The Real Thing (21 page)

‘Oh dear, then we mustn’t expect too much of you,’ Fanny said, patting the pretty silver lattice above her pearl-bubbled left ear while her rings flashed. A ring caught in the hair. ‘Oh damn,’ she said, ‘I’ve got out of the way of dolling myself up.’ And she unclipped the earring, laid it on the cloth, unclipped the other, took off a ring or two.

‘It was all for you,’ said Kate, ‘but we are out of practice, you see.’ She was offering herself to him in the tones of her deep voice, just as Fanny did her light one. Their voices … while he smiled and tucked heartily into his starter, prawns and bits of this and that, he was trying to come to terms with their voices.

‘Aren’t you even going to ask about the terms?’ he enquired, whimsically, but with an undernote of grudge.

‘Oh I’m sure you’ve done well by us,’ said Fanny, her voice tinkling down his spine.

‘Besides, you wrote us the terms, have you forgotten?’ said Kate, and her deep bell made a descant with Fanny’s chime.

Damn them, he was thinking.

‘Besides, it’s not likely you would try to cheat us,’ said Fanny, ‘when we were the best agents in the business in our time.’

‘True,’ he said.

Both, having allowed the tines of their forks to dawdle in their fish, put down the forks and reached as one woman for their glasses.

‘Bliss,’ said Fanny, sipping.

‘Bliss plus,’ echoed Kate.

He was looking past them at a table visible through a slight arch, where sat a young woman, who was facing
him. She was entertaining an influential New York publisher, and was not looking at him, though she must have seen him there. She was more attractive, in style not unlike the Modigliani we all know so well. She had a long voluptuous white throat. Her black hair glistened like clean coal, and was cut in what was once called a bob. She had green eyes, and wore a grass-green jumper with a string of jet beads. Her skin was white, with the thick glistening look of camellia petals. He certainly was not the only man looking at her. But she had eyes only for the man opposite her, attending to him like … well, like a mistress determined to please. He acknowledged that it would not have occurred to him to make this comparison if he had not been subjected to these two old …

As she continued not to acknowledge him, he leaned back again, prepared to put up with being embarrassed.

They had noticed his absence of mind, and sat as quiet as two pampered budgies, drinking, musing, it seemed, about long-ago things – attractive memories, for their wrinkled mouths smiled, and their eyes were damp with champagne.

He began on his main course, while they patiently, but indifferently, waited for him. They had said they didn’t want a main course. Urged again now to change their minds, Fanny said, “The pudding! That’s what I’m waiting for. I adore, adore sweet things now. I never used to.’

‘Sweets to the sweet,’ said Kate, apparently complimenting Fanny for him, since it didn’t occur to him to do so. Or was this a moment from her own past?

Both were now quite tipsy, and Kate actually swayed a little, and unsteadily hummed a bar or two of – what?

Fanny put her head on one side, lips pursed, and Kate said triumphantly, ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin.’

‘What a tune to dance to, that was,’ said Fanny. ‘Do
you dance?’ she enquired, caressing him with her old sweet voice.

‘No, they don’t dance these days,’ said Kate. ‘We danced. They none of them do. Not real dancing. They just jump about.’

‘No,’ he confessed, fortifying himself with champagne. ‘I don’t actually ever seem to …’

The second bottle was almost gone. No, he simply would not, he was damned if he would, order a third.

He had swallowed down his food, and had not enjoyed it.

He nodded, and knew it was desperate, at the waiter, who, it was obvious, knew exactly how to deal with these
manstres sacrées.
He came gracefully forward, smiling, bestowing his attention on both, in friendly glances, and began detailed explanations of the desserts. He might have been describing jewels, or orchids. His manner was full of flattery, and of appreciation, of the food, and certainly, of them. He had a favourite granny perhaps? The three were positively flirting! It was quite charming, as a performance, the host was prepared to concede that. When it was finally agreed that a certain confection of chocolate and
crime fraèche
was what they had to eat, the waiter pointed out it was not wise to let all those pretty things -for both women had now made piles of jewellery beside them – lie about anyhow on the tablecloth. He smiled, they smiled, and both swept up their valuables and let them fall into their handbags.

‘How do you know I wouldn’t run off with them myself?’ enquired the waiter laughing, departing to fetch their desserts.

‘Oh don’t be silly,’ sighed Kate after him.

‘He’s a dish,’ said Fanny. ‘I’m sure there are more good-looking young men about than there used to be.’

‘An illusion,’ said Kate.

They seemed to have forgotten him, or had given him up, for they sat meditating and not looking anywhere near him.

They ate their confections in lingering, appreciative licks and sips, but no, this performance was not meant for him, the host, who sat watching, trying to see them as the waiter clearly did, charming women, for when he had an unoccupied moment, he stood nearby, smilingly watching.

Last week a certain impresario had remarked that these two had been the dishiest women in London.

Dishy. A dish. Dishes. Dishiest.

The champagne was quite gone.

No, neither drank coffee these days and brandy would be too much of a good thing. They were quite happy to toddle off to their train.

He told the waiter he would be back to pay the bill, and he took them out, one on either arm. This contact disturbed him, but he did not propose to analyse why. The waiter was holding the door open, ‘Au revoir, au revoir,’ he said. ‘Come back, madame, do come back, madame.’

And, before turning back to his duties, he stood looking after them, and gave the minutest shrug, regretful, philosophic, humorously tender.

There was a taxi almost at once. The host handed them in, both slightly unsteady, but in command of themselves. As he bent to smile goodbye, it occurred to him they were actually saying to themselves, and would to each other the moment he had turned away, ‘Right, we’ve got that over.’ A performance was done with. The very second their little waves at him – which seemed to him perfunctory, to say the least – were done with, they sat back and forgot him.

He returned to the restaurant. Now the Modigliani
girl was alone. He sat himself down at her table, just as another colleague did. The three of them worked in different departments of the same publishing firm.

‘God,’ said she, ‘what one has to do for duty.’ She smiled matily at first one and then the other, but holding their eyes with hers. An Armagnac stood before her. She was a little tight too. ‘Drinking at lunchtime,’ she complained.

At the next table sat a woman they all knew, an American agent in London. She greeted them, they greeted her, and she began to talk about her trip, enquiring about new young writers. Her voice resonated, commanded attention, as American professional women’s voices often do, insistent, not conceding an inch, every syllable a claim.

The Modigliani girl answered her, and her voice was just as much in a local pattern as the American’s. Somewhere in England, at a girls’ school, at some time probably in the late sixties or early seventies, there must have been a headmistress, or even a head girl, of extreme force of character, or elegant, or rich, or pretty, but at least with some quality that enabled her to impose her style on everyone, making her enviable, copiable … by a class – then a school – then by several. For often and everywhere is to be found this voice among professional women formed at that time. It is a little breathy high voice that comes from a circumscribed part of the women who use it, not more than two square inches of the upper chest, certainly not a chest cavity or resonating around a head. Oh dear, poor little me, they lisp their appeals to the unkind world; these tough, often ruthless young women who use every bit of advantage they can. Sometimes in a restaurant this voice can be heard from more than one of the tables; or from different parts of a room at a board meeting, or a conference. There they sat, in professional and competent discussion, the American tough guy, the English cutie, or sweetie, or dish, or dolly-face, perfect
specimens of their kind, one insisting and grinding, one chitter-chattering, and smiling, turning her beautiful long white neck, curved and taut, while the black silky hair swung on her cheeks.

Two men watched and listened.

Then their girl, their colleague, turned her attention back to them. ‘I’m going to play hookey this afternoon. I’m not coming back to my office,’ she almost whispered, and her great emerald eyes widened like a little girl’s at the dark. ‘I want to get home and feed my baby. I’ve got myself a new friend, he’s a baby chow, he’s a little love …’

The waiter brought the old women’s host his bill: he checked and signed.

Brought the beauty her bill: she signed having given it a fast cold inspection a million miles from this whispering confiding style, but reminded her colleagues of the sharpness she used in her work. Meanwhile she lisped, ‘My life has changed. When Bill and I parted …’ Bill was her recently divorced husband …‘I thought that was really it, you know, for ever, absolutely the
end
for me, but now I have my baby-love, I’ve lost my heart again. He sleeps on my bed, I try to keep him off, I’ve made him a little little nest on the floor – he’s only the size of a big teddy, you know, but he won’t have it…’ She smiled at them, breaking their hearts.

All three should be back in the office, should have left here half an hour ago, should at least be leaving now, but she held them there: I take him out, I take my baby to the park every morning before I come to work, yes, ifs a discipline, just like a real baby, and when I take him home I give him some little things to play with while I’m gone, he loves to play with green leaves or a twig. Oh he’s so pretty, dancing about in the grass, he’s like a baby lion …’

They sat on, and would until she broke it, got up to go, abandoned them.

But if they could not get up and leave her, then it seemed she could not end the business of charming them …

The first time it was Jody who rang Sebastian, and the conversation went like this. ‘Sebastian? Is that Sebastian? I am Jody.
Jody!
Don’t you know who I am?’

A pause. ‘Yes, I think so. You’re Henry’s new …’

‘Hardly new, surely?’

A pause. ‘Ah.’ A pause.

‘When did you hear about me?’

‘Well … I’ve only just heard, actually.’

The effect was of an explosion at the other end of the line, but a silent one. ‘You’ve only just heard about me? But … For Christ’s sake I’ve been with Henry for over two years now.’

‘I have to say that surprises me.’

‘Does it? Nobody told you? Angela didn’t say?’

A pause. ‘No … look here … I’m not … I don’t feel … I’m sorry …’

‘Don’t get all English with me, that’s all I need.’

‘What do you want?’

“That’s better.’ The voice was American – naturally, since that was what she was – loud, insistent, and tears or laughter were latent in it. I just wanted to talk, that’s all.
Don’t hang up on me.’

‘I hadn’t intended to.’

‘I am going to marry Henry, and you are going to marry Angela. The way I see it, stupid of me, I’m sure, that’s enough of a bond for a short chat.’

‘Look,’ he began again, allowing it to be heard that his affability was at risk, ‘I’m perfectly willing to talk about anything you like, but you come as a bit of a surprise.’

‘You say Angela has never mentioned me?’

‘No, nor Henry.’

‘Henry! You mean, you see Henry?’

‘Well, yes, sometimes. Civilized you know – all that.’

‘Don’t mention that word civilized to me,’ she said violently. ‘I’m sorry, but that word is
out.’

‘Very well. As you like. But yes, as it happens, Henry and I have met, you know, to discuss this and that.’

‘But never me.’

‘No, as it happens.’

‘Good God, no, it’s simply not … I just can’t believe it, that’s all.’

He said apologetically, ‘You see, the subject never arose.’

‘Oh, why should it! I’m only the woman who is going to marry Henry, that’s all.’

A silence. ‘But… Jody … Jody?’

‘Jody. A name. Like Mary.’

‘Or like Sebastian,’ he said, with a small placatory laugh. ‘Look, Jody, don’t you see? We don’t discuss – that sort of thing. I’m sure you don’t discuss me with Henry? You’ve better things to talk about!’

‘No, but then you’re quite a new phenomenon, aren’t you? You’ve just happened?’

‘Hardly, I’ve known Angela about three years now -more.’

“Three years,’ she said, intending to sound stunned.

‘Something like that, yes. Henry hasn’t mentioned me to you at all?’

‘Angela’s new
bloke
, he said.’

‘Well! Oh well, and what of it? That’s hardly the point, surely? I don’t spend my time with Angela with the aim of discussing her ex-husband’s love life.’

‘I must tell you that if I’d known you were
there
I’d have rung you up long ago.’

‘A pleasure,’ said he.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Oh no no
no.
.
.
not that tone. Not that English
tone.
When I hear it I …’

‘You reach for your revolver?’

‘If I had one, yes. I’m not going to be switched
off.’

Sudden anger, the anger of a man who expects too much of himself in the way of sweet reason. ‘This is all too much of a good thing,’ he exploded. ‘If you want to talk, then talk, but I’m not sitting here as a substitute target for -someone or other’

‘Oh God,’ she suddenly wailed. ‘I’m sorry, oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … I wanted to talk to you, I
had
to, I’ve simply got to find out… no, you’re right. Sorry. Goodbye, Sebastian.’