whether the conversation might have taken place in person, rather than on the phone. Perhaps—he clenched his fists—she had even shown Valentine the letter. Once again he regretted the fax.
He paced the living room back and forth, back and forth, and at last flung himself down on the sofa. He had set aside the entire day for writing but now seemed doomed to squander it in hopeless specula-tion. His gaze fastened on the painting above the fireplace. Abigail had shown him the vivid oil the first time he came to the house and told him that the artist was her best friend.“That’s Dara.” She pointed. “And that’s me. We were having a picnic on the beach at St. Andrews.” Normally the sight of the two of them, sitting on a tartan rug, surrounded by food, cheered him, but today all he could see was Valentine popping his eyes. Had she? Hadn’t she? Would she? Wouldn’t she? That he had subjected Judy to similar torments only made him feel worse.
In an effort to distract himself he decided to read plays. He hadn’t reviewed any since he sent back the one on Keats; after a promising start it had quickly lapsed into a lecture. Now a stack was sitting con-veniently beside the sofa. He opened the first one. Newcastle Baby read the title page. A racehorse? A person? He didn’t care. The cast list was acceptably short and he started reading. He reached the bottom of the first page with no idea of what he’d read, though he knew there was a typo in the third line. The next page yielded the same results. His eyes passed over the words, presumably they entered his brain, but he was unable to convert them into units of thought and sense. He closed Newcastle Baby and picked up the next script: A Gift for Miss Honey-man. Again the lines meant nothing. After a third attempt, he went to his study and fetched a pile of form rejections. Sitting on the floor, he went through the entire stack, plucking off the accompanying letters and neatly affixing rejections. He put them in the hall to await return
to the theater, and decided to go to the one place he could think of that promised solace: the library.
Outside he almost collided with a familiar figure. As with the plays, he could not quite bring the man on Dara’s doorstep into focus. Then the man said, “Hello, Sean,” and he recognized her father. Cameron had helped Dara to move into the flat and Sean had lent him a hammer and assisted with the heavier boxes. Their conversations had been brief and mundane, and since then they had spoken only in passing, but now, seeing again his surprisingly unlined face and deep-set eyes, Sean remembered how, for no reason he could articulate, he had been struck by Cameron’s faint, indecipherable air of melancholy.
“Your garden is looking lovely,” said Cameron.
“All Dara’s doing.” In an effort at politeness, he added that he had the opposite of a green thumb. “My father used to make my brother and me mow the grass twice, first one way then at right angles. It’s left me with a lifelong grudge against plants.”
While he was speaking, Dara appeared. She was looking, he noticed, in a purple blouse and blue skirt, unusually pretty. “Hi, Dad,” she said. “Come on, Sean. At a certain point we have to stop blaming our parents for everything. Besides, you like plants; you just don’t like tend-ing them.” She linked her arm through her father’s and added that they were going to Sissinghurst, the country house in Kent, to see the famous gardens.
“I’ve heard they’re beautiful,” Sean managed. The prospect of company, a destination, was so tempting that he almost asked if he could come too.
he library did help, but only while he was there. The ideal
distraction, he discovered in the next few days, was interviewing
people. The secretary’s list had arrived shortly after the anonymous letter and, at a particularly low ebb, he had picked a name at random— Mrs. Margaret Green—and phoned. He had worried
He paced the living room back and forth, back and forth, and at last flung himself down on the sofa. He had set aside the entire day for writing but now seemed doomed to squander it in hopeless specula-tion. His gaze fastened on the painting above the fireplace. Abigail had shown him the vivid oil the first time he came to the house and told him that the artist was her best friend.“That’s Dara.” She pointed. “And that’s me. We were having a picnic on the beach at St. Andrews.” Normally the sight of the two of them, sitting on a tartan rug, surrounded by food, cheered him, but today all he could see was Valentine popping his eyes. Had she? Hadn’t she? Would she? Wouldn’t she? That he had subjected Judy to similar torments only made him feel worse.
In an effort to distract himself he decided to read plays. He hadn’t reviewed any since he sent back the one on Keats; after a promising start it had quickly lapsed into a lecture. Now a stack was sitting con-veniently beside the sofa. He opened the first one. Newcastle Baby read the title page. A racehorse? A person? He didn’t care. The cast list was acceptably short and he started reading. He reached the bottom of the first page with no idea of what he’d read, though he knew there was a typo in the third line. The next page yielded the same results. His eyes passed over the words, presumably they entered his brain, but he was unable to convert them into units of thought and sense. He closed Newcastle Baby and picked up the next script: A Gift for Miss Honey-man. Again the lines meant nothing. After a third attempt, he went to his study and fetched a pile of form rejections. Sitting on the floor, he went through the entire stack, plucking off the accompanying letters and neatly affixing rejections. He put them in the hall to await return
to the theater, and decided to go to the one place he could think of that promised solace: the library.
Outside he almost collided with a familiar figure. As with the plays, he could not quite bring the man on Dara’s doorstep into focus. Then the man said, “Hello, Sean,” and he recognized her father. Cameron had helped Dara to move into the flat and Sean had lent him a hammer and assisted with the heavier boxes. Their conversations had been brief and mundane, and since then they had spoken only in passing, but now, seeing again his surprisingly unlined face and deep-set eyes, Sean remembered how, for no reason he could articulate, he had been struck by Cameron’s faint, indecipherable air of melancholy.
“Your garden is looking lovely,” said Cameron.
“All Dara’s doing.” In an effort at politeness, he added that he had the opposite of a green thumb. “My father used to make my brother and me mow the grass twice, first one way then at right angles. It’s left me with a lifelong grudge against plants.”
While he was speaking, Dara appeared. She was looking, he noticed, in a purple blouse and blue skirt, unusually pretty. “Hi, Dad,” she said. “Come on, Sean. At a certain point we have to stop blaming our parents for everything. Besides, you like plants; you just don’t like tend-ing them.” She linked her arm through her father’s and added that they were going to Sissinghurst, the country house in Kent, to see the famous gardens.
“I’ve heard they’re beautiful,” Sean managed. The prospect of company, a destination, was so tempting that he almost asked if he could come too.
he library did help, but only while he was there. The ideal
distraction, he discovered in the next few days, was interviewing
people. The secretary’s list had arrived shortly after the anonymous letter and, at a particularly low ebb, he had picked a name at random— Mrs. Margaret Green—and phoned. He had worried
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