The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [230]
Bryant stepped back, gripped her forearm, stared as if he were being tricked, while some rushed but extremely complex calculation unfurled behind his eyes. Then, “Jenny, my dear, I don’t believe it!”
“Well, here I am.”
“Oh, Peter would have been thrilled,” shaking his head in wonderment. Was it a fight or a reunion? He craned forward—“I can’t believe it!” again; and kissed her.
She laughed, “Oh!,” coloured slightly and went on at once, “Well, Peter meant a lot to me, long ago.”
“Oh, the dear old tart that he was …,” Bryant said, glancing narrowly at Rob, not knowing of course what role he might have played in Peter’s life. “No, a great man. Peter Rowe-my-dear, you used to call him, do you remember?”—he was sticking to the fondly proprietary view of the deceased, barbs in an indulgent tone of voice. “Andrea, this is Jenny Ralph—or was—I don’t know …?”
“Still is,” said Jenny firmly.
“A very old friend. Andrea … who was Peter’s next-door neighbour, am I right?”
“Rob,” said Rob, nodding, not giving them much to go on, though Jennifer endorsed him, in a supportive murmur, “Yes, Rob …”
“Rob … hello, and this is—where are you?—come here!—Bobby”—to the patient Chinese man he’d turned his back on—“my partner.”
Rob shook hands with Bobby, and smiled at him through the knowing shimmer of gay introductions, the surprise and speculation. “Civil?” he said.
Bryant said, “Hmm, well, some of the time,” and Bobby, with a sweet but tired grin at him, said politely,
“Yes, we’re civil partners.”
In a minute glasses of wine were raised, Bryant peeping over his a bit cautiously at Jennifer, who said, in her candid way, “Well, I read your book.”
“Oh, my dear,” he said, with a little shake of the head; then, “Which one?”
“You know—Uncle Cecil …”
“Oh, England Trembles, yes …”
“You caused quite a stir with that one,” said Jennifer.
“Tell me about it!” said Bryant. “Oh, the trouble I had with that book.” He explained to Andrea, “It’s the book I mentioned in my speech just now, if you remember—the life of Cecil Valance. My first book, actually.” He turned to Jennifer. “There were times I felt I’d bitten off more than I could chew.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Jennifer.
“Didn’t he write ‘Two Acres’?” said Andrea. “I had to learn that at school.”
“Then you probably still know it,” Jennifer assured her.
“Something about the something path of love …”
“It was written for my grandmother,” said Jennifer.
“Or, as I contend, for your great-uncle!” said Bryant gamely.
“That’s amazing.” Andrea looked round. “I must introduce you