Greyglass Page 8

Had she dreamt anything this time? No.

  Patrick, though, had.

  “I was following this old woman all through the house,” he said to Susan.

  “What old woman?”

  “Well, I thought it was probably your grandmother.”

  “You don’t know what she looked like. What did she look like in the dream?”

  “Well,” he said, “really more like that one we met in the street – Mildred.”

  “She wasn’t like that.”

  They ate the now-stale buttered rolls Susan had also carted back from Chiporama, and drank some coke he had brought. Susan offered him the money for her coke, and he accepted it, even though she had paid for the previous night’s meal.

  None of the taps worked in the upstairs bathrooms, but downstairs, he said, was an old cloakroom, where the cold tap was still on for some reason.

  Susan did not use this cloakroom. She had squatted outside in the rhododendrons to pee, and would attempt nothing else until they went to the nearest pub at lunchtime.

  During the morning, Patrick worked again outside, somewhere in the garden, and Susan sat again on the path by the house wall, in the sun, reading a novel. She was bored and uncomfortable, unwashed and indigestive. She kept thinking about Anne, and her own childhood. Not Catherine though. She did not think about Catherine.

  Then there was a noise behind her, above her, up in the house. It sounded like someone easing up a window. Susan stayed where she was. Then she rose and walked out, and down as far as the apple tree, and stared back and up through the towering evergreens, to the upper storeys. But nothing seemed to have happened.

  They took their bags to the pub; they had both said it would be unwise to leave them behind. Besides, Susan needed her sponge-bag.

  Patrick put down his beer glass. “Do you want another?”

  “Yes, please. No, not wine – here’s the money. Could you get me a gin and tonic?”

  When he came back, he said, “I think there’s someone in the house, Susan. Apart from us, I mean. You know I saw there’d been a fire lit. I could hear someone walking about this morning, before you woke up. Very soft. And then when I was painting, I saw someone at one of the windows.”

  Susan drank her gin. “Who?”

  “Couldn’t see. Just someone looking out.”

  She thought of Anne, and the other flat, with the balcony and the ashes of the day and the first time the name Wizz had been spoken. What was Wizz meant to mean? A whiz-kid. A Wizard?

  Patrick said, “I think I’ll call it a day. And you don’t want to paint anyway, do you. And maybe it’s not that safe hanging about there.”

  “I thought you loved it,” she said, “and didn’t care.”

  “Why are you narrowing your eyes like that?”

  “Am I?”

  “I’ve just done enough,” he said, dismissive. “It’s all the same, isn’t it? All the views are alike. Let’s go back. We could go into college. Or just stay at my place.” Surprising herself, she felt rebellious. She wanted to say, No, now I want to go to the house. I want to make love in the garden, and rush indoors and scare the squatters and light a fire and dance on the bare floorboards.

  “All right,” she said.

  He’s boring me, she thought, as they sat in the train. Is he? Not how he looks, he looks amazing. And his painting is great. But – this not talking about anything. Not doing anything.

  He isn’t interested in me. I’m not, in him. I want to be, would be. But he never lets me see. I don’t know –

  Even so, they gravitated back to Belmont Court, and had a bath, and then had vibrant sex. That evening there was a party, and they went to it, Patrick incredibly handsome in his white shirt with the straps. And she thought, This is all right. It doesn’t matter. Yes.

  IV

  Next summer, about two months after Patrick had gone, Anne called Susan at five to midnight.

  The moment she heard the phone rattling down in the house, Susan knew it was Anne. Perhaps because it was one of Anne’s times – her times of return in the past.

  “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

  “No. I think you woke a couple of people though.”

  “Too bad – or are they giving you grief? Tell them it’s your mother.”

  “It’s all right, really. How are you?”

  “Wonderful. I’m wonderful. Or Wizz says so. It’s evening, about seven here, and ninety in the shade. We’re going to dinner with the Sepplevines – I only have a moment. But I just wanted to let you know. I’m coming over next Monday.”

  “Over…”

  “To London. What do you think?”

  “That’s – are you? Is Wizz coming too?”

  “No, can’t. We’re having the apartment done up, he has to be around to monitor the builders, and anyhow he’s up to his eyes at work. But he said I should have a break, come and see you. It’s just a trip, about five days, I think. But we can meet and do things. English things. I bought you the most sensational dress this afternoon. I won’t say what it cost. Wizz said you ought to have some New York clothes.”

  Susan’s voice, which had sounded only mildly affable and concerned when she spoke of Wizz, now sounded mildly enthused. “I can’t wait to see. But Anne – you do know I’m generally a size sixteen.”

  “Oh, these are fine, baby, don’t fuss,” said Anne. She had never lost her English accent – which was apparently very popular with and intriguing to all their U.S. friends, even to taxi-drivers and waiters in bars. Only her syntax had sometimes altered. “Look, honey, I’ll call you Sunday night – a bit earlier – when I confirm my flight. Okay?”

  “Yes. I can’t believe –” Susan heard herself saying, her voice now suddenly puzzled and unsure, “that I’ll see you. You really are coming?”

  “Still Susan,” said Anne. “Why else am I phoning you up at the dead of night?” She seemed tickled, herself excited, in all her whirl of active and opulent life, that she was going to meet her daughter.

  They met in London, at Anne’s small, plush hotel by Regents Park. Susan was nervous. She had put on a loose black summer dress which made her look slim, and showed off her white skin that never browned, try as she sometimes had, and pale gold sandals, and earrings, to be festive.

  Anne came straight down to the foyer. Once Wizz had looked like a film star. Now Anne did.

  Her hair was very short and sleek and ice-blonde, shining and expensive. The cream linen dress was expensive too, entirely plain. On her left hand, but not on the wedding finger, was a square-cut and brilliantly faceted emerald, as big as a five pence piece. Her golden hands had pearl-white nails.

  She was immensely, and seemingly totally, tanned. She looked as if she had been dipped in liquid amber, and brought out evenly coated. But as they drew closer, Susan noticed the sun had also cracked Anne’s surface here and there. They were couth, fine cracks, but they were cracks.

  “Honey!”

  Heads had turned already anyway. How Anne looked, walked, her clothes and ring, her costly scent. Though the hotel was a place for the moneyed, not many of them, for all their dollars, had managed to look like Anne.

  Susan hugged Anne carefully, afraid to spoil her immaculate veneer. Anne had no such reservations it seemed. Her embrace was warm and strong – hard. Her body felt hard. Susan wondered why, for Anne had never carried any superfluous flesh.

  “How are you? My God, you do look sweet. Look at you. Your face is so pretty, Susan. And your lovely eyes. Why didn’t you ever send me a photograph like I asked you?”

  “There were never any really nice ones. I kept waiting for a really nice one –” (Actually, waiting for Anne to stop asking. How could Susan send a photo of herself that Wizz might, even for a split second, look at?)

  “But now here you are. Susan Wilde.”

  Anne’s eyes were alight. Not moist, but vivacious and full of excitement.

  She’s more excited than I am.

  “You’re not feeling tired?”
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br />   “Oh I never have this jet-lag stuff. I sleep on the plane. I feel fantastic. Let’s get some lunch, I am starving.”

  Anne drank a vodka tonic (no longer gin) and Susan a glass of cold white wine, as they leafed through the pink and fawn menus. It was nearly two o’clock, the restaurant half empty, but no one hurried them of course.

  “I can’t believe you. My God, Susan. Look at you. It’s been almost four years. Why wouldn’t you ever come over and see us?”

  “I wanted – it’s just – the college, and the holidays are so short to get anything arranged. And they give you holiday projects to do –”

  “Yes, yes. Well you’re nearly through with that. Come in the fall, yes? We’ll lay on the red carpet treatment.”

  “Mmm. Thank you. Only I may have to do an extra course then. One of the tutors, Rod Ayres, he wants me to do a specialist course on design, book jackets, that sort of thing. He knows some people in publishing.” She added the mysterious proviso, the Masonic code everyone seemed to grasp but herself. “It could mean real work, a job.”

  But, “Rod Ayres?” said Anne. “What an English name.”

  “I think he’s Irish.”

  “Well, but what happened to your Patrick?”

  “Rod’s a tutor. I still see Patrick,” Susan lied.

  “He sounded very fuckable,” said Anne, jolting Susan. “Now I’ve embarrassed you. I get used to the States. Our crowd is pretty open in what we say.”

  “We – yes, we have sex together.”

  “And you’re on the Pill. Good. Thank God for intelligence.”

  They ordered. Susan grapefruit and then grilled chicken, Anne smoked salmon and steak with mashed potato.

  “So what is Patrick going to do after college?”

  “He’s already got into the Royal College of Art. He’s actually there this year. They raved about him, so he started early.”

  “Impressive.”

  But Anne had lost interest in Patrick’s prowess as an artist. Would she have been more inclined to hear details of his sexual abilities?

  Susan thought, I don’t know what to say to her. All this is so stilted.

  Perhaps extra alcohol might have helped – but after her vodka Anne only drank water with the meal, so Susan did that too.

  In any case, Anne then took over the conversation, effortlessly at last. She spoke about America, and about Wizz, about cities and landscapes, about going to Canada last fall, (the spectacular leaves) about their friends, and their friends’ houses and apartments, that all seemed to be in areas named things like this or that Heights.

  The last time Susan had been in London was with Patrick, after the Royal College had accepted him. They had gone out (splitting the bill) for a meal at a steak-house, and afterwards he hadn’t invited her back to his new flat, they had just walked along the Embankment, and parted at Charing Cross, presumably for ever.

  “Let’s go shopping this afternoon,” said Anne. “But first come up to my room. I want to give you all the things I’ve brought you.”

  Up in the room, drink became available again, a bottle of Smirnoff, ice, glasses, tonic and limes. A waiter conveyed this, and on his way out Anne tipped him two pounds.

  “Try this on.” Anne didn’t work now. Like everything else, including the lunch, Wizz had in fact bought all this, everything.

  The dress was red, with a halter neck, low in the back and very short. The vaunted price must be in the silk, not in the amount of silk.

  Susan got into it, feeling uneasy, not taking off her bra, which then looked tacky and ridiculous. But the dress did anyway. It was too red, too showy. However, it did fit.

  “It’s great, Anne. I’ll wear it to the next party.”

  “Wait till you see the blue one. Yes, now your eyes are blue. But I like it when they look grey. Mine have got greener. But yours are like mine used to be.”

  There was also a make-up kit, a miraculous object, like a child’s paint box, which seemed to have all the colours in the world, even turquoise mauve for the eyes.

  Anne drank another couple of vodkas as Susan struggled to get through her single. Then Anne stopped drinking.

  “I have to go down to Brighton tomorrow. Something Wizz asked me to drop off to a business colleague. Wizz wants me to meet this man, his wife – charm them, Wizz said. They have a big house, Tudor, I think Wizz said. I’d ask you to come, but they might think it was a bit much, two of us turning up.”

  “That’s okay. I should go into college tomorrow.”

  “All right. But I’m only here six days. When I get back Wednesday, come up and stay. I’ll book you into the hotel, yes?”

  “Yes, yes great.”

  “It’s so strange,” Anne said, “seeing you. You know I’m hardly a possessive mother. But you’re not mine now. You’re your own person.”

  “Am I?”

  “I’m impressed with you, Susan,” Anne said. “The way you stuck to your guns. I mean, about staying here. Getting on, on your own.”

  A desolate wave rolled in through Susan, and retreated, leaving unidentifiable sticky flotsam behind on her inner skin.

  “This house I have to get to is at some place called Rothsdean. No, it isn’t Tudor. I can’t remember what Wizz said it was.”

  Abruptly Anne’s perfectly managed face changed. It seemed to loosen, and sag a little on the firm bones.

  “I’ll tell you. I wasn’t going to. We had a bit of a fight, Wizz and I. One of the reasons he sent me over, to make up for what happened. I probably shouldn’t tell you.”

  Susan didn’t know what she was expected to say, or feel. Did the idea of Anne and Wizz falling out aggravate or please her? Not please. It wouldn’t have – it hadn’t – lasted. Was anyway – too late.

  “We’re over it all now. That was in June. He had a little fling, shall I euphemise. You’re slow, Susan. I mean he was screwing someone else.”

  “– oh.”

  “Yes. Oh yes. I found out because the damn girl wouldn’t let it go. Kept calling him up at the loft. I said to him, Who is this bimbette called – would you believe it – Madison, who keeps calling you? He said, She’s from the office. She’s dumb, forgets stuff all the time, calls me to ask me. Then one afternoon I came back with Eve, and there was this Madison, standing downstairs, and she said to me, I have to see Wizz. And Eve went scarlet. And, well, I figured it out finally. The little dope made a scene, then I told her what I thought of her. Then Eve took her outside and shooed her away. I don’t know what Eve said, but it was effective. And when he came back that evening I tackled him.”

  Susan sat gazing at Anne. Had she ever heard Anne so voluble?

  Anne said, “He admitted it. Straight off. He said he was sick of her, couldn’t get rid of her, had been trying. It just happened one time he was away alone and she was a stand in for his regular assistant, Chloe. I guess Madison made all the running. Do you know, this Madison was the ugliest little bitch I’ve ever seen. She had bushy black coarse hair, all over the place, and little girl shoes. Skinny. I mean so thin you could snap her in half. And glasses, let’s not forget those. She is blind without them, I gather. But she was kind of young, you know,” said Anne heavily. “Only about twenty-five. I couldn’t miss that. I said to him, If you want younger women, let’s call it quits, Wizz. And – he started to cry. Well, we made it up. It’s okay now. Really, it’s okay now. And we went to Bermuda for a while. And then he said, let’s get the apartment done, fresh start, and he said, You go and see that girl of yours. Tell her to come over. And he bought me this ring. Did you notice the ring?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s vulgar,” said Anne. “Or it would be, if it weren’t an emerald. He was talking about diamonds, but I said I am not Liz Taylor, Wizz. You note, the finger. I never wanted to marry. That wasn’t the deal.”

  By the time they left the hotel it was late to shop. They wormed in and out of boutiques tucked in among white pillars, then ended up after all in the park, w
atching ducks and having cups of tea at a plastic table.

  “I miss this,” said Anne. “That exact wet green in the water. Just that shade. It isn’t ever like that, there. I don’t know why. I’m crazy. It’s just me. Wizz says England is like a back garden, and the States is the real world.”

  This is my mother, Susan thought.

  Really, this is Anne.

  Then the ducks did something quaint and spontaneously they both laughed and for a second it was the past, on-going uninterrupted time that had never shifted, and then they stopped laughing, and it was gone again now, and different, not the old Susan and Anne, but the new Susan and Anne, with Wizz and the Atlantic still between them.

  When Anne didn’t ring on Wednesday, Susan thought she was undoubtedly at last tired, after the journey to and from Brighton performing Wizz’s errand, on top of the flight. Thursday came and began to go. Susan phoned the hotel. “Ms Wilde? Yes, she’s due back Saturday.”

  Saturday was the set day for Anne’s departure.

  Susan thought there must be some mistake, and resumed waiting for Anne to ring her. Was she worried? She told herself she wasn’t. But even so the little gnawing knot in her stomach that kept her from college, and haunting the downstairs hall for the phone, did not make her feel anything for Anne – but a little gnawing knot.

  On Friday morning Anne called.

  “Susan, I am so sorry. No, I’m still at Rothsdean. It’s been an experience. Oh, I wish I’d brought you with me, Keith said it would have been fine – I should have risked it. This house, it’s like a stately home. Genuine Georgian. The Prince Regent, it seems, used to visit. In acres of parkland. There’s a boating lake. I’ve had the most fantastic time. But, God, Susan, I’m sorry, I’m not coming up to London again, there just isn’t time. The hotel is sending my stuff down, Keith arranged it all. A powerful guy, I may say, and she is very nice. Susan, it’s just too much hassle, you see, and I can get to Gatwick so easily from here – they’ve seen about changing the flight and everything – look, I have to go. I will write you as soon as I get back. And you’ll come over and see us, Wizz and me, in the fall, won’t you? That’s a must.”