For a moment he rested his eyes on the balls of his hands.
‘You couldn’t see the churchyard for flowers at her funeral and the church was full of her lovers, clapping kind hands on my shoulder. They must have thought me a cold fish. Hector, Alexander, Lysander and I carried her coffin. Lysander stumbled once. It was like Christ collapsing under the Cross.’
He glared at Georgie. ‘I’ve never told anyone this,’ he said slowly, ‘because I felt so ashamed, but as they lowered her into the grave, such a slim coffin, I felt only relief that at last she was sleeping alone.’
‘Oh, God!’ Tears were flooding Georgie’s flushed cheeks. ‘I’m so desperately sorry.’ She put a hand on his. ‘And Lysander knew nothing?’
‘Nothing. He was so on her side. He never realized my intransigence stemmed from frustration. I should have risen above it, but I was strait-jacketed into my misery.’
‘Break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.’ Georgie shook her head.
‘Lysander was deranged with grief. I thought he’d drive over a cliff, or drink himself to death. I didn’t know how to comfort him.’
Taking a slug of Armagnac, he choked slightly. Patting him on the back, Georgie encountered muscles, and fought a temptation to run her hand upwards and stroke his sleek head.
‘More coffee, Miss Maguire?’ asked the head waiter, who’d been reading The Scorpion in the kitchen and had put two and two together.
Georgie shook her head. Seeing a fat woman splashing through the water meadows in the wake of a jolly black Labrador, she said regretfully, ‘I must go home and walk Dinsdale.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘Oh, please.’ Georgie beamed up at him. ‘My world’s tumbling about my ears. Why on earth do I feel so happy?’
‘Probably booze,’ said David drily, then suddenly he had a horrific vision of having Georgie as a daughter-in-law. ‘It isn’t serious, you and Lysander?’
Georgie’s pony-tail flew as she shook her head: ‘No, no, it’s utterly platonic. We’re just terrific friends.’ She had conveniently forgotten that Lysander had asked her to marry him two days ago, and how distraught he’d been when he’d left for the airport that morning. ‘Ferdie insisted no bonking from the start,’ she went on. ‘Lysander’s suffering slightly from calf-love maybe. Anyway, toy boys are like tadpoles. If you’re sporting you throw them back at the end of the season.’
‘All the same, he ought to get a proper job,’ said David, making a writing sign to the waiter.
‘Shouldn’t give it up too lightly,’ said Georgie. ‘He’s the only person I know making serious money in the recession.’
‘I’m still trying to think of a word to rhyme with asp,’ said David, getting out his cheque book.
‘When was Catullus supposed to be handed in?’
‘January.’
‘That does make me feel better.’
‘D’you read poetry?’
‘Not since I picked up Herrick the other day, and found Guy had marked all the poems to Julia. I’m sure Herrick praised Julia’s leg for being white and hairless because it meant she wasn’t always pinching his razor.’
‘D’you mind coming upstairs a minute?’ asked David as they left the restaurant.
For a second, when he produced a pair of scissors from the dressing table, she backed away in terror thinking he was some kind of maniac, but he laughed and said he only wanted to cut half an inch off her fringe so he could see her eyes.
David had had a wretched year of insomnia, apathy, exhaustion and terrible migraines from bottling up his emotions. He was a man who liked to have control of himself and other people; he shrank from physical displays of affection; was often brusque and offhand to hide his feelings, but, once smitten, he went truly overboard.
Half an hour after Georgie got home, the telephone rang.
‘I’m not The Scorpion,’ said David. ‘If you use worm instead of asp, there are lots of words that rhyme with it.’
‘Poisonous worm, you’ll end my term. Goddit,’ said Georgie. ‘You are marvellous.’
‘I hope I see you before the end of term.’
‘It’s half-term next weekend,’ said Georgie.
44
The streams came back to Paradise and so did Guy Seymour. He was photographed looking handsome and suntanned at Heathrow and repeated his vows to stand by his errant wife, adding with a manly, slightly crooked smile, that as a Christian and father, he didn’t believe in divorce. In fact he couldn’t afford to be anything but magnanimous. His French trip had cost a bomb. Half the galleries in the West End were going belly-up, and he needed financial help from Georgie to keep going. And, utterly perversely, Georgie had suddenly started looking fantastic, and he found himself fancying her rotten once again. As Lysander was in Australia, he felt less threatened and that Georgie was genuinely trying to save the marriage. They got on better than they had in months and the Press, increasingly preoccupied with the Gulf War, drifted away.
As autumn gave way to winter, Georgie found she was looking at her own and David’s horoscope long before Guy’s, Julia’s, Lysander’s or even Rachel’s. Guy was delighted Georgie was burying herself in work. Marvellous tunes floated from her turret room like banners, and she sang even more beautiful versions in her bath.
Lysander, however, was stuck in the outback, rattling a sheep farmer who’d been cheating on his wife and playing a lot of polo. Missing Georgie constantly, he grew increasingly frustrated when she never answered his letters which admittedly were pretty short, and always seemed out when he rang. If he didn’t get her, as Rannaldini was still away, he’d ring Valhalla.
‘Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. It sounds as though I’m calling a cat in the dark. Did I wake you? What time is it? Five-thirty? Oh shit, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s the nicest wake-up call I’ve ever ’ad. Now I can read.’
‘What are you reading?’
‘A book called Love’s Young Dream.’
‘Tell me what it’s about. I’ve got to page twenty-five of The Mill on the Floss, so you can tell how bored I am. Where’s Georgie? I daren’t leave a message on the machine in case Guy Fucks picks it up.’
‘Probably pulled the phone out. She’s working ever so ’ard.’
‘Will you call round and beg her to ring me, please, Kitty? I miss her so much. Have you heard from Ferdie?’
‘Only that Maggie’s in season, and ’alf the dogs in Fulham are baying outside the door.’
‘Oh God, poor Ferd. I’ll ring him. Jack’ll be in there. He’s such an operator. They’ll have gorgeous puppies. I’ll give you one. How much d’you weigh now?’
‘Eight stone eleven, but it’s ’ard to diet when the wevver’s cold. Wasn’t it sad about Mrs Fatcher?’
‘I know. I really cried when I saw her leaving Downing Street in her crimson suit.’
‘Awful ’aving to move ’ouse in three days.’
‘I sent her a good-luck card.’
‘That was kind. John Major seems nice.’
‘Are you sure Georgie’s OK? Is she missing me?’
‘I’m sure she is.’
‘Well, I’ll be home for Christmas. I’ve got you a present to make up for Dinsdale chewing up your boomerang. Bye, Kitty darling.’
Putting back the telephone, Kitty thought how empty Paradise seemed without Lysander. Out in the night, a sharp frost was bringing down the last leaves. She felt sad there was no-one to witness their fall, like soldiers dying alone on the battlefield. How awful if Lysander or Wolfie or Ferdie got sent to the Gulf.