Death Of A Hollow Man by Caroline Graham Page A

with larger concerns, with the single exception of the charitable trust that supported the Latimer. As an insider with an intimate knowledge of the company’s affairs, Esslyn had automatically taken this on, together with the accounts for Harold’s import-export business, which was a modest one but not without interest. He never charged Harold quite as much as he would a nonacquaintance, and often wondered if his producer-director really appreciated this.
    Having come to the end of his reminiscences and rolling his head about, Esslyn returned his attention to Kitty. Becoming aware of his regard, she tossed her highlighted curls in a coquettish gesture, which a less complacent husband might have thought a touch calculated. Then she admired her neck in the mirror. Esslyn admired her neck as well. Not a ring or a blur or a fold in sight. She had a charming little face. Too pointed to be called heartshaped, it obtained more to a neat foxiness that, combined with the narrow tilt of her sparkling eyes, was very appealing. Now, she stood up, smoothing the rosy fabric of her nightdress close against her belly, as yet no rounder than when they had wrestled in the props room, and smiled into the glass.
    Esslyn did not smile back, but contented himself with a simple nod. He was very sparing with his smiles, bringing them out only on special occasions. He had long been aware that, while they lit up and transformed his face, they also deepened and reinforced the nose-to-mouth lines somewhat. Now, he called, “Darling,” in a manner that spoke more of instruction than endearment.
    Obediently Kitty crossed to the four-poster and stood by his side. Esslyn made a “going up” gesture with his hand, palm held flat, and his wife lifted her nightdress over her head and let it fall, a cool raspberry ripple of satin, into a pool around her feet. Esslyn let his gaze slide over her lean, almost boyish flanks and hips, and small, appley breasts, and his lips tightened with satisfaction. (Rosa had allowed herself to become quite grotesquely fat during the last years of their marriage.) Esslyn tugged at the cord of his pajamas with one hand while patting his wife’s pillow with the other.
    “Come along, kitten.”
    She felt really nice. Firm and young and strong. She smelled of honeysuckle and the iffy white wine they sold in the clubhouse. She was sweetly compliant rather than saucily active, which, it seemed to Esslyn, was just how things should be. And to round off her character to perfection, she couldn’t act for beans.
    This last reflection recalled the rehearsals for Amadeus, and as Esslyn started to move briskly inside his wife, he mulled over his latest role at the Latimer. Quite a challenge (Salieri was never offstage), but he was starting to feel that acting was no longer quite enough. It had been suggested that he might try a spot of directing, and the truth was that Esslyn was rather drawn to this idea. He had once read a biography of Henry Irving, and quite fancied himself in a long dark coat with an astrakhan collar and a tallish hat. He might even grow sideburns—
    “How was that for you, darling?”
    “How was what? Oh—” He gazed down at Kitty’s face, her lips shinily parted, her eyes closed in soft eclipse. “Sorry. Miles away as per usual. Fine … fine.” He gave her a postcoital peck on the cheek in the manner of one putting the finishing touch to an iced cake and rolled over to his own side of the bed. “Do try and get your lines down for Tuesday, Kitty. At least for the scenes when we’re together. I can’t stand being held up.” Unconsciously he echoed Harold. “I don’t know what you find to do all day.”
    “Why”—Kitty got up on one elbow and beamed a shining, blue glance in his direction—“I think of my petti-poos, of course.”
    “And I think of you too, puss-wuss,” rejoined Esslyn, really believing at that moment that he did. Then he said, “Don’t forget—by Tuesday,” plumped up his