Lovers and Liars Trilogy (202 page)

Something went wrong with the US Mail Express system, or possibly there were problems at the UK end. Lindsay’s letter did not arrive in London until four days had passed; then, since Lindsay did indeed have horrible and illegible, handwriting, especially when writing numbers, so that all her sevens looked like ones, the letter was delivered to Rowland’s neighbour at number eleven in his terrace, and not to his house at number seventeen. The neighbour was away; he finally dropped the letter through Rowland’s door late at night on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.

Rowland found it on the mat early the following morning, as he was leaving for work. He read it only once on that occasion, but he read it with great care. He returned inside, called his secretary and various colleagues, cancelled all his appointments for the next three days, gave his deputy editor instructions, and then left for Oxford before nine.

Meanwhile, Colin Lascelles was finding the telephone an inadequate instrument to express himself.

Saturday. Montana.

Dearest Lindsay,

Have just spoken to you. Am going to bed. The sky here is amazing—I’ve never seen so many incredibly brilliant stars. I miss you terribly. I think I said that on the phone, but I’ll say it again. I could throttle Tomas for dragging me out here, but I do feel sorry for him; he looks desperately ill. I’m going to fax this to the Pierre, so I can’t say what I want to say. Imagine asterisks and all they imply. Can you understand Latin? I need to know immediately. You can fax me at the above number and I wish you would because I feel totally sick at heart and soul. I send you love and
trois mille bises
.

Colin.

Tuesday. Montana.

Darling Lindsay,

Talking to you on the telephone is the only thing that’s keeping me sane. When we talk, I feel as if I’m with you, holding you in my arms (and if you’re the desk clerk at the Pierre reading this fax, FUCK OFF. This is private, you understand?) I’ve never known it to be so easy to talk to someone as it is to you. Do you feel that, darling? You’ve made such a difference to me in such a short time. I feel I can do
anything
: climb a mountain; fly.

I got up very early this morning—I couldn’t sleep anyway for missing you. I borrowed one of Tomas’s horses and went for a ride. The landscape is spectacular. I could see the peaks of Glacier National Park in the distance. Watched the sun rise and thought of you.

Tomas now much better and visibly stronger. There’s umpteen production people here during the day, but they piss off in the evenings to some hotel, thank God, so apart from the odd bodyguard and staff, it’s then just Tomas and Thalia and me.

He and I had a long talk yesterday, after Thalia had gone to bed. I forgot to tell you about this. He’s a very interesting man—proud. I feel for him. I think he’s in agony about—better use initials—NL. And about her move to Emily’s building. I heard from Emily this evening, and apparently, NL must have had everything organized, and ready to roll, because the decorators are in there already. According to the Emily bush telegraph, always reliable, the whole thing will be finished by the end of this week. Yet she
can’t
have known they’d admit her and the odds were against—most mysterious! NL apparently very thick with Biff already, which was predictable. H. Foxe singing her praises as well, which annoys Emily no end. NL
not
popular with Giancarlo and the other porters though, I hear. Trouble of various kinds, I gather—constant hassle from some anonymous caller—in view of what I told you, worrying, eh?

Listen, darling, we must talk tomorrow about Thanksgiving and all our other plans. I always mean to on the phone, but my mind goes into a whirl the second I hear your voice, and besides, we have other things to talk about then.

Is your friend Genevieve still coming up from Washington with her husband for Thanksgiving? When shall we fly back to England? I can’t wait to show you Shute Farm. Isn’t it great about the rent? I gather they want a tenant who
loves
the place—money isn’t the issue. Money should never be the issue, I say, don’t you agree?

Darling Lindsay, I’m very glad you can’t read Latin. I’m afraid I had it rather dinned into me at school. Vivamus, dear Lindsay, atque amemus—soles occidere et redire possunt, nobis, cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda…Incidentally, you know that little thing you do that I mentioned (desk clerk at the Pierre, get LOST) the thing you do when I—you remember? Well, I’m thinking about it now. Effect immediate—and wasted alas; most frustrating. I send love, darling Lindsay. Take care of yourself. I hope the research goes well. Gabrielle Chanel sounds odd. Why didn’t she marry the Duke of Westminster? I think of you in the archive place, darling. If I were with you there, we could do some very interesting research…Will call usual time tomorrow. You can read my writing, I hope? Darling, I kiss all your asterisks.

Colin.

Wednesday. The Pierre.

Dearest Colin,

The desk clerks here are giving me very peculiar looks. I wonder why? It’s a great boost to my confidence—I’m perfecting a sultry slink for their benefit. This cheers me up when I get back from work. All day today in the Abbott Levy archive at MOMA. Wearying. Escaped finally, and came back feeling a bit low for some reason—having to concentrate, I expect. Then Emily kindly called and asked me round for a drink. We had great fun—I think I’m now getting used to her. I certainly like her a lot. I heard all the latest news about Biff, H. Foxe et al. (Ah, I find I do know some Latin after all.) I’ll regale you with it when you call.

Emily told me the whole story of Anne Conrad and the two brothers. Heavens! It terrified me. No wonder she still haunts the place. The elevator was out of order when I left (overloaded by NL’s decorators, and the first time it’s broken down since 1948, Emily said), so I had to walk down that staircase
alone
.

I wished you’d been here when I returned. I miss you too, but there are so many things we need to talk about. Hurry up and come back to New York, I’m lonely and V jvfu lbh jrer xvffvat zl oernfgf evtug abj. You are a wonderful ybire, and I am very, very sbaq of you—but don’t make me run too soon, dear Colin: I’m always slow off the starting blocks.

I’m faxing this, so you can work out the above. Also this: V jvfu lbh jrer vafvqr zr, in fact, V jvfu guvf constantly. More research tomorrow. Not sure I’m cut out for this—archive libraries awfully
quiet
—no-one allowed to
speak
. Good night, Colin. I can just see the moon. Can you see it too? I send all best wishes and love, kisses too.

Lindsay.

Friday. Montana.

My darling Lindsay,

Your letter came today. Darling, it made me So happy. I’ve read it a thousand times. It’s folded up with that wicked fax you sent me—naughty girl! I carry both of them next to my heart. Your code nearly drove me frantic—but, yes, I’ve cracked it. Wish-fulfilment and memories of prep-school helped me. Very useful! I’ve been thinking about lbhe oernfgf all day, and how it feels when I pbzr vafvqr you. Do you know what it does to me when you gbhpu zl pbpx? I was thinking about it today, in the middle of a production meeting—concentration badly impaired. Also had the most rabezbhf rerpgvba. Most embarrassing.

Darling, promise me: I don’t want you to worry about
anything
. We can go as slow or as fast as you want—at the moment, I can’t think beyond the day when I next see you. I just want to take you in my arms. I will never rush you, darling, please believe me. If I should ever sound hasty, it’s because I’m so impatient to be with you. Darling, you are in my thoughts, day and night. Everything I see and do and think is only for you. I watch the sun rise and the moon shine and, unless I can tell you about them, they have no meaning at all. Oh, Lindsay, I wish you were
here
. Darling, your absence makes my heart
ache
.

I’ve been trying to convince myself that this sudden parting could be of use—a baptism of fire, perhaps. When we return to England, I’ll have to be in Yorkshire most of the time, and I’m praying that this separation now will help us to bear that one. What do you think? We’ll still be able to talk to each other, the way we do now. I’ll have a mobile. You can always leave messages—coded or otherwise!—on my machines. Then, if you’re at Shute—and I hope you will be, darling—I’ll be able to come down to see you on odd days and the occasional weekends. It’s about four hours door to door—I’ve been working out times and best routes! And you might like to come up to Yorkshire, perhaps, to see at first hand the sheer soul-destroying tedium of actual filming, in what will probably be snow or pouring rain, I expect.

Then you could have the dubious pleasure of meeting the famous Nic Prick—you remember? The one who played Prospero to my definitive Caliban at school? He was called Hicks-Henderson then, and he was a world-class jerk aged fourteen. He remains one. He flew in here yesterday from LA—or the Coast, as he likes to call it. I was counting his name-dropping rate: it was three a minute when he arrived; he got it up to six a minute by the time he left for New York. I realized that Tomas is very devious and very smart: the Gilbert Markham character Nic’s playing is a smug, vain, sanctimonious, prurient prat—typecasting. After he’d called me ‘Col’ fifteen times, I remarked on this. Sarcasm wasted: he was delighted—but then
he
thinks Markham is the hero. I think Tomas was
very
amused at that. Have you started reading
Tenant
, darling? I want to know if you agree with Rowland—maybe there were things I missed.

Must concentrate. Darling—two things. First, you remember what I told you yesterday about events in Glacier Park? Well, the police arrived in force not long after we spoke, and apparently that identification
is
now confirmed: an Australian tourist—gay, I think. He’d only arrived in the States a few weeks before and had been hitching. No family over here, his family back home not close and not sure of his travel plans, didn’t know he was heading for Montana etc., etc. That’s why it’s all dragged on so long. When he hadn’t written or called for four months, some cousins finally raised the alarm. They did the ID from dental chart records, I think. Poor, poor man.

This means, of course, that JK is alive—but I always
knew
he was, you remember? Apart from those events at the loft, I could
sense
him there. I can sense his presence here too—the result, well, you can imagine: phones never stop ringing, everyone edgy, security people crawling all over the place, and Tomas utterly silent on the entire issue, though you can see he’s in the most terrible state, terrified for his son. He was on the phone to NL for three
hours
today and came back grim-faced—worked us all until nearly midnight, which is when I began writing this.

I can’t wait to get out of this place and come back to you. Which brings me to my second point. Darling, about Thanksgiving. I’m so glad! It will give Emily a great deal of pleasure, and it’s only dinner, after all. She’ll be inviting some other people, I expect—she always makes rather a big thing of Thanksgiving. Don’t know who. Don’t care. I shall only have eyes for you.

Darling, I’ve been thinking, I’m so desperate to see you. Tomas leaves early Wednesday morning to join NL for Thanksgiving—I’m going to fly back with him in one of the studio’s jets; it’s the quickest way I can get back to New York. I’ll be there by midday on Wednesday, so here’s a suggestion: Darling, why don’t I book us a marvellous room at the Plaza for Wednesday and Thursday night? That would mean you’d save on the expense of a room at the Pierre—economy, darling, think of that! And we could meet at the Plaza, like wicked, illicit lovers, wouldn’t that be fun? You could show me your sultry slink, then we could go up to our room and stay there shamelessly for a day and a half—until we have to leave Thursday evening for Emily’s Thanksgiving beanfeast. Would you like that?

I know you want to see Gini and her husband, and Markov and Jippy—as they’re all tied up for dinner, why don’t you get them to meet us in the Oak Room at the Plaza for Thanksgiving drinks? Sevenish? Then you and I could go on to Emily’s—I’m bribing her to let me sit next to you. I intend to do unspeakable things to you, hidden by the tablecloth—I want to see if you can keep a straight face…

I’d love to meet your friends—especially Markov. Did you realize that I spent our first-meeting lunch in Oxford worrying about him? From the moment Tom and Rowland first mentioned his name, I was in a state of jealous torment: I thought he might be your lover—that’s why I started drinking like a fish. Total panic. Very glad
indeed
that he’s gay.

Oh Lindsay, Lindsay, what have you done to me? I’m usually a man of great equilibrium, as you know. Always calm, always confident, and yet now—Are you smiling, darling? You have the most beautiful smile in the world; it lights up a room. Of course, you also have the most beautiful, the most desirable oernfgf in the world. I kiss them. Oh God, I wish I were vafvqr lbh now, darling.

I’m sending this by fax—shouldn’t really, but the post is so
slow
. Darling, I’ll be with you Wednesday. Let me know
re
above Plaza plot etc. when we speak. I’m sorry this letter is so long, but it’s been a vile day, and I was feeling miserable without you. I’ve just read your letter again—Oh, Lindsay. Trust me, darling. It made me so happy, what you said about the
simplicity
of our shpxvat—I feel that too. I kiss all your beloved asterisk bits. I send you my love. Only 101 hours until I next see you. Stars very bright tonight. Almost a full moon. Yours, darling,

Colin.

I
N OXFORD THAT WEDNESDAY
, the day before Thanksgiving, Katya was enduring the last fifteen minutes of a tutorial. It was being conducted by her senior tutor, Dr Miriam Stark, a woman whose cool intelligence Katya feared; it concerned the use of narrators in two novels by the Brontës. It had begun with Katya reading aloud to Dr Stark the essay she had written on this subject, comparing Emily Brontë’s
Wuthering Heights
with her sister Anne’s
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
; it had continued with Dr Stark’s analysis of that essay; the questions had been unrelenting and the criticisms barbed.