The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [160]
“Well, I don’t know,” she said, but quite nicely. She blew out smoke as if at something very distant. “I wrote a book myself, I don’t know if you saw that. I sort of put it all in there.”
“Well, yes, of course!”—he laughed again. “I reviewed it, in fact.”
“Were you horrid?” she said, with another touch of the droll tone he remembered.
“No, I loved it. It was a rave.”
“Some of them were stinkers.”
He paused sympathetically. “I just felt it would be very valuable to be able to speak to you—of course I don’t want to be a nuisance. If you like, I’ll just come for an hour when it suits you.”
She frowned and thought. “You know, I never pretended to be a wonderful writer, but I have known some very interesting people.” Her quiet laugh now was slightly grim.
Paul made a vague noise of indignant dismissal of all her critics. “Of course I saw your interview in the Tatler, but I thought there might be a bit more to say!”
“Ah, yes.” Again she seemed both flattered and wary.
“I don’t know if you’d prefer the morning or the afternoon.”
“Mm?” She didn’t commit herself to a time, or to anything really. “Who was that very nice young man at the party—I expect you know him? I can’t remember anyone’s name. He was asking me about Cecil.” She seemed to take some slightly mischievous pleasure in this.
“I hope he’s not writing about him!”
“Well, I’m not at all sure he isn’t.”
“Oh dear …!”—Paul felt rattled, but managed to say smoothly, “I’m sure since your book came out there’s been a lot more interest in him.”
She took in a deep draught of smoke and then let it out in a sleepy wave up her face. “It’s the War, too, of course. People can’t get enough of the War.”
“Oh, I know,” said Paul, as if he too thought it rather overdone. In fact he was counting on it heavily.
She peered at him, in the streaking glare and shadow, almost haughtily. “I think I do remember you,” she said. “Don’t you play the piano?”
“Aha!” said Paul. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking of.”
“You played duets with my daughter.”
He enjoyed this passive imposture, though it was uncomfortable too to be taken for Peter. “It was great fun, that evening,” he said modestly.
“I know,” she said. “Wasn’t it.”
“They were happy times in Foxleigh, in many ways.” He spread a warm glaze over the place and time, as if they were much more distant than was the case. “Well, they introduced me to your family!” He thought she saw this as pure flattery. He wanted to ask about Julian, and Jenny, but any questions were darkened by the awful larger question of Corinna and Leslie Keeping. Was it proper to talk about them, or presumptuous and intrusive? The effort of keeping the talk going stalled him for a minute.
“Ah! Here we are …!” she said as the cab swung down the long ramp into the station. He saw that for her the moment of escape was also one of obligation. At the setting-down place he jumped out, and stood with his brolly hooked over his forearm and his wallet open in his hand. He only took a taxi about twice a year, but he tipped the driver with the jovial inattention of young men he had seen in the City. Mrs. Jacobs had clambered out on the other side, and waited in a ladylike fashion for the business to be done. Paul rejoined her with a happy but submissive smile.
“Why don’t you give me your address, anyway, and I can write to you.”
“Yes, that would be fine,” she said quietly, as though she’d been thinking it over.
“And then we can take it from there …!” He had a pad in his briefcase, and he lent it to her, looking away as she wrote her details down. “Thank you very much,” he said, still businesslike.
“Well, thank you—for rescuing me.”
He stared at her stout, slightly stooped and shabby person, the cheerful glasses under the sad red hat, the clutched bag, and shook his head, as if at a chance meeting of devoted old friends. “I just can’t believe it!” he said.
“Well, there you are,” she said, doing her best.
“See you very soon, I hope”—and they shook hands. She was getting, what was it?, a Worcester train, from the nearest