The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [232]
“I could swear it was sort of beige.” Bryant grinned and narrowed his eyes.
“I don’t think so,” said Dupont. “I went in that car a lot. In fact I even washed it once, before a group of us went to Windsor Castle in it, just in case we saw the Queen.”
“Well, I won’t tell you what I did in it!” said Bryant with a gasp—“no, but I’m sure you’re wrong.”
“Maybe you’re colour-blind,” said the woman in black.
“Not at all,” said Bryant. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter!”
“It sometimes looked beige with dirt, I suppose,” Dupont said in a cleverly bemused tone.
Jennifer said, “I’m very much of Professor Dupont’s view.”
Rob thought it rather comical that these two who’d tussled over Cecil Valance were doing it again over Peter Rowe. He saw that Bryant, a moderately successful writer, after all, and in his mid-sixties, had a look of exasperation, as though never given the credit due to him, and almost provokingly determined to get it. Rob thought he might get hold of England Trembles, and judge for himself.
Half an hour later, after three drinks, and a trip downstairs to the marble and mahogany loo, where Peter’s father emerged from a cubicle and engaged him in earnest talk by the basins while a dozen tipsy guests darted or staggered in and out, he accompanied the old man up the grand stairs and thought about saying his goodbyes and going. The huge brass chandeliers had been switched on, and the room was thinning. It seemed the blond man had already left, and at this Rob felt almost relieved. And really this wasn’t the moment … and with the eager young Gareth to see in an hour, at the Style Bar … He looked round for Desmond, whom he had, not quite purposely, been avoiding.
He saw him talking to an elderly couple, with a resolute air of courtesy which Rob found lightly chastening as he slid towards him. He gave him the warm little smile of a prior claim, over their two grey heads. Desmond caught his eye but carried on talking, “Well, we’ll speak to Anne about it—that should work out well,” still standing stiffly, so that Rob, in momentary confusion, merely gave him a hug, sideways on; and was then introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Sorley.
“Did you know Peter well?” asked Mrs. Sorley, small and sweet-faced, a bit thrown perhaps by a glass of wine in the afternoon, and the crowded occasion. They were Yorkshire, it seemed lived there still.
“Not well,” said Rob, “I sold him a lot of expensive books.”
“Oh … oh, I see! No, we’re old friends of Terry and Rose—well, Bill was in the army with Terry, and of course I knew Rose in the Wrens—all those years ago!”—a guileless promptness of exposure. Rob said,
“So you knew Peter all his life,” and smiled back.
“Oh yes,” she said, with a conscientious little shake of the head. “I was just saying to Desmond, how Petie used to put on plays when he was quite small—him and his sister played all the parts. Proper grown-up plays, you know—Julius Caesar.”
“I can just imagine!” Rob thought they could hardly have expected then to have been up in London half a century later, at Peter’s own memorial, talking to his male partner. He wanted to commiserate with them and also in a way to congratulate them.
“Well, I must have a word with Sir Edward,” said Desmond, with a dutiful smile.
“Well, well done today,” said Rob, mournful, head on one side.
“Yeah, thanks, Rob. We’ll be in touch—we’ve got your e-mail, I think”—so was there a new man on the scene already? Or was the “we” a mere habit, the way he thought of his and Peter’s home? With a kiss for Mrs. Sorley, though not for Rob, he went off across the room, amid sympathetic smiles and blank but lingering glances.
Rob spoke a bit longer to the Sorleys, feeling stung by Desmond’s coldness, and of course completely unable to protest or explain. It was true he hadn’t been to the funeral, hadn’t been in touch with Desmond at all since 1995. He meant nothing to Desmond. And it occurred to him, as he gazed a little distractedly over Bill Sorley’s shoulder, that perhaps Desmond thought Rob had only come today out of some idea he had of making an