with fine reddish-blond hair, and a blunt ordinary-looking face — pale-lashed, pale blue eyes — but he was attractive in a vital, super-intelligent way that was all to do with his brain. He had one of those restless, opinionated minds, always seizing on something to say or comment on; some sharp observation was made whether it was about the daily amount of seaweed washed up on a beach, or trade-union manipulation of the Labour Party, or ferry monopolies in the Western Isles, or that Anthony Eden was the best prime minister we’d ever had — but never realised. Everything was potential grist to his brain power.
Within about two minutes I knew I didn’t like him — not because of his manifest intelligence but because he was one of those men who cannot conceal their sexual interest — their sexual curiosity — about any and every woman they encounter.
I was aware of him eyeing me up, looking at my breasts, my face, my hair, my clothes — stripping me naked, mentally — as we sat drinking our gin and tonics in the hotel bar. Here I was, sixty-nine years old, chatting away, as this young man’s querying lust, his snouty evaluation, first assessed and then casually rejected me. Maybe all men do this — instinctively consider the sexual potential of every woman they meet. I can’t say — but all the men I’ve known have taken care to conceal it from you, if you’re a woman, unless that encounter is taking place expressly with some sexual end in mind, of course.
I saw Alisdair’s sexual radar switch from me to Isla, the young waitress who brought us our menus. Isla was a big plain girl with strange caramel-brown eyes and I sensed Alisdair McLennan’s idle carnal interest now play over her as she stood there, taking our orders, like an invisible torch beam, probing, considering, and then being switched off. Nothing doing.
As a consequence, I became a bit dry with him, a bit clipped and cynical, as if to say: I’ve got your number, my friend — and it doesn’t appeal. But I don’t think he picked up the nuances — these kind of men don’t. It’s a variant version of pure ego — they’re never aware how others are judging them.
In any event, we did talk about Vietnam, vaguely. I said it had been so long since I was there that I didn’t think any observations I might make would be valid any more.
‘You got into a bit of trouble when you were out there, didn’t you?’ he said, casually, pouring us both another glass of wine.
‘How do you know that?’ I said, at my driest.
‘You know, that whole SAS thing.’
‘You haven’t answered my question: how do you know that?’
‘I read your file.’
‘What file?’
‘Everyone has a file somewhere — especially if they’ve led a life as interesting as yours.’ He smiled, and couldn’t keep his patronising manner concealed. ‘I’m in the diplomatic service, I get to see files.’
I took my time, drank a mouthful of the Bordeaux, and put my glass down, turning it on the tablecloth for a moment. Then I looked at him squarely.
‘It was a very difficult time, back in the late Sixties. Everybody was lying. Everything was falling apart.’
‘Well — all ancient history.’ And he smiled again and changed the subject.
I knew then at once that although he may ostensibly have been going to Saigon as a diplomat he was in fact working for the security services — a spy, or a handler of spies. That was why he wanted to meet me.
‘Do you still keep in touch with anyone out there, by the way?’ he asked, later, pouring the rest of the wine.
‘No,’ I said. ‘They’re all dead, now.’
5. OPERATION TORCH
THE STRANGE ASPECT ABOUT the affair I embarked on with Charbonneau was that it seemed almost immediately normal — as if we’d been lovers for years — the question in my mind being why had it taken us so long?
We had dined together two or three times, whenever Charbonneau could slip away from Washington and come to New York. I remember towards the end of the year he called me in a foul mood, saying he had to escape from the hell of DC and his ‘foutue mission’. What about dinner? Choose a new French restaurant — it had to be French — let’s test it, as we used to. I need some fun, he said. Come to the apartment and have a drink, first, I said. I’ll find somewhere interesting.
My new place was on 65th Street between 3rd Avenue and Park. I had the top floor of an old crumbling brownstone with my own entrance at the side. An ancient lady and her maid lived in the rest of the building but I rarely saw them. Once a whole two months went by without a glimpse.
Charbonneau arrived, took off his ill-fitting captain’s jacket and explored my rooms as I mixed two manhattans. I heard him opening cupboards and drawers, running taps in the bathroom as if he were a prospective tenant.
He wandered back into the sitting room and I handed him his drink.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘You seem a bit depressed.’
‘We are invading French Africa tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Morocco. Or rather you are. Americans and British fighting the French. C’est bien déprimant.’
‘Fighting the bad French — you’re good French.’
‘It’s very complicated.’
‘Everything’s very complicated, Charbonneau. Life is complicated. It’s what you always tell me.’
‘It’s top secret. Don’t tell anyone.’
I raised my glass. ‘Bon courage aux alliés.’
‘Your accent is terrible but the sentiments I approve.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Approve of.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘At least we have twelve million Russians soldiers on our side. How can we lose, in the long run?’ He seemed uncomfortable, all of a sudden. ‘What is it, Amory? Why are you looking at me like this?’