He passed Bethlehem College and then St Christopher’s where a famous English poet had kept a bear in his room after the college had banned the keeping of dogs. Chad had taken the open-top bus tour in his first week in the city, a fact he had not told his friends, who would have despised such behaviour.
He took the scenic route home along the river and as he wandered opposite the slipways and boathouses he thought about the consequences awaiting the others. What lurked in each pot remained a secret from each of them. And in many ways the threat of the unknown was a good element of the Game. But surely if some of them knew what might befall them, the play might progress a little faster. And Emilia in particular, if Emilia . . . And then, feeling guilty, Chad snapped away from his thoughts. Instead he stared at an eight on the river, their pairs of oars folding and straightening, the ephemeral fog of their breaths.
But the thought wouldn’t go away. Because it was undoubtedly true that if Emilia knew what they had planned for her, she might run from the Game. And in all honesty, forewarning would be an act of kindness, much better for her to know in advance than to have to go through with it. Why should he feel guilty for the simple recognition of a clever strategy?
But first of all there was Friday to get through. He would worry about everything else after that.
When he got back to the house below the river, Mitzy was in the kitchen, perched cross-legged on a dining chair. Although it was nearly five o’clock she was eating Honey Nut Cheerios from a large bowl cradled between her thighs. She had on a pair of red terrycloth shorts and a grey T-shirt, Notre Dame, where her brother played football. Somehow, despite the sludgy weather in Britain, she had maintained her deep tan, her legs the colour of the strong tea Chad was trying to acquire a taste for.
When she saw Chad she became excitable. Bouncing on crossed legs she told him she had just taken a phone call from the liaison officer about Friday’s event. She relayed the message, everything had been OK’d and arranged. ‘So then, Mr Mysterious, do I get an invite?’
‘Of course,’ said Chad, resisting the urge to tag on the observation that it was a public event in any case.
‘Awesome, Chad. Friday’s gonna be awesome. I’m so proud of you.’
‘Thanks, Mitzy,’ said Chad. The word proud seemed inappropriate between them. But never mind, it was sweet of her. Mitzy was sweet, the sort of girl he should love, a simple sort of love for his first.
‘Hey, how about when it’s over, like to show you how awesome you’ve been, I mean only if you haven’t already arranged something with your English friends, because I like totally understand if you have, how about I take you out to dinner? Just you and me, Chad. To celebrate. What do you think?’
‘I think definitely, Mitzy,’ said Chad. ‘That really would be great.’
Mitzy clapped her hands, a small fluttering motion. And then she sang out the word awesome, pitching it at the highest note she could reach. Chad noticed the milk from her spoon dripping as she held it like a microphone, dripping and splashing and running down her thighs.
XLI
XLI(i) I leave a bunch of gerberas and a short note for Dee before I head out of my apartment at noon. My beard has been itching hideously for days. I think it might be time for a shave. A haircut as well.
OK, between you and me, dear reader, the truth. I would like to look good for Dee. But please keep this to yourself. All I can think of is Dee. Dee Dee Dee.
Chop chop chop and enough hair on the barbershop floor to stuff a large cushion. Next the beard – first a buzz cut with clippers, then the scrape of the blade. And now I look better than I have done in years. Not that I have spent much time admiring myself in the mirror. Because when I get home I find Dee’s letter.
XLI(ii) Oh, Jolyon, thank you for the flowers and the very dear note. You are utterly sweet and I feel truly blessed having you back in my life. And thank you for agreeing to the rules. I’m sorry, the FRAMEWORK.
This is now my third version of this letter. The first two were terribly coy and they just didn’t work. This time I have decided to tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, because I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here in New York.
Deep breath.
For the past fourteen years, sometimes for as many seconds as any day has to offer, I have been writing. Writing and rewriting, ripping everything up, starting all over again. Tormenting myself, tormenting those around me. Fourteen long, barren years.
And what else could I do with my life but try to write? I was raised by books, Jolyon, a pack of writers weaned me, like Mowgli brought up by his wolves. And without bewailing too much my Little Orphan Annie story, perhaps I should explain.
As a child, aged twelve perhaps, I began to regard Jane Austen as my mother and Charles Dickens as my father. These were the only two constants in my life, the only two people to whom I gave my unconditional love. Austen and Dickens whispered bedtime stories to me, made me laugh, taught me all about life. And soon came three sisters: Anne, Charlotte and Emily. This was my family and between them they couldn’t do anything wrong. I loved them for their words as others love, without question, for blood or lust or family ties. As I got older I unearthed thrilling aunts and uncles. Greene, Nabokov, Woolf, Updike. Each would come to visit with fascinating tales from worlds a million miles away. And they too earned my love, my adoration. Here was a family I could choose, not the other way round. I read and I read and I loved.
So perhaps I write because I want to earn the sort of love I felt for others as a child: that utter and unconditional sense of devotion to another human being. And what else could I write about but the Game? Just like you, Jolyon. What else is there for us to say?
I tried telling it straight, then skew-whiff, back-to-front and oblique. I tried to be Dickens then Austen. I tried Greene then Nabokov. I even tried to be myself. Then I tried you. And then Chad.
But every time I failed. And why? I think the reason is because I never truly worked out what our story was about. This story wasn’t about jealousy, malice and spite. No, it transpires that our story wasn’t a tale about hatred at all, it was always a story about love. Yes, there are some satellite love stories circling the tale. And of course all of us loved each other in some way. But at its centre, at the heart of it, ours was a singular tale of love. The love story of Jolyon and Chad. And this is the thing I could never understand. The curious, complex, ill-explored, secretive, unspoken and venomous love between men.
Mark was so utterly wrong. Of course you cared what Chad thought. You cared too much. (I’m sorry, Jolyon, I’m not here in New York to accuse.)
So, writing and writing and failing. And how have I supported myself throughout these fruitless years? Well, there have been men. There were always men. Not artists or authors, but bankers and businessmen, barristers and bean counters. (B for bed and board, B for bread and bored.) And I even loved one of them, the only one who left me, a bookkeeper with the soul of a poet.
I gave myself to them, my body in exchange for my mind. And they took care of me, looked after the minutiae of life, everything in the world that is not the blank page.
Writing and writing and failing. But I could never give in. Oh, I made friends, joined writers’ groups, people liked me. I could have written fluff for magazines, collaborated on children’s books, read slush piles of chick lit. But no, I could never sell out. And why?