Lovers and Liars Trilogy (172 page)

He had been about to pass by when something in Deep Throat’s expression caught his eye. He was regarding Rowland with a flushed, kindly innocence, this red-haired young man, who was the heir to 12,000 acres, who had just consumed wine which cost more than Rowland could afford to spend in ten weeks. His expression conveyed precarious dignity, absurd pride and incipient distress. He made a hiccuping sound and fixed Rowland with blue, alarmed eyes. ‘Help,’ he said, with surprising distinctness, as he began slowly, like a felled tree, to topple forwards towards the flagstones of the quad. Rowland, in a better state of alertness than the friends were, found he had moved forward, held out his arms and caught him. They then scattered, and Deep Throat was sick—ignominiously, understandably and
accurately
, as he remarked the next morning when Rowland called in to check on him.

‘I missed my shoes!’ he said, bright-faced. ‘I missed yours as well. Here, have some champagne. Childe Roland to the dark quad came. I’m going on the wagon tomorrow, so shall we celebrate now?’

They celebrated, at nine in the morning, with a bottle of Dom Perignon, some iced buns provided by Colin’s scout, and anchovy toast burned by Colin. Rowland missed two lectures and made two discoveries: he was less of a puritan than he had thought, and he liked Colin Lascelles, who, it seemed, was even more appalled at the prospect of inheriting 12,000 acres and the minor title that went with them than Rowland McGuire was.

The next week, hung-over again, he drove Rowland out into the countryside north of Oxford and stopped the car on the edge of a beech wood. He pointed; below them, in a valley enfolded by gentle Cotswold hills, was one of the most beautiful houses Rowland had ever seen.

‘That’s Shute,’ Colin said. ‘It will be mine one day. It should have been my brother’s, only he died.’ Then he let in the clutch, drove them back to Oxford and started drinking again.

From that moment onwards, Colin attached himself to Rowland, and Rowland, often exasperated by him, grew fond of him. In the eighteen years since, their relationship was little changed. Although Colin had learned to control his drinking, indulging in binges only occasionally, and was now highly successful, he remained incorrigible, and he still treated Rowland as a surrogate brother. He still asked Rowland’s assistance from time to time, and when pressured, Rowland grumbled, then, often against his better judgement, gave way.

So, on the occasion of that dinner, he had agreed to help. He promised to mull the matter over, consult some friends and see what he could come up with. He suggested Colin meet him in his editorial office at the
Sunday Correspondent
the next day; there, Rowland would join him as soon as he could escape from a round of meetings.

He found Colin ensconced in his office, propositioning his secretary. Having extricated her from a situation she appeared to be enjoying—Colin was good-looking and had undeniable charm—Rowland gave him a brief and, he hoped, helpful lecture on Anne Brontë’s Wildfell Hall.

‘Think about this house, Colin,’ he said. ‘Think about the mystery woman you like so much at the beginning of the book. She’s taken refuge in Wildfell Hall, hasn’t she?’

‘Ye-es,’ said Colin, eyes beginning to glaze.

‘It’s not her permanent home. She doesn’t
own
it; she’s renting it, from a man.’

‘I don’t really see’, Colin began mutinously, ‘that it makes the least bit of difference
who
she’s renting it from. It could just as well be some mad old grandmother—so what?’

‘No, Colin.
Think
. This woman is young, she’s beautiful, she has a son—and she’s lied about her past. She’s living under a false name and she’s in
hiding
at Wildfell Hall. What happens almost immediately after she’s moved in there?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. All these bitchy women in the neighbourhood start gossiping about her. Gilbert Markham meets her and falls in love with her. Then—I’m not too sure about the next bit, I skipped it, I kept falling asleep; it’s much better in the movie—hang on, I know! They all find out she’s having a secret affair with the owner of Wildfell Hall, who’s this tall, dark, brooding man. Then we get this flashback bit, and it goes on and on and on…’

‘Dear God.’ Rowland buried his head in his hands. ‘How you got a degree, Colin, I’ll never understand. Think. Use your
brain
. Forget all this gobbledegook; you’re getting the plot wrong. Think about property, and
sex
, Colin, and the connections between the two…’

At the mention of sex, Colin’s face brightened. ‘I don’t quite follow you, Rowland…’

‘Listen, Colin, it may have escaped your notice, but for much of the novel, all the
property
is owned by men. The question Anne Brontë raises—one of the questions—is whether the men own the women as well.’

‘Oh Lord—it’s
feminist
, you mean?’ Colin blinked. ‘I must have missed that. No wonder I didn’t like it, I can’t stand that sort of thing. It’s so
unnecessary
, don’t you find? Look, Rowland, this is all very interesting, but could we get on? I have to find a
house
…’

‘I know that, but this house symbolizes something, Colin.’

‘Not to me it doesn’t. A house is a house. It has four walls, a roof and a door. Come on, Rowland, you said you’d give me some suggestions…’

Rowland gave up. He passed Colin a list. Of the four houses on it, it turned out, three had already been suggested by Colin and rejected by Tomas Court, a fact he had neglected to mention. This did not appear to demoralize Colin; on the contrary, he assumed a businesslike demeanour, produced numerous dog-eared maps and notebooks, and showed signs of cheering up.

‘I knew I could rely on you!’ He beamed at Rowland. ‘We think alike. We’re getting somewhere now.’

Pointedly, Rowland looked at his watch.

‘There’s just one leetle problem, Rowland. This fourth place you suggest…it’s, well, it’s a bit too remote. It’s a hundred miles from all my other locations, there’s no road to it, and not a whiffle of an hotel…’

Rowland controlled his temper. ‘You didn’t mention roads or hotels.’

‘Well, I thought you’d
realize
. I mean, think, Rowland, I have to house a crew, the cast, Natasha Lawrence. I have to consider costs: transport, caravans, limousines, generators, computer links, catering, security. Stars don’t
walk
to location, Rowland, and they’re kind of fussy about hotels. I can’t put Natasha Lawrence up in some boarding house, now can I?’

‘Why not? She’s there to work. I imagine she’d survive.’

‘Don’t be naïve, Rowland. You know perfectly well it doesn’t work like that. We’re talking suites, twenty-four-hour room service, a pool, a gym. She has a bodyguard, and she works out with him every morning…’

‘You said
remote
, dammit…’

‘I know, but there’s remote and remote. Now don’t get testy, Rowland, and don’t give up on me…’

‘Give up on you? I wouldn’t dream of it. After all, apart from the small matter of getting out a Sunday newspaper, I have nothing else to do. My calls are being
held
. I’ll just tell them to hold them for the next hour, shall I? Or would two suit you better?’

‘Now, Rowland, don’t be sarcastic. I can’t take it, not just now.’

‘Besides, it’s perfectly straightforward, right? We should sort this out in no time. What you need is a Grade One Jacobean house no-one’s noticed or altered in four hundred years, in a remote moorland location, with satellite links and a luxury hotel at the end of its drive. What could be easier? If this newspaper doesn’t come out next Sunday and I do nothing else but sit here being your psychotherapist, while you pop out and seduce my secretary once in a while…’

‘She’s a very pretty secretary, Rowland. An excellent choice.’

‘…then no doubt we’ll find you your house. You’ll be delighted. Tomas Court will be delighted. Meanwhile, I—’

‘Please, Rowland,’ Colin said, in a very small, pathetic voice. ‘
Please
. I’m begging you now. I’ve helped you in the past. You remember that time at Oxford when I lent you my lecture notes?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘What about all those Oxford girls? I was useful to you then, Rowland. When you broke their hearts, who consoled them? I did. Max occasionally, I admit, but I was the chief consoler, Rowland, remember that.’

‘You’re confusing consolation and opportunism, I think.’

Colin waved this objection aside. ‘Rowland, let us not argue about ancient history…’

‘Argue about it? You can’t even
remember
it. You were drunk, Colin. Perpetually drunk. You were drunk for three whole
years
…’

‘You’re right. You’re right.’ Colin sank his head in his hands. ‘I was an irresponsible wastrel. A ne’er-do-well. The Lascelles black sheep. But you set me on the straight and narrow, Rowland. You got me through my exams. I’ll never forget that. None of my family ever forgets it…’

Rowland tensed.

‘So I know I have no right to ask for your help again, but you did mention you were going on holiday next week…’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Nothing. There’s no need to look so suspicious. I just thought, since you’ll be going north anyway…’

‘Colin, I’m going climbing. It’s the first holiday I’ve taken in over a year.’

‘Of course. And you need that break, Rowland, you deserve it. You’re looking tired, tense. Which is why I thought you might like to spend a few days in Yorkshire on your way back from Scotland. I’m renting a cottage up there as my base. It’s on your route back, Rowland, and that bloody man will still be bombarding me with faxes and calls. By then, I’ll be on my eighteenth perfect house, I expect, and ready to shoot myself. So it just occurred to me, maybe, out of the goodness of your heart, and because you once loved my sister, Rowland, years ago…’

‘I did not love your sister.’

‘Well, she loved you, which is much the same thing, and despite your failure to respond, she still speaks fondly of you. She’s recovered, of course, she has four children now. Even so, every time your name comes up, I catch this little gleam in her eye…’

‘Colin, what do I have to do to make you go away?’

‘She always says what a very good loyal
friend
you are, Rowland. Well, they all say that: my father, Great-Aunt Emily; they never stop singing your praises—what a good influence you are on me. A man of honour. One to rely on in moments of extremity…’

Rowland sighed. ‘Dear God. What have I done to deserve this? All right. OK, you win. Give me the damn address and I’ll look in on my way back…’

Colin had taken this capitulation generously. Having got his way, at which he was skilled, he skedaddled. And now, here Rowland was, in a cold leaky cottage in the back of beyond, in the company of a man who, like himself, could not cook. For three days, subsisting on lumpen cheese sandwiches and cans of soup, he had endured Colin’s plaints and joined him on fruitless searches for a place that Rowland, too, was beginning to believe did not exist.

It was a chimera, he told himself, opening that reluctant creaking gate and approaching the cottage. When he had first been drawn into this ridiculous quest, he had seen Wildfell Hall clear in his mind; now it had receded. The more he listened to Colin, the less he saw.

It was diverting, this search, up to a point. It had the advantage of distracting him, but he now intended to return to London and work, and the real world. He would leave in the morning; he would be back in his own house by Saturday afternoon. He might telephone Lindsay perhaps…It was Saturday morning now, he realized, looking at his watch. He would grab a few hours sleep and leave immediately after an early breakfast…And he entered the cottage intending to firmly inform Colin of this.

‘Well, well, well, well,
well
,’ Colin said.

Rowland stopped in the doorway. It was at once apparent to him that Colin, noisily suicidal when he left, was now drunk. It was one-thirty in the morning; during an absence of one and a half hours, Colin had contrived to become merry. His long thin limbs were stretched out on the sofa; his auburn hair was dishevelled; he had his feet to the fire, a large tumbler of Scotch in his hand and a Cheshire Cat grin on his face.

‘Aha!’ he said indistinctly. ‘Good news!
Doubly
good news! What a dark horse you are, Rowland. What a very
nice
world this is.’

Rowland took this announcement with equanimity. He removed his wet boots and poured himself a Scotch from a near-empty bottle. He sat down in a squashed, comfortable armchair on the other side of the fire. Colin watched him beatifically as he did this.

‘Well now, let me guess,’ Rowland said eventually, when Colin seemed about to achieve nirvana or fall asleep. ‘You’ve had a call from Tomas Court? A fax? He actually likes one of the houses?’

‘He does. The first one we saw; the one you suggested; the one near the sea. He’s just got the v-v…’

‘Videos?’

‘Them. Those. And the punctures. He’s looked at the punctures…’

‘The pictures?’

‘Right. And he likes them. He likes them a lot. He likes them a very great deal. He likes them an
inordinary
amount.’

‘Well, now that is good news. Your problems are over. Great.’

‘You’re a true friend, Rowland; that’s what you are. A friend in need, indeed.’ Colin paused and showed signs of becoming emotional.

‘Think nothing of it,’ Rowland said. ‘I shouldn’t cry about it, if I were you, Colin. Are you sure you really want that whisky?’

It seemed Colin did want the whisky. It seemed that he might resent being deprived of the whisky. It seemed he was prepared to put up a fight about the whisky. In fact, he would fight any man who came between him and the whisky; fight him to the death. Rowland agreed that this was a very reasonable point of view.

Colin, who had risen uncertainly during this recital of his rights, sat down again uncertainly. He looked at Rowland for some while and, at length, appearing to recognize him, reiterated his opinion that Rowland was a dark horse, a very dark horse indeed. He tapped his nose as he said this.