Sextet by Sally Beauman Page B

could gather, was associated with the film industry in some way. This man had wanted Rowland to join him in Yorkshire, where he was engaged on some hush-hush project of an undisclosed kind, which—for unspecified reasons—required unspecified assistance from Rowland McGuire.
    Scotland; Yorkshire. Lindsay closed her eyes, spinning together these inconclusive strands in her mind. Behind her somewhere, Markov was talking about nothing as usual, and Jippy was walking up and down in a somewhat anxious way. She concentrated: Yorkshire , she felt sure and, since her imagination was on such occasions busy, detailed and compliant, Rowland rose up before her with a visionary speed.
    There he was, in some remote place—Rowland liked remote places, and liked to be alone in them. Lindsay discovered he had spent the day on some Brontë-esque moor. She could see its crags and its heathers; she could hear a lapwing’s cry. She could watch Rowland stride across these wuthering heights: this she did for a while, and very dark, handsome and desirable he looked. Then Lindsay settled him down in an inn by a blazing log fire, an inn delightfully unencumbered by the friend or other inconvenient occupants. Rowland, she found, was reading—well, he usually was. Yes, he was definitely reading, and he was wearing the green sweater Lindsay had given him the previous Christmas, a sweater which was almost exactly the same green as his eyes. She could not quite see the title of his book, a pity that, but she could read Rowland’s mind. He was thinking about her; he had just decided that before he turned in, he would give Lindsay a quick call.
    ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Markov said, on a plaintive note, ‘but is it suddenly arctic out here? Jippy, can you feel the wind getting up? It’s Siberian . Brrr…Like my legs are icy, my nose is icy, my hands…’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Markov, shut up ,’ Lindsay cried, and concentrated again.
    It might have been pleasant had Rowland begun that telephone call with some momentous word—‘darling’, for instance, would have done very nicely indeed. Lindsay’s imagination, however, had its dry, its legalistic side; it was a stickler for accuracy. Rowland, therefore, did not use this, or any other inflammatory term; he simply addressed her, as he always did, by name.
    And then—she could hear his voice distinctly—he told her in a friendly, fraternal way what he had been up to this past week. He enquired as to her own recent activities and announced he’d be returning to London soon. He recommended a book for Tom’s Oxford history course. He passed on his best wishes to Tom; then, with less obvious warmth, but a politeness characteristic of him, he sent his regards to Lindsay’s difficult mother, whom he disliked, not unreasonably, and to her mother’s new husband, disliked by both Lindsay and Rowland, who disparaged him with enjoyment and accord.
    These formalities over, he said, as he often did, that it was good to hear her voice, hoped she was well and looked forward to seeing her again soon.
    Lindsay disconnected. It was a conversation of a kind she had had with Rowland a hundred times: amusing, polite, concerned, dispassionate, brotherly; these conversations broke her heart. Rowland, of course, did not know that, at least Lindsay was hopeful he did not, for she kept her own feelings well concealed, and had done so now for a long time—almost three years.
    Lindsay opened her eyes; the moment felt auspicious. She looked down at her own wavering Ophelia-woman reflection, and wished Rowland a long goodbye. She said her farewell, her final farewell, to the other Rowland, the Rowland she wanted but could not have, the Rowland that inhabited a future that was never going to happen. Let him go , oh let him go , she said to herself, and then, since she wished him nothing but well, she added a rider: that Rowland might find a woman who would bring him the happiness he deserved, and that he