anything I said too seriously.”
“It was very interesting,” Elise says, as Francoise comes over.
Francoise registers the look of concern on my face. “Oh my dear, you must ignore what I said about Vincent and Carina; they were just children at the time. So much has changed since then.”
“And yet your predictions were confident enough to give us a time scale,” James notes.
“James, if he was attracted to Carina something would have happened by now,” Francoise says, looking absently over our shoulders. My eyes meet Carina's for a second; she is gesturing towards Francoise. Francoise excuses herself to speak with her.
“A little close to the bone, wasn't it?” Graham says, pouring Elise a drink. “I was dressed up that night as a show of support to Franz, I remember it quite specifically. It wasn't that I felt I had found my look .”
“As she says, she was just a girl when she wrote it. The importance of the piece is that it reminds us of that time, of how we related to one another as teenagers. She isn't trying to make a point that's any bigger than that,” I counter.
“You think so? That was a long book, and I find it interesting that Francoise chose to read such a confrontational section from it. She seems keen to make the seven of us look in the mirror, and yet she's careful to avoid any scrutiny herself.”
“I think some of her observations sailed pretty close to the wind,” Elise says. “I kept looking over to Barbara, to see if any of those comments smarted, but she seemed pretty oblivious to them.”
“Barbara's defences are well constructed, she would have to work a lot harder than that to find a chink in them,” Graham says. “I say that when we team up for the party game later we turn the tables on Francoise a bit, let her feel a little heat from us. What do you think?”
Elise's face lights up.
“I think you are a vindictive tranny with bricks in her handbag,” I say. Graham laughs. “Don't be too hard on her.”
“She's a big girl,” Graham answers, turning away. “She can take it.”
A few minutes later James is ruffling through a book as we seek temporary solace in the library. I watch the veins in his long hands tighten as he impatiently flips pages under the delicate light. The chandelier has been inactive for many years, but this evening he has blinked it back to life, and it seems to shroud him in a grateful glow. He's trying to find a passage he wants to read to me, something from a book we both read at university, but I don't feel brave enough to tell him that it doesn't matter. I glance upwards, bewildered by the endless row of books.
“These were inherited by her,” he says, smiling in my direction. “She occasionally passes through here and picks over a Baudelaire, in a vague attempt to feel intellectual.” I lean against a dusty stack. The memories feel a little woozier now, disturbed by the wine I gradually drank during the reading. My earlier remembrances were bright, pin sharp, but now they are smeared with fragrances and lights.
“Art is so often wasted isn't it?” James says, more to himself than to me. “People seem comforted to see books in plush libraries, but what use are they if no-one ever bothers to read them? Fields of consideration, laid out in detail, to gather dust, to rot.” He snaps the book shut. “Are you still writing?”
Not as much as I should. “Yes. At university it was a guilty pleasure to write, as I felt I should be concerned with something loftier. Now I don't write as I feel I shouldn't be concerned with something that lofty.”
He runs a long finger down a weathered page, before dismissing it and transferring his attention to another volume. “It's a paradox,” he says. “The work we make in our youth is too pure to be considered serious, but when we are old enough to be deemed worthy of attention we are too serious to be pure. You shouldn't dismiss those adolescent musings of yours. If they're shaped with the
“It was very interesting,” Elise says, as Francoise comes over.
Francoise registers the look of concern on my face. “Oh my dear, you must ignore what I said about Vincent and Carina; they were just children at the time. So much has changed since then.”
“And yet your predictions were confident enough to give us a time scale,” James notes.
“James, if he was attracted to Carina something would have happened by now,” Francoise says, looking absently over our shoulders. My eyes meet Carina's for a second; she is gesturing towards Francoise. Francoise excuses herself to speak with her.
“A little close to the bone, wasn't it?” Graham says, pouring Elise a drink. “I was dressed up that night as a show of support to Franz, I remember it quite specifically. It wasn't that I felt I had found my look .”
“As she says, she was just a girl when she wrote it. The importance of the piece is that it reminds us of that time, of how we related to one another as teenagers. She isn't trying to make a point that's any bigger than that,” I counter.
“You think so? That was a long book, and I find it interesting that Francoise chose to read such a confrontational section from it. She seems keen to make the seven of us look in the mirror, and yet she's careful to avoid any scrutiny herself.”
“I think some of her observations sailed pretty close to the wind,” Elise says. “I kept looking over to Barbara, to see if any of those comments smarted, but she seemed pretty oblivious to them.”
“Barbara's defences are well constructed, she would have to work a lot harder than that to find a chink in them,” Graham says. “I say that when we team up for the party game later we turn the tables on Francoise a bit, let her feel a little heat from us. What do you think?”
Elise's face lights up.
“I think you are a vindictive tranny with bricks in her handbag,” I say. Graham laughs. “Don't be too hard on her.”
“She's a big girl,” Graham answers, turning away. “She can take it.”
A few minutes later James is ruffling through a book as we seek temporary solace in the library. I watch the veins in his long hands tighten as he impatiently flips pages under the delicate light. The chandelier has been inactive for many years, but this evening he has blinked it back to life, and it seems to shroud him in a grateful glow. He's trying to find a passage he wants to read to me, something from a book we both read at university, but I don't feel brave enough to tell him that it doesn't matter. I glance upwards, bewildered by the endless row of books.
“These were inherited by her,” he says, smiling in my direction. “She occasionally passes through here and picks over a Baudelaire, in a vague attempt to feel intellectual.” I lean against a dusty stack. The memories feel a little woozier now, disturbed by the wine I gradually drank during the reading. My earlier remembrances were bright, pin sharp, but now they are smeared with fragrances and lights.
“Art is so often wasted isn't it?” James says, more to himself than to me. “People seem comforted to see books in plush libraries, but what use are they if no-one ever bothers to read them? Fields of consideration, laid out in detail, to gather dust, to rot.” He snaps the book shut. “Are you still writing?”
Not as much as I should. “Yes. At university it was a guilty pleasure to write, as I felt I should be concerned with something loftier. Now I don't write as I feel I shouldn't be concerned with something that lofty.”
He runs a long finger down a weathered page, before dismissing it and transferring his attention to another volume. “It's a paradox,” he says. “The work we make in our youth is too pure to be considered serious, but when we are old enough to be deemed worthy of attention we are too serious to be pure. You shouldn't dismiss those adolescent musings of yours. If they're shaped with the
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