A Bouquet of Barbed Wire, page 2
‘Not at all. But it would be something for them to be getting on with, that’s all. I’ve got all the time in the world till three.’ Had he ruined everything?
‘I’ll have smoked salmon, and the lamb to follow with peas and celery, no spuds.’ She closed the menu. ‘There. Will that do?’
‘That’s fine, if that’s what you really want.’ He gave the order to the waiter who had magically appeared at that precise moment. ‘And the wine list.’
Her eyes were troubled. ‘I’ve done something, haven’t I? Or said something.’
‘No.’
‘What is it? Tell me.’
‘You haven’t, Prue.’
‘Yes, I have. You’re cross. You were all right before so it must be me. I ought to know but I don’t so you must tell me. That’s only fair.’
How direct she was. Much too direct and logical. Coming right out with it. Like that other time. (‘Daddy, I’ve got something to tell you. I’m going to have a baby.’) ‘Gevrey Chambertin,’ he said to the waiter. Prue did not care for rosé. Always an extremist, my daughter, he thought.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m ashamed to admit it, but it hurts me when you mention the flat as home. There now. My secret is out, and I know it’s quite indefensible, that’s why I didn’t tell you. Because you are quite in the right, the flat is your home and I am being absurd and sentimental and I know it.’
She was staring at him, both hands clasped over her mouth. She looked shocked. He thought, This gets worse and worse. Now I’ve disgusted her as well. Finally she moved her hands and said, ‘Oh God, I said it. It slipped out. I’ve been so careful—I knew you’d feel like that, you and Mummy. I’ve really made an effort not to use the word at all. Oh, I am sorry.’
His eyes stung. ‘Prue,’ he said, ‘you’re an idiot.’
‘Am I?’
‘And I love you.’ How seldom this was said after childhood: what curtain of restraint descended?
‘I love you too.’
They clinked glasses.
‘Strong stuff, this tomato juice,’ said Prue.
3
RUPERT LOUNGED back in Manson’s chair, tipping it so that it rested on two legs instead of four and made deeper dents in the carpet. He was wearing a check jacket in two shades of mustard, pale and dark, and a shirt in the pale shade with pants in the dark shade. He wore suede mustard shoes and no tie and was smoking a cigar, giving it occasional quite unnecessary taps on the ashtray in front of him, and in between these dropping ash in generous amounts on Manson’s carpet. It made Manson laugh just to look at him: not at him but simply out of sheer exhilaration that characters like Rupert existed outside fiction, that he could be there and all of a piece, perfectly assembled with a sense of design and symmetry rarely found beyond the bounds of art. It was refreshing, if you spent much of your time dealing in fiction, to find that your editor was a man who might well have stepped out of it: it reaffirmed your faith in the validity of what you were doing. I choose my staff well, he thought.
‘So,’ Rupert said, ‘you’re even later back from lunch than I am. That takes some doing.”
‘I had a very special date,’ said Manson, just for the hell of it, and watched Rupert’s eyebrows lift. Even these seemed mustard-coloured today: could it be that he dyed them to match each ensemble? Surely that would be too much, even for Rupert. ‘Prue,’ he added, to let Rupert down.
Rupert smiled, as if to show that he had not for a moment thought otherwise. I am well-known, Manson reflected, for not being That Kind of Man. And Rupert—what kind is he? All kinds to all men. And women, come to that. ‘Ah yes,’ Rupert said. ‘Dear Prue. How is she? Gently burgeoning?’
Despite his affection for Rupert, Manson felt himself bristle. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Give the girl a chance.’
Rupert took the rebuke with good humour. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘I suppose it’s early days yet. I hope she still regards me as a secular godfather.’
‘I don’t know,’ Manson said. ‘I expect so. We didn’t talk about you.’ He had not meant to be so late, to find Rupert waiting for him, but instead of sending Prue back in the taxi he had gone with her, just for the ride, and then had to travel back again to the office, adding about half an hour to his journey. ‘So how did your lunch go?’ he asked, feeling they had been personal long enough. Lunch with Prue had made him forget the appointment with Rupert at three-thirty. Monica should have reminded me, he thought irritably; she’s getting too starry-eyed if it makes her forget things like that. Then at once he blamed himself for being so quick to blame her.
‘Oh,’ said Rupert, leaning back even further so that the chair actually touched the wall, ‘it verged on the disastrous, I think one could say.’
‘Oh really,’ Manson said conversationally, sitting down in the visitor’s chair and lighting a cigarette. ‘Care to tell me why?’ So that was how those marks on the wall were made, those curious scratches. It must have been Rupert all along. I’m sure I don’t lean back like that, he thought; I’m sure I’d notice if I did. He was not unduly worried by Rupert’s description of the lunch, knowing Rupert’s penchant for melodrama.
‘Well, she’d actually read the contract,’ Rupert said. ‘I mean right down to the small print. I assumed she’d acquired an agent but she said no, she’d merely taken what she described as “a crash course”, I suppose that was just a macabre joke—what do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ Manson said. ‘Was there anything wrong with the small print? I didn’t actually see the contract before you sent it to her but I assumed it was standard. Wasn’t it?’
He had never come so close to seeing Rupert shame-faced. ‘Well—’ Rupert said slowly, dragging the word out, ‘just a shade on the mean side.’
‘One hundred and fifty pounds and ten per cent to two thousand, five hundred?’ Manson asked.
Rupert jiggled his fingers so that more ash fell on the floor. ‘One hundred pounds and ten per cent to three thousand, five hundred,’ he said, almost inaudibly.
Manson said, ‘Rupert, you’ve been up to your old tricks again. Let me see.’
Abruptly, now that the truth was out, Rupert ceased to be shame-faced and became almost belligerent. ‘Well, it worked with Lucy.’
‘Yes, it did. Once. But she was forty years younger and green as grass. Let me see.’ He held out his hand.
‘Well, it was worth a try,’ Rupert said sulkily, handing the contract over.
Manson skimmed through it with the thorough speed of familiarity. ‘Oh, Rupert. Twenty per cent of the film rights.’
Rupert shrugged. ‘First novel, publisher’s risk,’ he remarked in mock-Jewish tones.
Manson said, ‘But there won’t be any film rights, will there?’
‘There you are,’ Rupert exclaimed in triumph. ‘That’s what I told her.’
‘Meaning there will be? I thought you told me it was dry as dust but clever and good for our intellectual image, especially now with a lawsuit pending.’
Rupert looked sly. ‘That’s what I thought, at first. But when I looked at it again I began to see Distinct Possibilities. A sort of mélange of Jane Austen, God rest her soul, and Ivy Compton-Burnett, and Iris Murdoch. What more could anyone ask? Good intellectual stuff but with a nicely bubbling cauldron of evil beneath its voluminous skirts.’ He gave a manaical laugh, almost a cackle, like a stage witch, that quite startled Manson.
‘Well, I only read it once,’ he said, ‘and I agreed with your first impressions. Anyway, this plainly won’t do. Fifty per cent of the foreign, twenty-five per cent of America—Christ Almighty, Rupert, you’ll never swing that.’
‘I did with Lucy,’ said Rupert with complacent nostalgia, ‘and it paid off.’
‘Yes, it did,’ Manson agreed, ‘and where is Lucy now?’
Rupert threw up his hands, scattering ash. ‘I know, I know. You don’t have to remind me. Gone over to the enemy. Alas, the fickleness of women. Mozart was right.’
Manson actually feared that Rupert, in his present mood, might be going to burst into song. He said hurriedly, ‘So the little old lady has rumbled you. She knows she can take it anywhere and get better terms than these.’
‘Yes,’ said Rupert calmly. ‘But she won’t.’
‘Why won’t she?’
‘A reason so simple it may not have occurred to you. She likes me.’
‘Oh, really,’ Manson said. ‘That’s nice. How did you bring that about?’
‘You may not have noticed,’ said Rupert smugly ‘but I am really very likeable. Underneath, as you might say. Fundamentally. When you get past the unnerving artificiality of my veneer.’
‘I had noticed,’ Manson said, smiling, ‘but I didn’t expect this to be instantly apparent to little old ladies who write like a cross between Jane Austen and Ivy Compton-Burnett.’
‘And Iris Murdoch,’ said Rupert. ‘Don’t forget Iris Murdoch.’
‘I am hardly likely to. Ah, thank God—’ as Monica entered with a cup in her hand. ‘Tea, Rupert? I’m sure Monica can find an extra cup.’
Rupert flashed a dazzling smile in Monica’s direction. ‘Coffee?’
She beamed back. ‘I’ll see what I can do for you, Mr. Warner.’
‘But, Monica, you know what you can do for me. We’ve discussed it often. I can’t imagine what’s holding you back.’
‘I’ll get your coffee.’ Monica, scarlet-faced but still smiling, left the room. Rupert shouted after her, ‘Tell whats-is-name I shall claim droit de seigneur.’ He turned to Manson. ‘What is his name?’
‘Harry.’
‘Oh yes, Harry. Girl blushes easily these days, doesn’t she? What made old Harry finally pop the question then?’
‘He got a decree nisi,’ said Manson drily.
‘Oh really,’ said Rupert. ‘I didn’t think Monica was that kind of girl. She certainly doesn’t look like that kind of girl, more’s the pity. If ever I saw a real example of clean-living, a healthy mind in a healthy body—oh, thank you, lovey, that’s marvellous—’ as Monica reappeared with a cup. ‘Made with your own fair hands, is it? Bless you. And when’s the happy day?’
Monica said in a faint, little-girl voice, ‘Three weeks on Saturday.’
Rupert took hold of her hand. ‘You know I don’t mean to be offensive. You know I wish you every happiness, don’t you?’
Monica’s eyes sparkled. ‘Of course.’
Rupert released her. ‘There’s a good girl,’ he said, as the door closed behind her.
‘You’re quite right, as it happens,’ Manson said, drinking his tea. ‘It’s desertion, all quite above board. Monica’s not involved at all.’
‘I knew it,’ said Rupert with satisfaction. ‘Funny thing about names—have you noticed that? They’re more potent than we realise. Now Monica … what image does that conjure up? The hockey-field. The swimming bath. The gymnasium. Tennis courts and netball and lacrosse.’
‘All right, you’ve made your point.’
‘Well, I’m just trying to cover all possibilities. After all I don’t know what kind of school she went to. Might have been croquet. But the principle’s the same, I agree. The poor girl simply couldn’t fight the image of her name. Society imposed it on her and she had no choice but to live up to it. Her thighs waxed muscular through no fault of her own. Her cheeks grew red without her willing them to do so. Poor child. No wonder she’s so innocent. And Rupert,’ said Rupert, warming to his theme, ‘now am I not the perfect example of the genre? If Monica had to be Monica, am I not the quintessence of Rupert? No Rupert-seeker could possibly be disappointed in me, for I combine in glorious disarray every quality that is implicit in the name of Rupert. Shall I go on?’
‘No,’ said Manson, amused but satiated. ‘Please don’t.’
Rupert affected to look hurt. ‘After all, it is the tea-break. It’s not my fault that in your case it comes hard upon the heels of lunch. Has Monica nominated her successor yet?’
‘Not yet. I gather she’s having trouble finding one. She’s interviewed them by the score, but there’s always something wrong. I suspect any one of them would be perfectly adequate but Monica’s standards are far higher than mine so the search goes on. Anyway. How did you charm your old lady?’
Rupert quenched his cigar. ‘All right. I give in. You’re the boss. Well, first of all I conceded defeat with good grace—that’s always appealing—and lopped off five per cent all round. Then I discovered she was what your son-in-law would probably call a health food nut. Now this was something in the nature of a tragedy, since I’d taken her to L’Escargot, but I rose above it and turned it to our best advantage. We had a strictly vegetarian lunch while she lectured me on vitamins and I admitted most touchingly that for years I had been poisoning my system with dead animals and toxic fertiliser and that at last someone had put me back on the road to health. She went away quite convinced it was an honour to pay some small percentage for this privilege.’
Manson said, ‘I always knew there was a special reason why I hired you.’
Rupert looked enquiring.
‘You’re a con man.’
Rupert looked gratified. ‘Of course I shall have to phone the manager before I dare use the place again. They must have thought I’d gone clean out of my mind. She’s a wee bit deaf as well, so the whole discussion was conducted fortissimo, just to drive the point home, as if it wasn’t enough that they’d never seen me eat an omelette before. And of course no alcohol. That’s highly toxic. That was the really gruesome part.’
‘Good God,’ said Manson, impressed. ‘I’d no idea your devotion to duty was so great. Are you sure we’re paying you enough?’
Rupert smiled modestly. ‘Well, now you mention it, perhaps the time has come for a small revision. But far be it from a teetotal vegetarian to take advantage of a man in his cups, burdened with toxic juices. Anyway you haven’t heard the bad news yet. Joe still hasn’t come through with the re-write. Says he’s not convinced the passages are obscene and anyway they’re essential and integral, etc., etc. The correspondence continues and it’s all rather dreary.’
‘Get Lloyd to write to him. Maybe he’ll take more notice if he gets it straight from the legal boys.’
‘I doubt it, but it’s worth a try.’ Rupert uncurled himself and stood up, a long mustard streak. ‘Eric wants to know why we don’t want Indigo and I thought I’d already explained.’
‘You could show him the readers’ reports.’
‘Yes. I’d just rather not be quite so callous, if I can avoid it. Well, I’m off. Oh, is that the Delmer rough?’
‘Yes. What d’you think?’
‘Hmm.’ Rupert held it at arm’s length. ‘Not sure about that orange.’
‘Neither am I. But Morris has gone to Ibiza for a month so there’s not much we can do about it.’
‘We’re not in a hurry, are we?’
‘No. It’s just annoying.’
‘Quite. Well, Peter, these things are sent to try us, as my old nanny used to say. Have you ever stopped to wonder why one’s old nanny should be a repository for so much corny folk-lore?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Ah well, there you are.’ Rupert wagged a finger at him. ‘Now perhaps you see the error of your ways. The secret lies in the nanny, or, Whatever Happened to Bette Davis?’
Manson smiled at him with the fondness he could afford to indulge because the calibre of Rupert’s actual work, on paper and with people, was so unfailingly high, and his judgment so unerring. In seven years, Manson thought, I have never known him back a loser, and the winners I have lost count of. He may talk like an idiot but it’s all there. God knows what instinct guided me to him at one interview, with no background, no experience. Just occasionally he overreaches himself, that’s all. But that’s a fault of youth.
‘Rupert,’ he said affectionately, ‘you’re impossible.’
Rupert appeared pleasantly surprised. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that may be the secret of my success.’
4
PRUE, putting the phone down, thought: I exploit him, I know I do. Or victimise him even. Now Mummy’s different: hearing her voice just now there was no tug of war. Perhaps she prefers the boys, always did; or maybe she just accepts me as another grown-up woman. But Daddy I take advantage of, even more than I used to. I simply can’t avoid it: an irresistible impulse to play the little girl, to see how far I can go, to what length of self-indulgence he will allow me to sink. Gavin won’t. Gavin won’t put up with my nonsense. It simply doesn’t appeal to him. He’s tough.
It’s extraordinary how quickly Daddy’s forgiven me. Amazing, when I remember how angry he was. But he hasn’t forgiven Gavin. Not at all. He can’t even mention his name. I’m rather glad. That’s wrong of me, I know. I should want them to like each other, but I don’t, not if I’m really honest, and I always am, to myself. They both love me: that’s enough. I don’t need them to love each other as well. And if they did it might somehow diminish their love for me. I might not be quite such a special person for either of them if they drew together over me. They might see me too clearly. Or they might like each other too much, and where would I be then? Squeezed out by all those things men like to talk about, whatever they are, when they’re alone. It’s bad enough when Gavin’s friends come round.
I wonder who would have won if they’d had that fight. I’ll never forget it: how they looked and how grim they sounded. (Daddy: I’d like to break your neck. And Gavin: That’s understandable, sir, but I don’t advise you to try.) And Daddy didn’t try. I was disappointed. There now, there’s honesty. What a nasty thing it is too. I wanted to see a fight, a fight over me, a fight between them, my two men. But I wanted Daddy to win, because that would have made something up to him, if he had beaten Gavin. In a way he should have beaten Gavin, he needed to beat him. And I could have comforted Gavin for losing, whereas I could never have comforted Daddy. But if Gavin had beaten him I could never have touched Gavin again. It would have shown such greed, with everything else on his side. No one deserves that much victory. It’s immoral. Sometimes I think there’s something immoral about how I feel over Gavin. It’s just too much. It takes up all my energy. I feel I’m plugged in to a generator that’s pumping out love for Gavin all day and I have to absorb and consume it, or make good use of it, because there’s always more on the way. Sometimes I think it’s going to do me actual damage.
