The Line of Beauty - Alan Hollinghurst [197]
The drawing-room door was open, and Nick slowed again before going in. Lionel was saying, "If he has been a bloody fool then he'll have to face the consequences. If he hasn't, then we have infinite resources to demonstrate the fact." His manner was as quiet as ever, but without its usual cordiality: he sounded as if he expected the former option, and the stain it would bring on the family. Nick rattled the tray and went in. Rachel was standing by the mantelpiece, Lionel sitting in an armchair, and for a second Nick thought of the scene in The Portrait of a Lady when Isabel discovers her husband sitting while Mme Merle is standing, and sees at once that they are more intimate than she had realized. "Ah, my dear . . . " said Rachel, as Nick came forward with a slight mime of servility, which wasn't spotted as a joke. Lionel greeted him with his eyes, and went on, "When's he due back?" "He's got a late division," Rachel murmured. And Nick, setting down the tray, saw that though he hadn't chanced in on a secret he had caught the note of an older, more unguarded friendship than he'd heard before, the shared intelligence of brother and sister.
"Thanks so much," said Rachel.
"Did you have your picture taken?" said Lionel.
"I did," said Nick; and for some reason went on, "Not my best side, I'm afraid."
"No, they're awful about that," said Lionel, clearly resolving to show by his humour and by sitting down squarely and comfortably that there was nothing to worry about. "I was tipped off, so I came through the gardens."
"Thank heavens for the gardens," said Rachel. "With four exits they really can't keep it covered."
Nick smiled and hesitated. There wasn't a cup for him, but he longed to be included. He said tactfully, "Is there anything I can do?"
"Oh . . . " Lionel and Rachel looked at each other, searching for an answer among their own proprieties and uncertainties. Perhaps it was too shaming, even with the press outside, for Rachel to talk about. "Some rather awful things are being said about Gerald," she said, in her tellingly passive fashion.
Nick bit his cheek and said, "Wani . . . Ouradi told me something about it."
"Oh, well it's out, then," said Rachel.
"It will come out, darling," said Lionel.
Rachel poured the tea, and seemed lost in this sombre idea, passing Lionel a cup and the plate of lebkuchen. "And what about Maurice Tipper?" she said.
Lionel sat scrunching his biscuit in a vigilant squirrel-like way, and licked the sugar from his lips before saying, "Maurice Tipper is a cold-blooded thug."
"That's certainly true," said Rachel.
"My guess is that he'll only help Gerald if doing so helps himself."
"Mm . . . I saw Sophie at lunchtime," Nick offered. "I thought she was rather evasive."
"Thank god Tobias didn't marry that false little girl!" said Rachel, clutching at this out-of-date consolation and laughing with new bitterness and relief.
"Quite!" said Nick.
"Two things you can do," said Lionel. "Obviously, don't talk to anyone. And could you bear to pop out and buy the Standard?"
"Of course," said Nick, suddenly more nervous of the photographers.
"And a third thing," said Rachel. "Could you try and find my daughter?"
"Ah, yes . . . " said Lionel.
"She's frightfully up at the moment," Rachel said. "You've no idea what she'll do."
"Well, I'll try," said Nick.
"Isn't she taking the pills?" said Lionel, firm and vague at once.
"They can't quite get it right," said Rachel. "Two months ago she could barely speak—now she can barely stop speaking. It is a strain."
They both looked at Nick and he said, "I'll see what I can do." He sensed a certain hardness towards himself, a request that he should prove his usefulness to the family. Then he thought briskness might be a mark of confidence. A structure of command, long laid away in velvet, had been rapidly reassembled.
Catherine came home about six. She was thinking of buying a house in Barbados, and had been having a long talk with Brentford about