Lovers and Liars Trilogy (121 page)

“Answered prayers are always the most dangerous, as Truman Capote put it,” said Louise. “Or
was
it Capote? It sounds Catholic. A bit Jesuitical. Maybe it was Graham Greene?”

She was reaching for the buzzer to open the front door.

Lindsay gave her one last desperate look, her fair, sleek, impossible mother, and fled into her bedroom. She went on praying that she’d find what she was looking for
quickly:
she tugged drawers open; she scattered files.
Vogue,
she thought. English
Vogue,
and an article that was one of the first she’d ever written, when she was starting out and still working freelance. Was it 1978, or 1979? Had she filed it under “Freelance” or under
“Vogue”
?

“Darling, what a
noise
you’re making in there,” Louise called. “There’s no need to hurry. I’ve introduced myself. Tom’s introduced himself. Goodness! It does smell awfully
oniony
in here. Tom, open the kitchen window. Can you cook, Rowland? No? And a very good thing too. It’s a woman’s province, in my opinion, but then, Lindsay has these advanced ideas. Poor Tom manages very well. Sit here beside me, Rowland—just toss those magazines on the floor. I hope you like the Chardonnay—Australian, of course, madly cheap but quite fun. Now, tell me, have you known Lindsay long?”

Lindsay dropped a stack of files. Dear God, she thought; even Louise, a fast worker, was not usually this unsubtle. Deciding she could not bear to overhear any more, she kicked the door shut. From beyond it, as she searched, came the interchange between Louise and Rowland, a blessedly indistinguishable stream of words. Rowland was being forthcoming, she thought, as she caught his lower tones. Damn; the article was
not
filed under
“Vogue”
; it must be in “Freelance,” then—and it was that file she had dropped. Its contents were now scattered all over the floor. With a moan of exasperation she sank to her knees and began scrabbling among the papers. They were back to front, upside down. It took her almost ten minutes to find the article and its accompanying photograph. The instant she saw it, she knew she had been right. She felt a surge of triumph and excitement. Clutching the papers to her chest, she opened the door.

“…and so you’ve never been married, Rowland?” she heard. “A handsome man like you? What’s wrong with modern girls? Why, in my day you’d have been snapped up, Rowland, long ago.”

“Evasive tactics,” she heard Rowland reply. “I have them down to a fine art.”

“Nonsense!” Louise cried. “You just haven’t found the right woman yet. I can always tell—you’re a romantic, Rowland, I’m sure.”

“You’re right,” Rowland said astonishingly. “Louise, you see into the secrets of my heart.”

“Without her glasses,” Tom put in, “which she’s too vain to wear, she can’t see the wall opposite. So I doubt—”

“Now, Tom, don’t advertise my frailties.” Louise gave a gusty sigh. “Though it is true, Rowland. I have to admit it. I am getting older, and I am getting rather frail.”

“Never,” said Rowland in firm and gallant tones.

“Now, Rowland. No flattery. You’re a sweet man, but the truth is, I’m not getting any younger, and without Lindsay I couldn’t manage at all. I feel I’m a terrible
burden
to her, though she never complains.”

“It wouldn’t occur to her, I’m sure.”

“Yes, well, I
depend
on her,” Louise said, her voice sharpening, as if she objected to something in Rowland’s tone. “It’s a case of whither she goes, I go. Like Ruth. In the Bible. You know.”

Lindsay, who had remained frozen in her bedroom doorway throughout this not-unfamiliar recital, could stand it no longer. Usually, it took Louise several weeks to work through this repertoire; why on earth had she accelerated to this degree?

She entered the living room, face set. She wondered if Rowland had noticed that the room, though large and pleasant, looked as if it had recently been struck by a hurricane. Would he notice what two days of Louise and Tom could do to a room, and if he noticed, would he care?

Tom was sitting opposite Rowland and Louise, amid a pile of books on Ingmar Bergman. He was wearing no shoes, and had holes in his socks. On his lap was a tray on which was a giant-size squeezy bottle of ketchup, and a plate piled high with burgers, french fries, and onions. Louise and Rowland, meanwhile, looked distinctly pally. Louise’s blue eyes were fixed on Rowland, and Rowland’s face wore a relaxed, easy smile. Tom met Lindsay’s gaze with an expression of profound sympathy. He even remembered, loyally, to attempt to rise.

“Don’t get up, Tom,” Lindsay said rather wildly as Rowland beat him to it. “Rowland, I’ve found the article.”

“And we should go, alas.” Rowland had already put down his wineglass and was now extending his hand, with extreme courtesy, to Louise.

“Louise, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Tom, I’ll send over those books I mentioned.”

Louise was busy mouthing the words
wonderful man,
and making sure Rowland saw her do it. With surprising difficulty, considering how nimbly she’d nipped across to the window earlier, she allowed Rowland to help her up from the sofa. She gave him a brave grimace, then a brave sigh. “No, no, it’s nothing…” She waved Rowland aside. “Just this little pain I get in my spine. Rowland, I’m so glad to have met you. Of course, I felt as if I knew you already. Lindsay talks about you all the time.”

“Yeah. She bad-mouths you,” Tom put in, loyal and truthful to the last.

“Does she indeed?” Rowland said with a cool green glance in Lindsay’s direction. “Ah, well. The hostilities are over, Tom. We’re at the peace negotiation stage now, isn’t that right, Lindsay?”

Rowland contrived to make this process sound curiously erotic. Lindsay, who found his glance and his tone were affecting her body in a number of inexplicable ways, averted her gaze. Louise made an odd chirruping noise that possibly indicated parental indulgence and possibly indicated rage.

Lindsay had to admit that Rowland was both decisive and manful when he chose. Before Louise could launch her next salvo, he had Lindsay by the arm, had steered her through the door and led her down the stairs.

“She does that,” Lindsay said, getting into her car, which Rowland had parked perfectly, in a tiny space, with two inches to spare. She began hauling on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, Rowland. She does it to everyone. She does it all the time.”

“I could see that,” he replied, unperturbed. “Hard left, Lindsay. Take it slowly. Well done.”

Scarlet with exertion and shame, Lindsay finally extricated them and set off up the street.

“East?” she said. “If I just keep going east, will you direct me from there?”

“You’re going north at present, Lindsay. Make a right, here.”

Lindsay obeyed. They bowled along for a considerable distance in silence. Lindsay had a slight run-in with a blind taxi driver, and a brief altercation with a battered Ford Cortina, occupied by four youthful comedians. The comedians overtook her on the inside; they appeared to object to her lane procedure at the last traffic circle. As they barreled past four arms were extended from the Cortina’s windows simultaneously, and four fingers were stabbed up at the air.

Lindsay hit the horn as the Ford disappeared into the distance. She glanced toward Rowland, who was still looking calm.

“You’re a pleasure to drive, Rowland. I can’t stand backseat drivers. People will tell me when to brake, or signal; it drives me mad. Gini’s impossible. Nervous as a cat. The whole way down to Max’s, she kept her eyes closed.”

“I don’t blame her,” Rowland said in easy tones. “You’re a terrible driver. You’re one of the worst drivers I’ve ever encountered in my life. Your only rival, as far as I’m concerned, was a one-eyed taxi driver who once drove me in Istanbul. He was smoking hashish at the time. He had something of your style.”

Lindsay decided to take this as a pleasantry. “I drive perfectly well,” she said firmly. “A bit fast, maybe. I don’t like hanging around.”

“Most women make poor drivers anyway,” Rowland went on. “They lack spatial awareness. Tests have been done. It’s been scientifically proved.”

“What nonsense.”

“It’s true. It’s why there are so few women architects. It’s why women make such mediocre chess players.”

“I play brilliant chess. I taught Tom.”

“Who wins when you play Tom now?”

“Well, he does. But that proves nothing. Tom’s exceptional.”

“I thought he might be. I liked Tom.”

“Did you?” Lindsay swerved joyfully. “Oh, I’m so glad. I don’t expect he said very much—not with Louise there.”

“No. He didn’t. That was why I liked him. He has good taste in films. Remind me to give you some books for him. Also—” He glanced toward her. “He doesn’t miss much, I’d guess.”

“Tom doesn’t miss
anything
,” Lindsay said with pride. “Left or right here?”

“Left,” said Rowland. “Oh, well, never mind. We can approach it this way. Go past that factory, turn in here, that’s it… Now turn left by the Hawksmoor church. Isn’t it a wonderful church? It’s my favorite in the whole of London. I can lie in bed and look at its spire.”

Lindsay, who had never heard of Hawksmoor, turned sharply left where indicated. She was just thinking what an extraordinary neighborhood Rowland lived in, one of the slummiest and roughest she had ever seen in this city, when her eyes took in the street and the house he was indicating. She gasped, slammed on the brakes, and came to an abrupt halt with one wheel on the pavement.

“My God. What an incredible street. What incredible houses…”

Rowland was looking fondly at the row of brick façades. The houses were terraced, with fanlights and tall sash windows. Small flights of steps led up to their doors.

“They’re 1730, or thereabouts,” he said. “They were built for the Huguenots, who came here when they were driven out of France. They were famous as merchants and silk weavers. It’s always been a refugee area. After the French left, it became a Jewish quarter. Now it’s predominantly Bengali. I rescued this house. It was falling down when I bought it.”

“It’s beautiful, Rowland.”

“Isn’t it? It’s still a bit primitive inside. I’ve had it twelve years. Friends used it when I was in Washington. I’ve never really gotten around to furnishing it exactly… Oh, my God. Quick. Start the car!”

Lindsay, who was already climbing out as he said this, looked around in bewilderment. A short way up the street, she saw, there was a long, low white Mercedes convertible. From it had just emerged a tall, thin, and very beautiful young woman. For one second, in the dim streetlight, Lindsay thought it was Gini. This girl had the same figure, the same cropped blond hair, the same wide mouth, the same air of determination. But Gini would not be wearing spray-on silver trousers, a cropped black T-shirt, and a black leather motorcycle jacket; she would not be wearing startlingly scarlet lipstick, and she would not be provoking this reaction in Rowland, who—now out of the car—looked poised to flee.

“You sheet,” the girl yelled, reaching Rowland, and striking him hard in the chest. “You peeg. I call. I weep. I write you letters from my ’eart. I seet in my car. I wait. I weep some more—beeg tears, look. ’Ow can you do zis to me?
Merde, je m’en fiche, tu comprends
?” She continued screaming in her own language, her mouth distorted with woe, tears plopping onto the leather jacket. Periodically, she struck Rowland, and periodically Rowland said,
“Sylvie
…”

In mid-Racinian recitative, Sylvie turned her attack from Rowland to Lindsay’s new, shiny Volkswagen. Swirling around with impressive speed, she raised her fist and brought it down hard on the hood. A dent appeared.

“Now, just wait a minute,” said Lindsay, advancing.

“Beech,” screamed Sylvie. “Inglish beech. You steal my man. I show you what I think of beeches. And their stupid cars.”

She kicked the Volkswagen’s bumper. Another dent appeared.

“What the hell? That’s
it
,” Lindsay said. She made a grab for Sylvie but missed as Sylvie was hoisted into the air.

“Out. Go away. Go home.” Rowland was shouting in a voice audible at least three blocks away. “Now. That’s it. It’s
over
.”

He had Sylvie in a firm grip several feet above the ground. Her legs kicked furiously. She was clawing and spitting like a tomcat. Even Lindsay was impressed, and Lindsay had a fierce temper of her own.

“I die.” Sylvie suddenly went limp. “I keel myself. I cut my neck. Right now.”

“No. You don’t,” said Rowland, frog-marching her along the sidewalk to her car. “You have remarkable powers of self-preservation, Sylvie.”

“I keel that beech, then, before I go.”

“That bitch is my wife, Sylvie,” Rowland said, depositing her next to her car somewhat violently. “We got married yesterday. It was a whirlwind romance. Now, go home.”

“Ta femme? Hypocrite! Menteur! C’est impossible!”

“Not impossible. Would you like to see the ring?”

He spoke with absolute green-eyed conviction. Sylvie gave an eldritch wail. She uttered a stream of French insults, slapped Rowland’s face extremely hard, leapt into her Mercedes, and screeched away.

Rowland turned to Lindsay, who was still standing, mouth agape, by her poor wounded car. Without speaking, his expression unreadable, he took her by the arm, led her up the steps, and opened his front door. He switched on the light. On the doormat inside, and trailing from the letterbox, was an assortment of women’s panties.

Lindsay bent and picked them up. There were black lace ones, pink lace ones, white lace ones. She looked at Rowland.

“Sylvie’s?” she asked.

“They’re her style,” Rowland replied. “Posting them through the letterbox is her style as well.”

“Bloody
hell
,” said Lindsay, and they both began to laugh.

They laughed all the way up the staircase, which was uncarpeted, and along a corridor, and into the first-floor reception room. Lindsay, who felt weak from laughing, sank down in the room’s only chair.

“Oh, my God,” she said at last. “She was
extraordinary,
Rowland.”

“Not extraordinary enough,” he replied.