“You’re not painting a very nice picture,” I said. “I thought you were friends.”
“We are. He’s funny and charming, good-looking, and a bloody fine writer.” Jonathan put his hand over his heart. “But I think you should know what you’re getting into.”
“And do you warn all his potential victims in this way?”
“No, you’re the first,” he said.
“Oh.” I was glad it was dark and he couldn’t see my consternation. I stubbed my cigarette out on the step beside me.
I wasn’t worried about Jonathan’s warning; I was thrilled by it. I imagined a third category I’d create. Gil Coleman would fall in love with me but I wouldn’t fall in love with him; I’d make love with him for the summer, and when the autumn came I’d go back to university. And at the end of my final year, I’d leave to do all the things Louise and I’d planned.
“Can you see the beach from the end of the garden?” I said after a few moments of silence. I stood up, took a couple of paces off the path into the long grass. There was a flickering light at the bottom, a lamp or a candle shining through a window. “What’s that?” I said. Jonathan stood beside me.
“Gil’s writing room.”
“He’s writing? Now? I thought you’d said he’d had to go out?”
I took a step forwards. Jonathan sighed. “Well, yes. Probably writing.”
I couldn’t see his features, couldn’t make out his expression.
“That’s ridiculous. He’s having a party.” I flung my arm back toward the house. “Which he invited me to. And he’s writing?”
“He does that. Sometimes. You won’t want to be disturbing him now.” Jonathan took my hand, led me up the steps. “Come on, time for another drink and a dance—you do dance, don’t you?”
I looked over my shoulder at the yellow square of light.
This morning, as I write this letter, the garden is missing the tap, tap, tap of your typewriter.
We love you.
Ingrid
[Placed in The Cocktail Party, by T. S. Eliot, 1950.]
Chapter 13
In the morning when Flora got up, Nan was already in the kitchen making breakfast.
“Glad to see you managed to put some clothes on,” Nan said. Flora was wearing Ingrid’s pink chiffon dress again. Nan set a plate on the table. “I phoned the hospital. I thought we could go and see if you can get that car working, and then you can follow me there.”
“Can you pass the marmalade?” Flora said.
“I’ve already put marmalade on your toast.”
“Don’t worry,” Flora said. She got the jar and a knife and took them to the table.
“Flora, there’s something . . .” Nan sat opposite her.
“What?” Flora looked up. Nan stared at the toast. “I’ve always liked my marmalade to go right up to the edge.”
“Yes,” Nan said.
Flora saw purple shadows beneath her sister’s eyes. She took a bite of toast, and after a while Nan stood and began to tidy the kitchen, eating her own breakfast as she wiped the surfaces.
“When did the number of books in the house get so crazy?” Flora said.
“You know he’s been buying them for years,” Nan said.
“Yes, but it’s never been this bad. You can hardly walk down the hall.”
Nan sighed. “It was even worse a few weeks ago. I popped over one morning and Dad had spent the night pulling nearly all the books off the shelves—mountains of them in the sitting room and the bedroom, like there’d been an explosion. He said he was looking for something.”
“What?”
“Goodness knows. He became all evasive. ‘Letters’ was all he would say. It seemed he’d been up for the whole night, flicking through every book. The ends of his fingers were red raw.”
“What letters?” Flora yawned.
“I have no idea. All the books are full of letters and bits of rubbish.”
“You should have called me. I would have come.”
“It was all right in the end. I got him into bed, and when he was asleep I put most of them back. But I did manage to fill a few carrier bags to take to the shop in Hadleigh without him knowing. Viv was really pleased to have them.”
“Viv?” Flora said.
“She bought the bookshop a couple of months ago. She’s trying to turn it around.”
“I bet she was pleased to have them,” Flora said sarcastically. “Daddy bought most of them from her in the first place.”
“It’s a lovely bookshop now. Viv’s very choosy about her stock.”
“I remember the smell of it. Old brown wood and smoke, like the smell of a country house with open fires. I haven’t been in it since Daddy took me years ago. I must have been about eleven or twelve.” Gil had told her to choose any book in the whole shop—whatever she wanted. Flora had picked out Lady Chatterley’s Lover without knowing fully what it was about, but somehow understanding it was a dangerous choice. Gil had raised one eyebrow but let Flora take it to the desk to pay.