patch high on the left scapula. On closer examination, this dark area proved to be neither a blemish, nor a tattoo—most people’s second assumption—but a spider, an actual spider, a real spider, of modest dimensions, with delicate legs and black skin. Discovering this, women had been known to shriek and shrink back; Lindsay herself, who could deal with spiders, had felt a certain revulsion. A Freudian revulsion, Tom had later annoyingly claimed; a revulsion Court no doubt intended, Rowland McGuire had remarked, since Court was the most manipulative of directors—and the most manipulative of men, or so it was said.
Looking at this image now, Lindsay felt she saw elements in it which she had missed before; the image, and the very violent sequence from which it was taken—a sequence she had never watched in its entirety, because she always covered her eyes—seemed to her to have a riddling multiplicity of meanings: it could be read both ways, she felt; from the right and from the left.
She was about to pass on towards the stairs, which she could now see at the end of this corridor, and which she hoped, if her navigation were accurate, might lead down to the garden below, when a small accident occurred. Stepping back, eyes still on that poster for Dead Heat , she collided with a woman, and—apologizing—swung around. The woman, equally startled it seemed, almost dropped the four laden plates she was balancing, and gave a small cry of alarm.
‘Whoops,’ she said, in a strong Australian or New Zealand accent, as a solitary olive bounced off the plates, rolled along the corridor, and came to rest in front of some bookshelves by the stairs.
Lindsay, guiltily aware that she might now be trespassing, looked the woman up and down. She was tall and gaunt, with a large nose, rabbity teeth, small, round, granny glasses, and an arresting head of long, thick, near-white hair. Despite the hair colour, she was, Lindsay realized, around forty years old, no more. She was wearing what might have been a uniform: a neat black dress with white collar and cuffs, but no apron. Was she a waitress? Lindsay looked at the woman, and then at the plates she was somewhat furtively carrying.
‘Goodies,’ said the woman, following the direction of Lindsay’s glance.
The woman appeared to have raided the sumptuous buffet table Lindsay had glimpsed earlier, through the crowds. Heaped on the plates were cheeses and grapes; there was a large wedge of some spectacular gilded pastry pie, some of the wrens’ eggs, a glistening pyramid of caviar. There might have been some lobster—Lindsay thought she glimpsed a claw—and on the largest of the plates was a cornucopia arrangement of little tarts and cakes and miniaturized meringues, spun-sugar confections, marzipan amuse-gueules and tiny black chocolate petits fours. Balanced on top of them was a marzipan apple, tinted pink and green, with a clove for a stem; a pretty conceit. This, to Lindsay’s surprise, the gaunt woman suddenly passed to her.
‘Delicious, yeah?’ It was delicious. ‘Mrs Sabatier is really pleased with these caterers. She says they’re a find.’
‘I expect I shouldn’t be here,’ Lindsay said, extracting the clove, and, for want of anywhere else, putting it in her pocket. ‘I hope this isn’t out of bounds…’
‘No worries.’
‘It’s just—I used to be good at parties, but I seem to have lost the knack.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ The woman smiled, showing even more rabbity teeth. ‘It’s pandemonium back there.’
‘It is rather.’ The woman had begun to move off, and Lindsay trotted after her. ‘I was just wondering—I wanted to see the garden…’
‘The garden?’ The woman came to a halt.
‘Would Mrs Sabatier mind? I could see it from above. It looked so beautiful. There’s all these marvellous statues, a goddess, a nymph…’
The woman hesitated, then shrugged.
‘I guess it’s all right. Mrs Sabatier’s gone to bed anyway. She
Looking at this image now, Lindsay felt she saw elements in it which she had missed before; the image, and the very violent sequence from which it was taken—a sequence she had never watched in its entirety, because she always covered her eyes—seemed to her to have a riddling multiplicity of meanings: it could be read both ways, she felt; from the right and from the left.
She was about to pass on towards the stairs, which she could now see at the end of this corridor, and which she hoped, if her navigation were accurate, might lead down to the garden below, when a small accident occurred. Stepping back, eyes still on that poster for Dead Heat , she collided with a woman, and—apologizing—swung around. The woman, equally startled it seemed, almost dropped the four laden plates she was balancing, and gave a small cry of alarm.
‘Whoops,’ she said, in a strong Australian or New Zealand accent, as a solitary olive bounced off the plates, rolled along the corridor, and came to rest in front of some bookshelves by the stairs.
Lindsay, guiltily aware that she might now be trespassing, looked the woman up and down. She was tall and gaunt, with a large nose, rabbity teeth, small, round, granny glasses, and an arresting head of long, thick, near-white hair. Despite the hair colour, she was, Lindsay realized, around forty years old, no more. She was wearing what might have been a uniform: a neat black dress with white collar and cuffs, but no apron. Was she a waitress? Lindsay looked at the woman, and then at the plates she was somewhat furtively carrying.
‘Goodies,’ said the woman, following the direction of Lindsay’s glance.
The woman appeared to have raided the sumptuous buffet table Lindsay had glimpsed earlier, through the crowds. Heaped on the plates were cheeses and grapes; there was a large wedge of some spectacular gilded pastry pie, some of the wrens’ eggs, a glistening pyramid of caviar. There might have been some lobster—Lindsay thought she glimpsed a claw—and on the largest of the plates was a cornucopia arrangement of little tarts and cakes and miniaturized meringues, spun-sugar confections, marzipan amuse-gueules and tiny black chocolate petits fours. Balanced on top of them was a marzipan apple, tinted pink and green, with a clove for a stem; a pretty conceit. This, to Lindsay’s surprise, the gaunt woman suddenly passed to her.
‘Delicious, yeah?’ It was delicious. ‘Mrs Sabatier is really pleased with these caterers. She says they’re a find.’
‘I expect I shouldn’t be here,’ Lindsay said, extracting the clove, and, for want of anywhere else, putting it in her pocket. ‘I hope this isn’t out of bounds…’
‘No worries.’
‘It’s just—I used to be good at parties, but I seem to have lost the knack.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ The woman smiled, showing even more rabbity teeth. ‘It’s pandemonium back there.’
‘It is rather.’ The woman had begun to move off, and Lindsay trotted after her. ‘I was just wondering—I wanted to see the garden…’
‘The garden?’ The woman came to a halt.
‘Would Mrs Sabatier mind? I could see it from above. It looked so beautiful. There’s all these marvellous statues, a goddess, a nymph…’
The woman hesitated, then shrugged.
‘I guess it’s all right. Mrs Sabatier’s gone to bed anyway. She
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