The Line of Beauty - Alan Hollinghurst [192]
"One can imagine," said Nick, "only too well, the Master's irony, not to speak of his covert excitement, at that idea . . ."; though the others perhaps imagined it less vividly than he did.
"Oh, we loved your letters, by the way," said Treat, with another squeeze of his arm: "so Britishl"
"Well, I guess we should talk about. . . our film," said Brad. Just then the desserts, mere bonnes bouches in foot-wide puddles of pink coulis, were set in front of them. Wani looked at his plate as if it and the film were equally unlikely confections. "Or we could talk about it next week . . ."
"I don't mind," said Nick, his heart thumping. He was suddenly incredulous that his beautiful plan, the best fruit of his passion for Henry James, depended on the cooperation of these two stupid people. He sensed already that it wasn't a question of changes, it was some larger defection from the plan.
"I mean we love what you've done, Nick."
"Yeah, it's great," said Treat.
Brad hesitated, peering at the grid of spun sugar that jutted from his loganberry parfait. "You know, we've talked about this in the letter a certain amount. It's just the problem of the story where the guy doesn't get the girl, and then the stuff they're all fighting over—the Spoils, right?—goes up in flames. It kinda sucks."
"Does it . . . ?" said Nick; and, trying to be charming, "It's just like life, though, isn't it—maybe too like life for a . . . conventional movie. It's about someone who loves things more than people. And who ends up with nothing, of course. I know it's bleak, but then I think it's probably a very bleak book, even though it's essentially a comedy."
"Yeah, I haven't read the book," said Treat.
"Oh . . . " said Nick, and coloured with proxy embarrassment, with the shame Treat should have been feeling. His loose idea of getting some time alone with him vanished in a sigh and a shrug.
"You've read the book, Antoine?" said Treat.
Wani was rose-lipped, popping in quarter-spoonfuls of ice cream, sucking them from the spoon and letting them slip down in luxurious spasms like a child with tonsillitis; he said, "No, I haven't. I pay Nick to do that for me."
"I don't know what you think," said Brad, "about the idea of including just a short love scene for Owen and . . . I'm sorry . . ."
"Fleda," said Nick. "Fleda Vetch."
"Fleda Vetchl" said Treat, with a brief blare of a laugh. "What sort of a name is that? Doesn't she sound like the ugliest girl in the school?"
"I think it's rather a touching name," said Nick; and Brad looked reprovingly across the table.
"She sounds like a witch," muttered Treat, as if agreeing to shut up; but then went on, "I mean, can I imagine asking Meryl Streep, 'Oh, Miss Streep, we've got this really great role for you, will you please, please play the lovely Fleda Vetch?' She'd think I'd just thrown up all over the phone."
They all laughed except Wani, who said, very quiet and superior, as if she was someone else they would see at Nat Hanmer's wedding, "Fleda Vetch is what she is called."
"Yeah, I don't care overly what she's called," said Brad. "But. . . Owen and Fleda—we need to see them together more. We need some . . . passion!"
"We need him getting all hot," said Treat, flicking his glance towards Jamie's table. Then he winked at Nick. "Did he ever . . . you know . . ." lowering his voice and looking coyly away, "at Oxford . . . like, with other guys—I'm sure I heard someone say—"
"He's straight," said Wani.
"Oh, OK," said Treat, with a wobble of the head, as if to say, who's talking about straight here? But there was something bleaker than impatience in Wani's tone. He was pale and motionless, gazing at the far rim of his plate but clearly caught by some unpostponable inner reckoning. He jerked his chair back a little, and his stick, swinging off from the back of it, fell on the marble