The Intimates (9 page)

“The owner made it so that it was the most powerful of the three. But for some reason it never was. Still, they are beautiful, aren't they?” she says, looking down at my mouth. The tension between us coils tightly, the pressure rising in my chest, my body fluttering into the rhythm of her breathing. Her lips part, and I wonder if she is going to kiss me as she moves closer still. But suddenly the third fountain bursts into life, greeted by cheers from the guests outside, and I laugh as we part.

As she fills my glass the sweet, heady scent of champagne fills my nostrils. The foam bubbles up in the glass, spilling a little onto our laps. Francoise's movements seem less precise than usual as she smiles, drawing the small bubbles away with a careless hand. “Tell me Vincent. What do you think of The Intimates?” She purses her lips in expectation, her eyes widening as she awaits my answer.

“The people or the book?”

“But they are one and the same.”

“Then it is a loaded question.”

“All questions are loaded Vincent.”

I laugh.

“Do you not agree?”

I peer out into the darkness. “I suppose so. I think that our beloved Intimates are a group of damaged people, perhaps more damaged than we like to admit. We think that because we have certain talents they carry us through life, but in fact each of us has carried themselves through a debilitating void for many years.”

“I agree,” she says, sipping from her glass.

“I also think that you are a more subtle person than you pretend to be. And though it is understandable for you to want to organise a party to celebrate your book, I am surprised that you asked us to do so in such a secluded place, where each of our little peculiarities were bound to ferment. I don't believe for one minute that you are unaware of the effect this isolation will have upon your guests. Or that you are unaware of how your reading will have confronted each of us with caricatures of our former selves. So I can only conclude that your speech was keen to disguise the real reason you called this party.” As soon as the words have left my mouth I realise they came without pause for thought.

“Which was?”

“To confront each of us with our failure.”

She pauses, and peers out at the darkness. “You're right. But it is my failure too. I feel a strong, almost primal urge to confront the seven of us with what we have become. I know that I have softened the blow to myself by bringing it to light on the evening that I'm celebrating my first success. But none of us scrutinise ourselves in the brutal light that we cast upon others.

“I feel we have let ourselves down as a group Vincent. I'm not talking so much of you; you still have time to make your mark. But the others, they all affect me very much. James has become a haunted creature, so delusional that it is becoming quite frightening. And Barbara and Franz console themselves with fading achievements, as if they will somehow excuse their current predicament. It is undignified. I feel compelled to make them address the fact that that they cannot hide from the truth.

“Each of us have let our time pass, not covered ourselves in glory as we were destined too. When obstacles came our way we allowed them to floor us, and we made elaborate excuses to explain why we have remained on the floor. Franz was our pioneer, the man who first awoke us to our gifts, and now he is the most wretched of all of us. No-one has fallen as far as him; it is as if he is a different person. He's falling for Barbara, who ten years ago he would have thought beneath contempt. Now she represents to him some ill-defined world of glamour that he feels he can retract into, like some clammy embryo. And I am no better. One book in a lifetime is not enough to allow me to live with myself, not with the life of opportunity I have been handed.

“I organised tonight, here, to force each of us to cast off these shrouds in whatever manner they've been presented. Whether they came from us, our parents, or this reputedly cursed house. But most of all I did this to address myself.”

“Things can change for you now. You are on your way.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She laughs gaily, pushing her hand through her dark hair before fixing her eyes on me again. “But you know as well as I Vincent, that fire doesn't burn as brightly if you already live in the arms of comfort. We become embodied by a peculiarly unacknowledged shame, which it seems almost ungrateful to admit.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I know you do. And that is why I wanted to speak with you this evening. As you know, I have always been a huge admirer of your father's work.”

“Everyone knows that Francoise. Graham says it's the reason you were so keen to join our group in the first place.”

“He does have a tendency to be rather sharp with his observations. I didn't know who your father was until we became close Vincent, and when I did find out it was merely a pleasant coincidence.”

“But you were obsessed with his plays even before they were published, weren't you?”

“Obsessed is a needlessly potent word. I was enchanted by them, that is true. But as you know, ever since we met I've believed that you inherited his talent. I became aware of this when I read the first manuscript you passed amongst us at university. I was saddened to hear that you are now so embarrassed of it. I read it again just before the release of
The Intimates
, and I strongly felt that it is more polished, more ready for consumption than you realise. It is the vehicle by which you can make your own tracks in the world Vincent. I showed it to my agent, and she felt that it could be worth serious consideration.”

“Did you tell her who my father was?”

“It doesn't matter Vincent. It really doesn't. What matters is that you shake off this shroud that you have become so accustomed to. You must not be preoccupied with how your work compares with his; you must pursue your own path. I want you to finish your manuscript and let me pass it onto my agent. Because I know that unless you live up to this gift of yours, this peculiar sadness will become a home to you.”

A little annoyed, I pass my gaze into the garden. The third fountain is still teeming with strength, flinging water into the sky triumphantly.

“Is it true that he might be joining us tonight? Because if it is, I don't know why you'd let that happen. You know what that would do to this evening for me, and for Barbara. Barbara will kill him.”

“Barbara couldn't kill anyone. He is in the country, yes, and he did intimate that he might be in the area tonight.”

“Don't let him come here Francoise. You can't.”

She smiles in a placatory manner, making it clear that nothing I say will influence her. I realise I cannot even guess what Francoise has in mind for us tonight, let alone alter it.

“Promise me you won't let him come tonight.”

“I'll see what I can do. But what do you think about my proposal?”

I think that she is only interested in basking in the light of my father's legacy. I think she wants to be a footnote in his story. I think she wants to feel closer to his talent, and feels she can only do so through his son's highly dubious ability. I think it is vanity that has preceded this offer, that it's the desperation of a generation starting to fade which compels her to revive herself with young blood. I feel angry that she has stated so explicitly what I have long suspected, but this feeling is too raw to be shaped into something constructive now, even if there might be some truth in what she says.

“Perhaps,” I answer. “Let me look over it again, and we will see if it lives up to expectation.”

She smiles, and I wonder why I haven't realised before that her slender, long hand is resting on the top of my thigh. Francoise has a certain way of speaking; a husky, tender manner in which the most terrible admissions seem tasteful and wrapped in well-meaning. She can make suggestions that are frightening, even dangerous, sound reasonable.

“Don't wait until you have written something which you believe can stand alongside his work. That concern has delayed you enough already,” she whispers, drawing a little closer with each word. I can now smell the fragrance of her body, emanating from the pale skin above her cleavage. She strokes the top of my thigh with one trailing finger. Confused by my impulse I look into her face. Her features are as immaculate as ever – wide, Gallic eyes, strangely black in the dark, full lips reaching from the aristocratic structure of her face. Her lips part. The smell of her perfume, mixed with the headiness of the drink makes me draw a little closer to her. “Let me accommodate this frustration of yours,” she whispers. “I can make your life… absolutely wonderful Vincent. You know that I can. You have known that for a long time.”

She places her hand on the side of my face, and her fingers trail down until one touches my lips. She draws nearer to me, and places my hand on the strap of her dress, which is ready to fall to her elbow with the slightest touch. Her hands motion over mine, making my fingers fall through the strap, and as she eases my hand the strap falls from her dress, revealing the round shape of her breasts, almost exposed under the fallen fabric of her evening gown. “You must let me Vincent.”

She moves a polished hand to the other strap of her gown, and shakes her long, glossy hair as she releases it from the slim curve of her shoulder. The dress for a second catches the light from the fire, the side of her body slightly illuminated by the orange and gold flames that capture the canvas of her skin as the dress falls from her shoulders. She moves my hand onto her breast.

“Vincent, we have known each other for a long time. We are The Intimates, that is what they all call us. What happens between us happens between us, and no-one ever needs to know about it. You know that, don't you?”

Her body is immaculate and elegant. The long curve of her torso is slim and pale, and as she parts her thighs the fabric of her dress pulls tight. Her face moves closer to mine, her lips an inch from my ear as she moves my hand down her breasts, to her navel. I feel her breath, hot and perfumed in my ear. “Lie down on the bed Vincent.” Her lips close against my cheek, kissing me slowly and softly.

I feel myself being pushed onto the sheets, and she smiles as if encouraged. I'm aware that I must stop this happening, but even as she wraps my bow tie around her fingers, slipping a hand between the buttons of my shirt, I feel convinced that there is no way out, that Francoise has made me want something that I will not be able to refuse. I am pinned like a butterfly, and I know that whatever I say Francoise now has a plan that will not be derailed.

And then I think of Elise.

“I can't,” I whisper, as her lips close on my other cheek. I move back. “I mean it, I can't. Don't make me Francoise. Elise is upstairs, and I can't just go back to her if something has happened between us.”

She smiles tightly, her eyes carefully considering my profile.

“Francoise, I am sorry, believe me, but I can't. This isn't right. I must think of Elise.”

“Ah yes, Elise,” she says, her eyes now flashing a little in the dark. “Your little souvenir from your new life. Because that is what she is Vincent, you do know that don't you? You are using her to try and start again, and you're kidding yourself that you can, that you should. Look at the way you've continually evaded her this evening, so that you're never by her side for more than a minute. And look at the way she clings to you – she's so aware that you represent her only chance to escape the mundane. The longer you stay with her the more she'll understand that, and the harder she'll cling. She's terrified that you might shake her off and embrace your true potential. The two of you aren't exactly the portrait of a happy couple. Because you are one of us Vincent. Your desires can only be expressed within us. Anything else will just delay your destiny. I think you're quite aware that you're playing a little game with her.”

“And you are playing a little game with me.” I sit up, take my tie from her resting fingers and start to wind it back around my neck.

“Don't think that you can continue this sordid new life of yours as if you never met any of us.”

“I'm not Francoise. I'm sure I care more about our group than about anything else. But it doesn't mean I have to do things that I am not comfortable with.”

For a moment she looks hurt, but then her expression assumes some warmth. “It is the evening Vincent, it has affected me. I'm sorry.”

She is trying to get closer to my father through me, and the thought disgusts me. Suddenly I want to be out of the room faster than I possibly can.

“Please,” I say. “Take me back to the party.” Enraged, I compose myself, step through the small door and back to the drawing room. I go over to the French windows and pull back the curtain. I can just about make out through the dark that the guests have congregated around the fountain. I think I see Elise look back through the window as Francoise moves behind me. I unlock the door and step outside, Francoise moving slowly in my wake.

A firework fizzes into the air and blooms into an orange bulb, accompanied by a high whoop. As it illuminates I see the bodies, prostrate and skewed, some dancing with their hands in the air around the fountain to rising music.

“Walter, light the lamps,” Francoise says, as another firework bursts into life above us. As it lights the side of Francoise's face, she looks changed, suddenly sharper than before. We join the group, the ring of lamps arranged around the fountain containing us in a tight circle.

“Did you show him what you intended to?” Elise asks Francoise. Francoise nods and looks over at the water.

I put my arm around Elise's shoulder. “It's really quite a strange house,” I whisper.

“She showed me some of it,” Elise says. “Though I got the feeling she kept some of it back from me as well.”

“This must be quite an experience for you,” Francoise says to her, placing her glass on a nearby table with a snap.

“Is it strange to finally put faces to all of these important names in his life?”

“It's long overdue,” Elise answers.

“It would be quite understandable for you to wonder if Vincent had a reason for introducing you to all of us tonight, don't you think?”