Bad Girls Good Women (71 page)

‘I like your graphics.’ Julia lifted her glass in return. The frosted rims touched with a faint ping. The painter’s long eyelashes lifted again.

‘And I like you.’

Oh, New York
, Julia thought.
You’re very good for me
.

It made her feel young, and hungry again, as she hadn’t done for a very long time. They had another cocktail apiece, and Julia ate a BLT and her new friend had a hamburger, and they talked about Warhol and the men on the moon.

When they had eaten, two or three of the painter’s friends came to join them, and one of them said that there was a party that night, and why didn’t they both come along? The painter raised one of his thick, black eyebrows at Julia, and she said yes, that sounded like fun. In the evening she put on her Ossie Clark dress of flowered crêpe with ribbons and panels of silk, and wide trumpet sleeves, and took a cab to another loft. Moving between huge polished-metal sculptures she met and talked to more painters, and potters, and poets, and their friends who were television directors and copywriters and script editors. They were friendly and interesting, and she told them about her shops, and in her handbag she collected a little sheaf of cards and addresses. There were new designers, and artists, and people who other people insisted she must meet, and talk with, because their stuff was just so great, she’d be crazy not to go and see it for herself.

Julia drank her white wine, ate
dolmades
and shared a joint or two, and at the end of the evening her painter friend didn’t seem too perturbed when she told him that, on the whole, she thought it would probably be better if she just went quietly back to her own hotel bedroom.

‘Another time, baby,’ he said.

In the peace of her room in the Algonquin, Julia took off her dress and hung it up in the closet. She felt tired, and drunk, and thoroughly satisfied. That was how her trip had been. The few names she had armed herself with via friends in London had been the pebble dropping into the pond. The ripples had spread outwards, carrying her with them. She had seen more things that she wanted to buy than she could ever hope to ship home, and she had seen the direction she wanted Garlic & Sapphires to follow into the Seventies. It had been a thoroughly satisfactory expedition.

Julia had flown to Toronto, and out to the Coast. But in comparison with New York, Canada had seemed provincial, and San Francisco was still tangled in hippiedom. She had come back to the East Coast, with a sense of relief and renewed energy, to fix up a last two or three deals before going home. She was beginning to look forward to seeing Lily, and seeing Lily would also mean meeting Alexander. But she knew that she needn’t go yet, not quite yet. She had a little time, and enough money, and she was in the same country …

Lying back on her bed, with her eyes fixed unseeingly on the Celia Birtwell print of her dress inside the open closet, Julia picked up the telephone beside her. She spoke to Long-distance Information, and a minute later wrote down the number on the headed pad next to the telephone. She didn’t dial the number at once. Instead she stood up, and walked to the window. She stood for a moment, looking down into West Forty-fourth street. The city’s electricity seemed to crackle up to her. She breathed in sharply, and stretched upwards, as though a line through her body drew tauter.

Then she went back to the bedside telephone and picked out the digits. She listened to the ringing tone. She was already thinking,
He’s not there
, when he answered.

‘Josh Flood.’

Josh, it’s Julia.’

A pause, and then laughter. The same lazy, warm laughter that she remembered. ‘Well, what d’you know? When can we see each other?’

That was like Josh, too. No
How are you
? or
Where are you
? No mention, either, of how long it had been, or how much had been missed. Just
Hey, here you are
. Now was what mattered to Josh, now, this minute.

And, charged with the potency of success and freedom, Julia felt, at last, that she could match him. She smiled at the empty hotel bedroom.

‘Tomorrow, if I can get a flight.’

‘From London?’

‘New York.’

‘Here I am, waiting for you. Hearing your voice is the best thing that’s happened to me for months.’

‘Oh Josh.’

‘Julia Bliss.’

‘Julia Smith. Alexander and I are divorced.’

He cut her short. ‘Don’t tell me any more now. Save it for tomorrow when I can see your face.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Me too. Julia? I’m glad you called.’

The next day, Julia flew to Denver.

Josh met her at the airport. He stood at the barrier, waiting for her to come through, and although he saw her at once, walking briskly in the midst of a mixed convoy of nuns and businessmen, he had to look again to assure himself that she really was Julia.

And then she was standing in front of him, smiling, her head on one side. Josh held out his arms and she stepped into them. He held her tightly for a long moment, before moving back to look at her again.

Julia had discarded her miniskirts, although only a year ago she had sworn she never would. Now she was wearing a sand-coloured Saint Laurent suit with a slim, knee-length skirt. She had a plain white shirt, and pearl studs in her ears. Her five-point Vidal Sassoon bob had grown out long ago, and her hair waved thickly around her face, as it had done when Josh first saw her in Leoni’s. Her face was thinner but there seemed to be a new luminosity beneath the surface of her skin. She looked older, but she also looked as if she had grown into herself. She was no less beautiful than she had ever been, but she was different, and that was why he had had to look again, as she came towards him, to make sure. If he had to choose a single word for this Julia, Josh thought, it would be
formidable
.

They stood there, holding hands, while the departing passengers ebbed away from them. Julia was thinking,
So I did it. I turned up in Josh’s life, instead of he in mine. I’m the traveller, the initiator. And Josh is the same as he always was
. He looked exactly the same. The bright fairness of his hair might have faded a little and there might be an almost invisible net of fine lines in the tanned skin at the corners of his eyes, but he was as lean and muscled and quick-moving as he had always been. Even the clothes were the sarne, jeans and a thick leather belt, and a denim work-shirt. He looked tough, and handsome, with a streak of warm good-humour, as he always had done.

Deliberately she put her hand behind his head, and drew his face down to kiss the corner of his mouth. His eyes half closed, and she saw the sun-bleached tips of his eyelashes. The current hadn’t flickered either. It ran between them, as powerfully as it ever had.

‘Come on,’ Josh said. ‘The car’s outside. Give me those bags.’

He hoisted her neat, executive luggage and Julia followed him.

The car, negligently parked at the doors, was an open white Mercedes 220SL. Julia whistled at the sight of it and Josh grinned.

‘Neat, hey?’

She settled into her red leather seat, sighing. ‘How senior we all are. Cars, and houses, and businesses.’

Josh looked sideways at her, amused. ‘Don’t class my car with all that other shit. This is a pair of racing skis, or a jetplane. Watch.’

They had left the tangle of airport traffic behind them. The car’s long white nose pointed on to a freeway, and Josh accelerated. They whirled past a truck, and another, and howled past a line of family sedans. Julia felt herself pressed backwards into the seat’s leathery grip. The wind sliced over the screen and pinned her skin to her face, peeling a smile out of it as tears smarted in her eyes. Her hair whipped around her cheeks and she lifted one hand to draw it back into a knot. Josh was smiling too. The wind blew his hair off his forehead and his eyes narrowed with concentration as they sped faster. Julia remembered that that was how he had looked when he was skiing. Absorbed, and exultant.

They went faster. The roar of the engine drowned out the rest of the world, and speed enveloped the sight of it in a featureless blur. Suddenly Julia thought,
He’s like a boy, showing off his car to impress his girl. If we were in a plane, he’d, be looping the loop. He did that once, didn’t he?
The realisation touched her, and made her want to laugh, but it was also oddly startling. She filed it away, in the back of her mind, to re-examine later. Then she reached out and put her hand on Josh’s arm.

Josh! I’m sorry!’ she yelled. ‘Forgive my classing your car with the other trappings of middle age. It’s faster than a jet, more frightening than skis. Now, will you bloody well slow down?’

She had been watching the speedometer. The needle had held steady, somewhere, way past the 100 mark. Now Josh lifted his foot and the red finger obligingly fell back again.

‘Are you a trapping of middle age, my Julia?’

‘It looks like it,’ Julia said drily.

‘In that case, I forgive you everything.’

At a sedate sixty miles per hour, Julia could look around her. They were outside the city now and the clear air shimmered. Ahead of them, between the billboards that lined the freeway, she saw mountains. Even in midsummer, the peaks were seamed with white.

‘The Rockies?’ she asked Josh.

He nodded, whistling, his forearms lazily crossed over the wheel.

‘Where are we going? To Vail?’

Through all the years, summer and winter, she had somehow imagined him out on the ski-trails, or in the glittering powder snow of some huge mountain bowl.

‘No. I try to keep out of it for some part of the summer. I’ve got a place up here, although I don’t use it much. How did you know to call me there?’

‘I didn’t. That was the number Information gave me, that’s all.’

He looked at her again, an open, reflective glance this time, undisguised by laughter. ‘Then it must be fate,’ he said softly.

And Julia felt her tender, innermost muscles secretly contract and loosen again. Her response to the aviator was just the same as it had always been. He disarmed her effortlessly, and left her helpless.
But I didn’t come here to defend myself
, Julia thought.
I came because I wanted to, and because I wanted Josh. Because I’m old enough to understand that if you want something you have to gauge how badly you want it, and then you have to reach out and take it
.

Surely we both know why I’m here. We don’t need to dissemble, after so long
. She knew that her face had reddened, and she stared ahead at the green and blue and grey rockfolds of the mountains.

They left the freeway and followed a smaller road past scattered motels and diners, linked by the taut black lines of telegraph wires like apron strings. They were climbing steadily. They passed through a small town and Julia glimpsed the storefronts and two trucks pulled up on the forecourt of a filling station. Beyond the town, higher up, there were fewer buildings along the roadway. They passed farm waggons and timber trucks, and the driver of one of them raised his arm and waved to Josh.

‘Almost there,’ Josh said.

They turned off again, along a road that was hardly more than a rutted track. They were in trees now, a heavy green canopy that knitted over their heads. Josh slowed the car to walking speed, and they bumped slowly over the grassy ridges. The engine’s echo thrummed back at them. Through the beat of it Julia could hear birdsong, and the splash of water.

Josh swung the wheel again, and the car nosed past a rough timber gate. He drove up a track for a little way, and then they stopped. When he reached and turned off the ignition the silence suddenly yawned, seemingly immense.

Ahead of her, Julia could see the wall of a timber shack.

Josh came round and opened her door for her, helping her out. She stood up in the green stillness, stretching, her legs stiff after the long flight and the drive. Josh folded her arm through his. ‘It’s up here,’ he said gently.

They walked on up the steep track, leaning against each other. The low, dark wall of the shack looked like a frown amongst the greenery. Julia caught her foot in a hollow and stumbled.

‘City shoes,’ she said.

‘City girl,’ Josh teased her.

They reached the shack wall and skirted round it, Josh leading the way. Julia was breathing heavily after the uphill scramble. He pushed the branches aside as they walked, so that the fingers of them didn’t catch at Julia’s clothes. Then they turned the corner. Julia looked up and gasped. Josh’s summer house was built on a little plateau in the side of the mountain. The trees grew up to each side of it, and reared above and behind. But in front of the cabin a space had been cleared, and the magnificence of the view dropped away, unobstructed, beneath their feet.

Julia stood at the edge of the clearing and looked down over the variegated canopy of trees, over the silver thread of a waterfall that broke between them, and on down to the yellow-green expanse of open grassland, rolling away further to the bluish hump of a little town in the distance and, beyond that, a blue haze that melted into the indistinguishable skyline. The colours were different, and the air had a sharper bite to it, but the memories stirred just the same. It was like Montebellate, and she had half turned to Josh to say it when she felt the warmth of his breath on her neck.

‘I know,’ he said, reading her thoughts. ‘It reminds me of it, too.’

‘Only there’s no old woman in a black dress, and no tethered goat up here,’ Julia said softly. ‘No cracked bell ringing the hours.’

Josh touched her arm. ‘Come inside,’ he said.

Julia followed him. Under the shallow pitch of the shingled roof there was a porch, open on three sides. There was one wicker chair, facing outwards. Josh had to stoop to pass under the lintel of the door. The inner part of the cabin was divided into two rooms. The larger was furnished with a table and a couple of upright chairs, two armchairs, and some shelves and a wood-burning stove. Through an open door beside her Julia could see a bed with a turned-back blanket, and some of Josh’s clothes laid neatly on a chair. In a corner, propped against the wall, were two fishing rods and a shotgun. On the shelves were a handful of paperback thrillers, a radio, and a telephone, incongruous even though it was a heavy, old-fashioned black one. There was almost nothing else. No patina of accumulated possessions, no pictures or photographs or mementoes, nothing to decorate the bare walls.