A Pure Clear Light (19 page)

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’m a director. Details like that are significant. What sort of person buys a cigarette lighter from Cartier? You do see how preposterous it is, don’t you?’

‘
Chacun à son goût.

’ ‘Oh, so it is an
un
, then, is it?’

She sat down. ‘I’m autonomous,’ she said. ‘You’re autonomous. You know why you’re here. I know why you’re here. Let’s get on with it, or else—’

He turned away from the fireplace and faced her again. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

‘This is going wrong, isn’t it?’ she said, staring at him, baffled.

His heart seemed to contract. ‘No,’ he said, almost wildly. ‘Not a bit of it. Not at all. It was never better. I’m just—I work pretty hard, you know.
Did
you know that?’

‘I dare say you do,’ she agreed, mildly. ‘After all, so do I. Did
you
know
that
?’

He looked down at her. You could never quite get used to the idea that women—the women you desired, the women you dreamed of, the women you made love to—actually worked, even worked hard: could actually be compared in this respect to men. Not until you saw them actually working; actually working hard. He looked around the room.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose you do, at that.’ This lot had to be paid for somehow. She sat back against the sofa cushions, her arms folded, staring up at him, her gaze as candid as a child’s. As Solomon’s. After a moment he sat down near her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You were quite right. It was none of my business.’

‘It belongs to a friend of Albie’s,’ she said. ‘Bloody Albie told him to look me up—he was here for a week on business. He took me to the theatre. Then he came in for a nightcap, and he left that thing behind. It’s a fucking nuisance, because I’m going to have to send it after him.’

He was silent, picturing the episode. ‘Just stick it in a jiffy bag,’ he said. ‘It’s no big deal.’

‘It will be if he doesn’t get it,’ she said. ‘Being as it’s so valuable. No, someone will have to go to the post office in person and register it. That’s the drag of it.’

‘I didn’t think Americans smoked, these days,’ he said.

‘No, they don’t,’ she agreed. ‘But you see, he’s Venezuelan. Works on Wall Street.’ ‘What play did you see?’ he asked.

‘
The Wind in the Willows
,’ she replied. It was too delicious. ‘He didn’t seem to understand it at all. So to speak.’

‘Poor Gillian,’ he said.

She smiled, and shrugged. ‘It’s all in a day’s work.’

Oh my darling, my darling. He stood up and, leaning over her, took her hand. ‘Come upstairs,’ he murmured. She got up and they went upstairs, hand in hand. Nothing was wrong. It was never better. ‘What about this cookery, then,’ he said afterwards. ‘Still at it?’

‘I should say so.’

‘What if I were to call in on—say—Friday evening? Would you be free?’

She stared up at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Friday,’ she said. ‘No. I’m sorry. Friday’s no good.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Right.’ Why not? It was none of his business.

‘I’m going away for the weekend,’ she said.

‘That’s nice.’

‘I hope so.’

He looked at her face, but could read nothing from it. There was no hint of anticipation or of pleasure, of anxiety or of apprehension, or even of boredom. Nothing. ‘What about Monday, then,’ he said. ‘Is that possible?’

She considered the notion for a while. ‘It should be,’ she said.

He half sat up, leaning on one elbow. ‘How soon can you get here?’ he said. ‘Is six o’clock too early?’

She considered again. This appointment-making, this time-fixing, was not their habitual way. ‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘I can’t really promise.’

He lay back again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Naturally not.’

She turned her head and looked at his profile. ‘Why don’t you go to the brasserie at six,’ she said, ‘and I’ll meet you there, just as early as I can. It shouldn’t be too much later than six.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Yes, okay, I’ll do that.’

‘Good,’ she said. And she turned her head back again, and stared at the ceiling once more, watching the slithering columns of light as the cars passed in the street below.

72

‘Was Jesus really real?’

‘So they say.’

‘They might be lying.’

‘That’s always possible.’

‘What if they
are
lying?’

‘He might still be real.’

‘How could he be, if they’re only lying?’

‘You must concentrate. Can you do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right then. Don’t you see that it’s possible to say something that’s true, even though you yourself don’t actually believe that it’s true, and are simply lying? For instance, if I say that Thomas is five, when I actually believe he’s only four—’

‘I’m not! I’m five!’

‘Yes, so you are—
we
know that; but if someone who didn’t know you were five, and thought you were four, said that you were five, they’d be lying, wouldn’t they? From their point of view, that is.’

‘Because they were saying something they didn’t believe,’ said Nell helpfully.

‘Exactly,’ said Flora. ‘But the point here is, that although they were lying, from their point of view, they were still saying something that was true: because Thomas
is
five. Do you see?’

‘Why would they think I’m four?’ said Thomas.

‘Because you’re only little,’ said Nell.

‘I’m not!’ said Thomas. ‘I’m five!’

‘Cripes,’ said Flora.

‘But what if they’re lying,’ said Nell, ‘and it still isn’t true?’

‘What isn’t true?’ said Flora.

‘About Jesus,’ said Nell.

‘Ah,’ said Flora. ‘Then we have a problem.’

‘So what if he isn’t real?’ Nell persisted. ‘What if it’s all a real lie?’

‘And equally,’ said Flora, ‘what if he is real, and it’s all true?’

‘Well, how can you tell,’ said Nell, ‘whether Jesus is really real, or not, then?’

‘You have to see for yourself,’ said Flora. ‘Each of us has to make up her own mind. Yes, Thomas, or
his.
That, as a matter of fact, is the whole point. One has to decide for oneself, as best one can.’

‘What do you think?’ said Nell.

‘I haven’t entirely decided,’ said Flora.

‘Then why do you go to church?’

‘To help me to decide.’

‘Do you
have
to decide?’ said Nell.

‘On the whole,’ Flora replied, ‘I do believe one does. One way or the other.’

‘Why?’ said Nell.

‘Because,’ said Flora, ‘there are two possible worlds, the one in which Jesus is real, and the one in which he is not, and it actually does matter which of these two worlds you believe you’re living in.’

‘Why?’ said Nell.

‘That is another of those questions you have to think about for yourself,’ said Flora. ‘If I gave you my own answer, it would be cheating.’

‘When do I have to decide?’ said Nell.

‘Whenever you can,’ said Flora. ‘But probably not until you’re a fair bit older, actually.’

‘That’s good,’ said Nell. ‘Can we go skating after lunch, Mum?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Flora. ‘We’ll see how your father feels.’

‘I’ll go and ask him,’ said Nell.

‘And you can tell him that lunch is almost ready,’ said Flora.

But Simon happened to come into the kitchen at this juncture, in quest of the gin. ‘Time for a quick pre-prandial?’ he asked Flora. Nell put her proposal before him. Of all the appalling ideas: the Queensway ice-rink. But then he remembered that Gillian was away this weekend. The idea was still fairly appalling nevertheless. He bit on the bullet. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But no falling over and breaking any bones, okay? I just couldn’t stand the hassle.’

Janey came in, and learned what was afoot. ‘Can Amaryllis and Katie come too?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I suppose so,’ said Simon with mock weariness. She went away to telephone each of them and returned with the news that Amaryllis, but not Katie, would be of the party; when could she expect to be collected from her home in Holland Park? Simon gave Janey a time and she returned to the telephone. What an absolutely bloody brilliant father I am, thought Simon. And he meant it, every word.

73

‘Here I am.’

‘At last.’

‘I got here as soon as I could.’

‘Of course. Do you want anything?’

‘I might as well, since I’m here. Just a spritzer, I think.’

‘Coming up.’ Simon signalled a waiter, and gave the order.

‘I see you’re on the hard stuff,’ said Gillian.

Simon took another swallow. ‘Hard liquor,’ he said, ‘for a hard man.’

‘Golly,’ said Gillian. ‘You don’t say so.’

After they had finished their drinks and left the brasserie, and gone back to the house, and made love, he lay on his back and watched the columns of light sliding across the bedroom ceiling. I will never forget this, he thought. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, everything’s just fine,’ she said. And he thought, it’s true, isn’t it? Everything is just fine. We understand each other. We know what we’re doing. It’s rare, that is: knowing what one’s doing. We’ve come through, he thought; we’ve made it. Equilibrium had been achieved. He glanced at the time: if he left now he might just catch Thomas. He stirred.

She came downstairs with him; as he passed the doorway to the sitting room he noticed Rupert’s orchid, still blooming. ‘Is that thing on steroids?’ he said.

She laughed. ‘Orchids do furnish a room,’ she said. And he suddenly apprehended—or believed he apprehended—how sparse, truly, her life was; how much, how utterly she needed him in it: because who else, truly, cared for her? Who else truly furnished her life? Rupert? Surely not. He was suddenly convinced that he was the only person really in her life, her only chance of an authentic connection.

He put his arms around her. ‘Friday?’ he said.

‘I may be held up,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we meet in the brasserie again—can you do that? Six-thirty-ish?’

‘I’ll be there,’ he said.

74

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yes, everything’s okay. Ish.’

‘Perhaps you’d better be precise.’

‘Wasn’t I?’

‘Insufficiently so.’

Flora shrugged. ‘What more would you like to know?’ she said.

‘Well,’ said Simon, ‘the difference between okay, and okayish, would do to be going on with.’

‘I would have thought,’ Flora replied, ‘that it was fairly obvious that getting home in time to see Thomas is okay, and not doing so is ish: okay?’

‘Ish,’ said Simon.

Flora stopped stitching and looked up at him. ‘Perhaps
you
’
d
better be precise,’ she said.

Simon sighed. ‘Oh, God,’ he said.

Flora started stitching again. ‘Oh God our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come,’ she sang; ‘Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home.’ She couldn’t remember the words of the next verse, so she simply hummed, continuing to stitch the while. Simon stared at her, half irritated and half bemused, and sensing at last his irritation if not his bemusement she let the tune trail away and looked up again. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘you haven’t forgotten about Friday, have you?’

‘Friday?’

‘Yes, that thing of Lydia’s, the private view.’

‘The
what
?’

‘You know, I told you—the invitation’s up there, somewhere. One of her mother’s painters is having his first London show. Some gallery in Mayfair—I’ve forgotten which; it’s up there anyway. You said we might go along—surely you remember?’

‘You don’t want to go to a thing like that!’

‘But I
do.
It would be fun.’

‘Honestly, Flora, what on earth’s got into you? A lot of lousy modern paintings, unspeakable people and undrinkable Chablis— you’ve got to be kidding.’ Flora said nothing, her face averted over her work. ‘Aren’t you?’ said Simon.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I thought it might be fun. It would be a change. We never go anywhere like that.’

‘Too right we don’t.

It’s not even as if we like modern paintings.’ ‘It’s not just the paintings,’ said Flora. ‘And anyway, Lydia could use a bit of moral support. After all, she’s more or less obliged to be there, but she won’t know anyone, except this painter chap, whom she’s only just met, if that much.’

Simon sighed. ‘Bloody Lydia,’ he said, but without force. Flora gave him a look but said nothing. ‘Well look,’ he went on, ‘why don’t you go along without me, then?’

‘Oh!’ cried Flora, ‘but that wouldn’t be nearly the same.’

Simon sighed again. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ he said; as if he meant it. And he all but did. ‘I really can’t manage it—not Friday. Not as it looks from here. What time’s the off? Six to eight sort of thing, eh? It’s impossible. You go along without me.’

‘I’ll see,’ said Flora in a small voice. ‘I’ll see if Louisa’s going, or Claire.’

‘There you are,’ said Simon. ‘One of them’s bound to be, if not both. You girls get stuck in there. You’ll enjoy it much more without me.’

‘I won’t,’ said Flora.

75

Simon was sitting with his back to the door when Lydia, with half an hour to kill in between visiting her Bayswater photographer and going on to the private view, came into the brasserie.

And Lydia, having taken so long earlier in the afternoon to dress for the occasion, apprehensive about it in any case, sitting down in the nearest available place—at a table near the door— wasn’t tempted, alone and self-conscious as she felt, to look around her, and might not have recognised Simon’s rear view if she had, but ordered a filter coffee (she didn’t want to mix her drinks) and lit a cigarette, and then stared out of the window at the passing crowd. This is the place I saw Simon and that blonde woman coming into that night, she thought.

And this was the moment, precisely, when she saw the woman herself entering the brasserie once again. For as Lydia herself had often quite carelessly observed (never quite believing it, in all its depth and import) London is a karmic sort of place. She watched, frozen, as the woman crossed the room; she saw, horrified, that the man who rose to greet her was Simon.

Her heart was still thumping as she sat in the taxi which was taking her to the private view; she still all but trembled with the shock. Their heads together, their hands clasped—there could be no doubt now that they were lovers: she, Lydia, had witnessed this thing.