The tightrope walkers, p.7
The Tightrope Walkers, page 7
‘I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about. I had supper with Andrew Suvarov at the Chelsea Kitchen.’
Julia’s face cleared.
‘Oh, was that all? Darling, I am glad.’
‘I thought you didn’t like Andrew.’
‘I’ve never said that.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ said Amanda drily. ‘It’s always clear when you don’t like my friends.’
Julia’s shoulders sagged slightly.
‘It’s not that I dislike him,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s just that I’ve felt once or twice that he was demanding from you things you were in no position to give him.’
‘Oh?’ The monosyllable was abrupt and abruptly delivered. ‘Such as going to bed with him perhaps. Would that be so terrible? Even your sacred law admits that I’m over the age of consent.’
‘No, it wouldn’t be terrible at all,’ said Julia with care, ‘not if you loved him. But, my darling child, I don’t think you do.’
‘You mean that you don’t think sex before marriage is necessarily wrong?’ Amanda was astonished and Julia smiled slightly.
‘Not necessarily. I think it’s often unwise and frequently leads to quite unexpected misery, but if there really is love…’
Amanda looked at her and thought of all the times when Julia had hurt her. She felt like kicking something.
‘I don’t see what love’s got to do with it, and even if it has I don’t see why you think I couldn’t love Andrew.’
‘If you were to tell me you loved him, of course I’d believe it,’ said Julia, deliberately making her voice kind and unemphatic and suppressing her instinctive dislike of the idea. ‘The two of you are old friends and you’re obviously fond of him, but it hadn’t occurred to me that it was any more than that.’ She smiled. ‘When he was here at Christmas he seemed to be trying to turn you into something you’re not and I rather thought that would have annoyed you.’
Amanda suppressed a wince at that piece of perception. Julia did not look at her daughter as she went on.
‘I suppose I thought that you’d have shared my dislike of the way he automatically dismissed things you said when they didn’t correspond with his ideas.’
Surprised that her mother should have seen so much and afraid that the unexpected sympathy was going to make her cry, Amanda said brusquely: ‘Well, he’s not alone in that. You’ve always dismissed my ideas.’
Julia dropped her head into her hands for a second.
‘I’m rather tired, Amanda,’ she said at last, realising there was still nothing she could do to mend whatever had been broken between them. She could not remember a time when it had been whole and felt as though she had spent all of Amanda’s life trying to make it so. ‘I think I’d better go to bed. I’ve…’
‘A case in the morning.’ Amanda knew that she was sounding nasty and did not mind because it seemed unfair that on this one night when she really needed something from her, her mother could not have waited until she was ready – or able – to talk. The fact that she did not know exactly what it was she wanted did not seem relevant. ‘I know. You always have.’
‘Your father’s not back yet, so don’t bolt the front door,’ said Julia, ignoring the last salvo. ‘Good-night. Sleep well.’
When she had gone, Amanda sat down at the table, put her elbows on the green-and-white cloth, and wept.
Chapter Five
When she had done her hair and her face, Flixe put on Ming’s black dress and pinned her own sapphire and diamond brooch on the left shoulder. She sprayed a minute amount of scent behind her ears and on her wrists and then picked up the lavish silver-fox coat that had been one of Peter’s last presents before his illness.
Feeling its astonishing softness as she slung it round her shoulders, she could not help wondering all over again why on earth he had never told her about the money. He had known he was dying for the last four or five months; he talked a lot about his love of her, about Russia, about their children, his sister, Natalie, and about the relations he must still have living behind the Iron Curtain. He told her what her love had meant to him throughout their marriage. They had even talked frankly of the illness that was devouring him before her eyes and about his inevitable death. But he had never warned her about the money.
Perhaps, Flixe told herself, he had been in too much pain even to think about such mundane things. But there had been days when the pain was under control and he had had some energy – just a little – to spare.
He had spent lavishly all their married life and it had never occurred to her that either of them might have to worry about money. If she had only known what might happen, she could have urged him not to spend all the income, but to put it in some kind of fund for their children’s future. She could have got a job, too, or at least worked for some useful qualification so that she need not have been defenceless after his death.
Flixe reminded herself that if things became desperate she could sell her furs and perhaps even the sapphires. They would not bring much, but it was a small comfort to know that they were available against disaster.
She blotted her darkened eyelashes, carefully checking in the mirror that there were no smudges on her face, and then set out to walk the four hundred yards to the house where John Kinghover and his wife were entertaining their friends.
Flixe had timed her arrival impeccably. She hated walking into an unknown house before any of the other guests. On that evening most of them, including Michael Diseholme, had arrived and her introduction to her unknown host was simple. She smiled at him and shook his hand, thanking him for the invitation. He stood looking down at her and refusing to let go of her hand until she felt uncomfortable. He was a tall, florid man with sparse dark hair and very round dark eyes.
‘They will have told you that I disapprove of women Members of Parliament,’ he said in a rich, slightly smoky voice, ‘and I haven’t changed my mind, even when they’re as good-looking as you.’
Flixe continued to smile and pulled her hand out of his.
‘Why should you indeed?’ Trying to achieve an instant synthesis of all the aspects of her character that were supposed to make her suitable to represent the constituency, she added: ‘But of course I’m not the first to have to face that sort of opinion.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’ There was enough irritation in his statement to make the sitting Member flinch and glare at his putative successor.
‘And, as someone famous said, “I am striving to take into public life what every man gets from his mother”.’
At that Mr Kinghover let out a bellow of laughter and patted Flixe’s carefully powdered cheek.
‘I’ve always liked a girl with spirit,’ he said, watching as she kept the sweet smile on her lips, ‘even though…’
‘Darling,’ called his wife, a slender redhead who was dressed in a long Black Watch tartan skirt and a black silk polo-necked sweater lightened with a silver pendant, ‘you must give Mrs Suvarov a drink.’
Despite the imperative words she had chosen, Mrs Kinghover looked timidly at her husband, which made Flixe dislike him even more. She accepted an icy glass of gin and tonic from him and was then taken to be introduced to the other guests.
Her tour ended with a middle-aged man who looked as though he worked in the City and a slim, gentle-faced girl wearing a long, green corduroy skirt and a tucked, frilled, white cotton Mexicana blouse. With her long mousy-fair hair simply drawn back from her face in a black-velvet hairband and her unobtrusive make-up, she looked much too young to have been invited to the dinner on her own merits and had presumably come with him. Since he had been introduced as Gerald Markham and she as Georgina Mayford, they could not have been related. Flixe assumed that she was his girlfriend and felt rather sorry for her.
That feeling increased as they talked. Gerald Markham’s opinions were of the traditional Tory kind, which might have been bought as a job lot rather as some people buy an entire library of second-hand books, but Georgina’s were much more interesting. She proffered them tentatively but with an expression in her eyes that suggested she would defend them if necessary. Flixe liked her and hoped that the slight tension in her face would relax as she came to feel more at ease with the adults all round her.
There was a flurry of activity at the door as the last of the guests arrived. Georgina looked up and a free smile banished the anxiety from her grey-green eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ Flixe asked quietly. The girl turned to her at once with the same open smile.
‘Goodness yes. Thank you. It was just that I was getting a bit worried about my father. We were supposed to come together tonight, but he was called out to an emergency and I’ve been slightly worried about what might have been happening.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Flixe was not quite sure why she was so relieved. ‘Is he a doctor?’
‘That’s right.’
By then her father had been introduced to everyone else in the room and had been brought to stand in front of them. He stroked his daughter’s hair briefly and smiled at Flixe.
‘Mrs Suvarov,’ said Mrs Kinghover, ‘this is Doctor Mayford, Georgina’s father.’
‘How do you do?’ said Flixe warmly. She liked the easy affectionate way he had greeted his daughter.
They were obviously very fond of each other and they looked alike, too, although the doctor’s hair was much blonder than his daughter’s and his eyes were greener. It was partly the shape of their faces that made them seem so similar, with their broad foreheads, full mouths and firm chins, and partly their shared expression of amused and tolerant interest in what was going on around them. They were both tall, although the doctor topped his daughter by at least six inches, and their shoulders were broad and square. They looked lightly tanned as though they had recently been skiing, fit, interested and, above all, content. It was, Flixe thought, a remarkably attractive combination.
George Mayford shook Flixe’s hand, saying: ‘Suvarov. That’s an unusual name. Are you Russian?’
‘No, but my husband was,’ she said, wishing that she could prevent the constraint that most people felt when they discovered she was a widow. She saw Doctor Mayford registering her slight withdrawal, but he did not comment. He merely smiled, crinkling up his eyes, in wordless apology.
‘Daddy,’ said Georgina, who had been ignoring a tentative signal from Mrs Kinghover, ‘can I just ask what happened before we get separated?’
‘Nothing much,’ he said, turning towards his daughter. ‘You could say that it was a false alarm. All’s well.’
‘Thank goodness!’ She quickly explained to Flixe that he had been called out to someone who had been threatening suicide. ‘You see, I had to know.’
‘I do understand that,’ said Flixe, wondering what part Georgina’s mother played in their obviously close-knit relationship and why she was not at the dinner.
‘Shall we all go in and dine?’ said Mrs Kinghover brightly before Flixe had a chance to find out.
She followed her hostess into the big, gloomy dining room, where she discovered that she had been seated between the doctor and Gerald Markham, which seemed like a calculated insult since Michael Diseholme had been placed on their hostess’s right. Flixe knew that she ought to have minded, but was merely relieved that she would not have to parry John Kinghover’s insulting compliments – or direct insults. His City colleague had seemed harmless if dull, and the doctor positively to be welcomed.
She turned to him first as a hot crab soufflé was offered to each guest in turn, saying: ‘If you were called to a possible suicide does that mean you are a psychiatrist?’
He shook out his napkin and laid it across his knees.
‘Yes. I used to be in general practice, but so many of my patients seemed distressed rather than more conventionally ill that I turned to psychiatry some years ago and by chance I’ve built a speciality in exogenous depression.’
‘That sounds remarkably impressive, but what does it mean?’ It was her turn to help herself to soufflé and she spooned some on to her heavily gilded, dark-blue-and-white plate.
‘Some people call it reactive depression. Technically exogenous means “of external origin”. I believe that there are two main sorts of depression: exogenous, which is caused by some event that impinged on the patient, and endogenous, which is usually the result of some biochemical deficiency.’
‘How do you tell the difference?’
He looked at her, as though to check whether she was really interested or merely being polite.
‘It can be extremely difficult,’ he said when he was sure. ‘After all, the symptoms are the same: early waking, loss of appetite, inability to make decisions, terrible emptiness and so on. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.’
‘Why should you think that?’ Flixe did not want to think that the battle against misery that she hoped one day to win was visible to casual acquaintances, even ones like the Mayfords whom she immediately liked.
‘Most human beings have come across it at some time in their lives.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Flixe seriously and then, relieved that she had not been exuding sadness, she turned to him with a twinkling smile. ‘I think it’s awfully brave of you to talk about your expertise at dinner.’
His smooth, slightly tanned face creased as his lips lifted and his greenish grey eyes narrowed into a smile that suggested he knew exactly what she was about to say. Even so, she said it.
‘Don’t you find that people tend to tell you their sorrows over the soup? It must get very dull.’
‘I suppose it might, but I always find ways of stopping them.’
‘Because…’ Flixe paused, aware that the old easy frivolity was still beyond her range. Despite her own serious interest in the subject, or perhaps because of it, she wanted to tease him, but the right words escaped her and the ones that occurred to her seemed too harsh.
‘… I don’t want to offer my services free over a meal?’ George Mayford supplied the words and the right mocking note. ‘I have medical colleagues who say they’re sometimes tempted to have a meter running on the dinner-table like a taxi so that they can show importunate strangers how much their time ought to be costing, and others who announce that they are gravediggers so that they don’t have to listen to long involved accounts of operations that have gone wrong.’
Flixe laughed.
‘Yes, that was rather what I meant.’
‘I thought so,’ he said with an answering smile. ‘But that’s not why I avoid it. Once people start talking about their distress, they tend to be unable to stop and it often lands them in tears, which embarrasses them and everyone else.’
‘That sounds both sensible and kind,’ said Flixe, no longer laughing. ‘I’m afraid I was being frivolous and you’re right to pull me up. It is something that matters a lot.’
‘I didn’t mean to pull you up,’ he said at once. ‘I’m all for frivolity. It helps most difficulties. Your souffle’s getting cold.’
Reminded of the purpose of the evening, Flixe finished her soufflé and ate a corner of the thin toast she had been offered, wishing that the psychiatrist her elder sister had found for her after Peter’s death had been as sensible as Doctor Mayford seemed. The temptation to ask his advice was severe.
‘That seems strange for a psychiatrist,’ she said instead. ‘I thought you all took everything frightfully seriously.’
‘Only ourselves usually,’ he said, which made her laugh as it had been meant to do.
For the first time since Peter’s death she had recognised real attraction in a man’s eyes and felt herself respond to it with pleasure. It was a sensation she had never expected to feel again and she enjoyed it. With her dark blue eyes shining and her lips curving into a wonderful smile, she said: ‘You must be truly unassailable in your self-confidence to be able to joke about it. If I weren’t afraid of being faced with a ticking taximeter I’d ask how you did it. It seems a far more impressive achievement than any list of medical degrees.’
‘It’s only a trick. Anyone can learn. Don’t tell on me.’
‘I won’t,’ she said, still smiling as she turned to the banker on her other side.
They chatted in a civilised, meaningless way about films, about the generation gap, his children and hers until a pair of fillets of beef in puff pastry had been served and eaten. Flixe turned back to Doctor Mayford with a little spurt of pleasure. He was still talking to the woman on his right and Flixe sat watching him out of the corner of her eyes.
He was listening to his companion with a politely deferential air that amused Flixe when she overheard the woman explaining her servant problems in a voice so plangent that it verged on a whine. Something in his expression suggested he knew that Flixe was watching him. She turned away and caught the eye of his daughter, who smiled as though she shared Flixe’s amusement.
When the doctor had disengaged himself from the woman with the servant problems, the first thing Flixe said to him was: ‘Your daughter is a very impressive girl.’
His face creased once more into its lively smile and his eyes glittered in the candle-light.
‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I worry that she’s so self-contained: it comes of being so much with adults. I’ve tried to keep her in touch with her own generation, but there are times when it’s been hard.’ He looked down at Flixe as though trying to decide something.
She raised her eyebrows but did not speak.
‘And she’s such a good companion,’ he said with a slight frown, ‘that I fear I’ve exploited her these last years.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s going up to university next year and in the meantime,’ he said, making Flixe realise that she had indeed underestimated Georgina’s age. ‘I’ve persuaded her to do the season.’
‘What a rare combination!’ The laugh was back in Flixe’s eyes.
‘I know. There are only one or two others doing it before university, but I’m determined that Gina shan’t miss out on anything. Having brought her up without a mother, I’m frighteningly conscious of the things she might lack. She loathes the idea of being a deb incidentally, thinks it’s an appalling waste of time and so on, but she has capitulated to please me – which was never really the point.’
