with all of them except for the one with the golden curls. Mrs H. was already eyeing him speculatively, while he was addressing the brown-haired woman and calling her Jessica as though he’d known her for ever.
‘I’ll have a brandy,’ said Jessica. ‘Thanks.’
‘And I,’ said Jon, thus furthering the impression that he and Jessica were very old and good friends and were in the habit of slugging down pints of Napoleon together. Jessica made no demur since it was possible that she did know him quite well. Off the stage most people looked more or less the same to her so she treated everybody with a warmly respectful informality which was not as easy to practise as it appeared: it had taken some time for her to gauge it correctly, but once perfected was as efficacious as a mask. Nobody really knew Jessica very well.
‘Whisky and soda,’ said Harry.
‘A glass of white wine, please,’ said Anita.
‘I’ll just have water, thank you,’ said Ronald.
Another big spender, thought Eric sourly, forgetting for the moment that this water was on the house, and toying with the idea of giving him a glass from the tap.
‘So you’re all here for Christmas then,’ said the professor, twisting round on his bar stool to look at them. ‘The island’s a fine place in winter,’ he added in order to prove that he was familiar with it in all its moods.
‘It’s better in summer,’ said Mrs H., for the same reason.
‘I imagine it gets very crowded then,’ said Anita. ‘I don’t think I’d like that. I think everywhere is nicer when the season’s over.’ She thought of the stationery department in the week before Christmas and felt a small pang of insecurity. It was chaotic but lively and it was hers. She was somebody there. Here she could be anybody. She looked down at her velvet skirt to reassure herself of her identity. ‘What do you do?’ she said to Ronald as they were standing together, a little apart from the others.
‘I’m a psychoanalyst,’ said Ronald. This word had the usual effect of creating a pause in the conversations which were going on at the bar, and Ronald wished he’d only said he was a doctor. It was bad enough when he said that, since people sooner or later would slither up to consult him about the side effects of the drug they’d been prescribed, or the pain in the middle of their upper back; but when he said he was a psychoanalyst people, according to temperament, either clamped their jaws firmly shut in case they uttered some remark which would immediately reveal to him that their psyches were in a horrible and unhygienic condition, or expected him to help them sort out their love lives – free.
‘Goodness,’ said Anita.
‘And what do you do?’ asked Jessica, moving away from Jon, who had drawn her into a confusing exchange involving an experience on location which apparently they had shared and of which she had no recollection.
‘I’m a buyer,’ said Anita. ‘A fashion buyer,’ she added, realizing as she spoke that these words had emerged from somewhere in her subconscious where she kept unuttered desires. Ronald would find that interesting, she thought bleakly. Why was it, she wondered, that whenever she was out of her milieu she tended to behave uncharacteristically. Perhaps everyone did. The thought was no consolation, for she had realized at once that even if she grew fond of her fellow guests, and friendly with them, she would not be able to reunite with them in London because they would find out the truth.
‘How fascinating,’ said Jessica. ‘Where?’
‘Oh, just one of the stores,’ said Anita, for she didn’t want this vivacious woman bouncing into the fashion department and demanding to see her in order to get a discount on a little Jean Muir. ‘Nowhere you’d know.’ What a waste of time. By not adhering to the truth she had now given the impression that she was a person of no real significance, employed in a back-street frock shop. She wished she
‘I’ll have a brandy,’ said Jessica. ‘Thanks.’
‘And I,’ said Jon, thus furthering the impression that he and Jessica were very old and good friends and were in the habit of slugging down pints of Napoleon together. Jessica made no demur since it was possible that she did know him quite well. Off the stage most people looked more or less the same to her so she treated everybody with a warmly respectful informality which was not as easy to practise as it appeared: it had taken some time for her to gauge it correctly, but once perfected was as efficacious as a mask. Nobody really knew Jessica very well.
‘Whisky and soda,’ said Harry.
‘A glass of white wine, please,’ said Anita.
‘I’ll just have water, thank you,’ said Ronald.
Another big spender, thought Eric sourly, forgetting for the moment that this water was on the house, and toying with the idea of giving him a glass from the tap.
‘So you’re all here for Christmas then,’ said the professor, twisting round on his bar stool to look at them. ‘The island’s a fine place in winter,’ he added in order to prove that he was familiar with it in all its moods.
‘It’s better in summer,’ said Mrs H., for the same reason.
‘I imagine it gets very crowded then,’ said Anita. ‘I don’t think I’d like that. I think everywhere is nicer when the season’s over.’ She thought of the stationery department in the week before Christmas and felt a small pang of insecurity. It was chaotic but lively and it was hers. She was somebody there. Here she could be anybody. She looked down at her velvet skirt to reassure herself of her identity. ‘What do you do?’ she said to Ronald as they were standing together, a little apart from the others.
‘I’m a psychoanalyst,’ said Ronald. This word had the usual effect of creating a pause in the conversations which were going on at the bar, and Ronald wished he’d only said he was a doctor. It was bad enough when he said that, since people sooner or later would slither up to consult him about the side effects of the drug they’d been prescribed, or the pain in the middle of their upper back; but when he said he was a psychoanalyst people, according to temperament, either clamped their jaws firmly shut in case they uttered some remark which would immediately reveal to him that their psyches were in a horrible and unhygienic condition, or expected him to help them sort out their love lives – free.
‘Goodness,’ said Anita.
‘And what do you do?’ asked Jessica, moving away from Jon, who had drawn her into a confusing exchange involving an experience on location which apparently they had shared and of which she had no recollection.
‘I’m a buyer,’ said Anita. ‘A fashion buyer,’ she added, realizing as she spoke that these words had emerged from somewhere in her subconscious where she kept unuttered desires. Ronald would find that interesting, she thought bleakly. Why was it, she wondered, that whenever she was out of her milieu she tended to behave uncharacteristically. Perhaps everyone did. The thought was no consolation, for she had realized at once that even if she grew fond of her fellow guests, and friendly with them, she would not be able to reunite with them in London because they would find out the truth.
‘How fascinating,’ said Jessica. ‘Where?’
‘Oh, just one of the stores,’ said Anita, for she didn’t want this vivacious woman bouncing into the fashion department and demanding to see her in order to get a discount on a little Jean Muir. ‘Nowhere you’d know.’ What a waste of time. By not adhering to the truth she had now given the impression that she was a person of no real significance, employed in a back-street frock shop. She wished she
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