met Lynette just after Karina’s installation, when she tapped at our door after dinner.
I liked her even before she spoke: she was pale, neat and delicate, with a brunette’s glitter and many gold rings. Her eyes were the colour of blackberries. They fellfirst on the skull on our bookshelf. She said simply, ‘I admire.’
Julianne, sprawled on her bed, looked up. ‘Oh, we do have taste.’
Lynette stood uncertainly, poised almost on her toes. ‘My room-mate says she knows you.’
I nodded.
‘So I said I’d ask you round for coffee.’
‘And
petits fours?’
Julianne asked.
Lynette rose a little, as if poised for a balletic spring. ‘Bendicks Bittermints,’ she offered.
Julianne uncoiled her legs. ‘I admire,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, but you must do
something,’
Lynette said. She gave a little sideways hop. ‘Or you would die.’
Julianne stood up. Pointed to me. ‘May the prole come too? Only half a mint for her, mind!’
Lynette said to me, ‘How very short your hair is! But it shows off your beautiful eyes.’
I could see that Julianne had also fallen in love. I think women carry this faculty into later life: the faculty for love, I mean. Men will never understand it till they stop confusing love with sex, which will be never. Even today, there are ten or twenty women I love: for a turn of phrase or wrist, for a bruised-looking ankle where the veins have blossomed out, for a squeeze of the hand or for a voice on the end of the phone. I would no more go to bed with any of them than I would drown myself; and drowning is my most feared form of death. Perhaps I love too easily; I can say Lynette has left a mark on my heart.
So: Julianne reached up and took the skull from theshelf. ‘We call her Mrs Webster,’ she said to Lynette. ‘Carmel, she will have her little joke.’ We skipped and slid along the corridor to C21, passing Mrs Webster between us as if she were a rugby ball.
This is how I came to enter a room that now no longer exists, except in my memory: bursting through the door with a skull poised between my hands. The air of C21 was fragrant with spilt talc and splashed cologne. An electric kettle was steaming into the air. The wardrobe doors stood open and I saw Julianne’s eyes pass over crushed silk and cashmere, squeezed over in one half of the wardrobe to leave room for Karina’s clothes. On the floor by one of the desks stood three pairs of beautiful boots, like sentinels whose upper part has been assumed to heaven: slim straight-sided high-heeled boots, their aroma of leather and polish blossoming into the room. One pair burgundy: one pair a deep burnished chestnut: one pair black and fluid as melting tar.
And on one of the beds, there basked a fur, a longhaired fox fur, its colours banded and streaked, strawberry blonde with platinum tips. My eyes were drawn ineluctably towards it, as fingers are drawn to marble or velvet. I stared at it; as I did so, one of its arms slid towards me, as if in languid salute. I watched. The arm flopped itself over and lolled on to the floor. I took a step towards it, genuflected, and lifted it reverently. I tucked it on to the bed, into the body of the coat, feeling as I did so not just the whisper of the fur against my hand but the sleekness of the silk that lined it. ‘I would kill for this coat,’ I said simply.
‘Oh, heavens!’ its mistress said. ‘Don’t murder me. Just borrow it. Any time.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Go on, try it.’ Lynette skipped across the room. The fox fur seemed to leap into her arms and nestle there. Julianne leant against the wall, amused. Lynette whisked my arms into the sleeves. Her supple hands – blue veins and ivory – swept the collar up to my throat. ‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ she said. ‘It suits you. Oh, Karina, don’t you think? Doesn’t it suit her? You’re taller, you see, you can carry it off. My father bought it for me, and I do like it, but I wonder if it makes me look like Baby
I liked her even before she spoke: she was pale, neat and delicate, with a brunette’s glitter and many gold rings. Her eyes were the colour of blackberries. They fellfirst on the skull on our bookshelf. She said simply, ‘I admire.’
Julianne, sprawled on her bed, looked up. ‘Oh, we do have taste.’
Lynette stood uncertainly, poised almost on her toes. ‘My room-mate says she knows you.’
I nodded.
‘So I said I’d ask you round for coffee.’
‘And
petits fours?’
Julianne asked.
Lynette rose a little, as if poised for a balletic spring. ‘Bendicks Bittermints,’ she offered.
Julianne uncoiled her legs. ‘I admire,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, but you must do
something,’
Lynette said. She gave a little sideways hop. ‘Or you would die.’
Julianne stood up. Pointed to me. ‘May the prole come too? Only half a mint for her, mind!’
Lynette said to me, ‘How very short your hair is! But it shows off your beautiful eyes.’
I could see that Julianne had also fallen in love. I think women carry this faculty into later life: the faculty for love, I mean. Men will never understand it till they stop confusing love with sex, which will be never. Even today, there are ten or twenty women I love: for a turn of phrase or wrist, for a bruised-looking ankle where the veins have blossomed out, for a squeeze of the hand or for a voice on the end of the phone. I would no more go to bed with any of them than I would drown myself; and drowning is my most feared form of death. Perhaps I love too easily; I can say Lynette has left a mark on my heart.
So: Julianne reached up and took the skull from theshelf. ‘We call her Mrs Webster,’ she said to Lynette. ‘Carmel, she will have her little joke.’ We skipped and slid along the corridor to C21, passing Mrs Webster between us as if she were a rugby ball.
This is how I came to enter a room that now no longer exists, except in my memory: bursting through the door with a skull poised between my hands. The air of C21 was fragrant with spilt talc and splashed cologne. An electric kettle was steaming into the air. The wardrobe doors stood open and I saw Julianne’s eyes pass over crushed silk and cashmere, squeezed over in one half of the wardrobe to leave room for Karina’s clothes. On the floor by one of the desks stood three pairs of beautiful boots, like sentinels whose upper part has been assumed to heaven: slim straight-sided high-heeled boots, their aroma of leather and polish blossoming into the room. One pair burgundy: one pair a deep burnished chestnut: one pair black and fluid as melting tar.
And on one of the beds, there basked a fur, a longhaired fox fur, its colours banded and streaked, strawberry blonde with platinum tips. My eyes were drawn ineluctably towards it, as fingers are drawn to marble or velvet. I stared at it; as I did so, one of its arms slid towards me, as if in languid salute. I watched. The arm flopped itself over and lolled on to the floor. I took a step towards it, genuflected, and lifted it reverently. I tucked it on to the bed, into the body of the coat, feeling as I did so not just the whisper of the fur against my hand but the sleekness of the silk that lined it. ‘I would kill for this coat,’ I said simply.
‘Oh, heavens!’ its mistress said. ‘Don’t murder me. Just borrow it. Any time.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Go on, try it.’ Lynette skipped across the room. The fox fur seemed to leap into her arms and nestle there. Julianne leant against the wall, amused. Lynette whisked my arms into the sleeves. Her supple hands – blue veins and ivory – swept the collar up to my throat. ‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ she said. ‘It suits you. Oh, Karina, don’t you think? Doesn’t it suit her? You’re taller, you see, you can carry it off. My father bought it for me, and I do like it, but I wonder if it makes me look like Baby
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