‘‘So you keep saying.” Tim transferred his attention to Avery’s garden, wonderfully light and airy, and pictured it under a bright blue sky. Then he went to the larder, chose a bottle of Pedroncelli, and wielded the corkscrew. “What are you scratching, then?”
“Skate.”
Tim poured two glasses of wine and put one by the cooker. Then he picked up Floyd on Fish. “I thought you said he wasn’t sound.”
“One mustn’t be too purist in these matters. Joycey didn’t want to keep it—understandable under the circs— so I took it off her hands. In fact”—he tasted the juices in the pan—“I think this is going to be rather good.”
Silently Avery cursed himself for leaving the book out (it was usually at the back of the dish towel drawer). The last thing he wanted was to remind Tim of the occasion of Esslyn’s death. For Tim had confessed to Avery (and Barnaby, too) that he had known about the plan to unseat Harold from its very emergence—although not about the blackmail. Assured by Esslyn that once he had taken charge, there would be no interference in the area of lighting or design, Tim had seen no reason why his original ideas should not be used in Amadeus, beginning on the first night.
Now, of course, he blamed himself for the outcome. If he had not kept the secret, if he had only told Avery— i.e., the entire company—Esslyn would probably be alive today. For weeks after Harold’s arrest, Tim sat around the house melancholic and racked with guilt. He hardly ate and took no interest in the shop, which, in the pre-Christmas rush, nearly had Avery demented, even though Nicholas gave up his job at the supermarket to help.
On top of this, Avery had his own feelings to cope with. A certain disappointment, for instance, at the realization that Tim’s seemingly brave and generous offer over the lighting had actually carried no risk at all if he knew Harold was to be deposed. But Avery nobly struggled to live with the fact that one small bubble had burst, and continued to cook ravishing meals when he wasn’t scurrying around the shop and catching up on orders till midnight. But now Tim was getting better. Almost his old self. Avery drained his glass and smiled across at his companion.
‘‘Don’t slosh it down like that. It’s a premier cru!”
“How you do go on.” Avery lifted the skate onto an oval dish, and Riley, who had been curled on top of the Bentwood stool like a cushion, leaped (or rather thudded) to the ground. Since Sunny had started visiting the theater on a regular basis, Riley had refused to enter the building and had skulked, wet, shivering, and martyred, in the yard by the trash bins. Avery had not been able to bear this for long, and the cat was now ensconced in the house, stout, comfortable, and living the life to which, in his most far-reaching and secret dreams, he had always believed his name entitled him. Now, he padded over to his plate and attacked the fish with gusto. It was not up to the pheasant Perigord he had had last night, but he was certainly prepared to give it eight out of ten for succulence.
“I’ve made some brown-bread ice cream for pudding.”
“My favorite.”
Avery chopped some parsley over the vegetables. “But I didn’t have time to shop today, so I’m afraid the baby carrots are frozen.”
“My God.” Tim banged down the knife with which he had been slicing a baguette. “And I understood this place had five stars.”
“Not for the food, duckie.” Tim laughed then. The first real laugh Avery had heard for weeks. They started to eat. “How is it?”
“Delicious.”
“What do you think … ?” mumbled Avery.
“Don’t speak with your mouth full.”
Avery swallowed and drank some more wine. “It’s ambrosial, this stuff. What do you think we ought to give Nico for a going-away present?”
“We’ve already given him The Year of the King. ”
“But that was weeks ago. Now he’s staying on for Vanya, shouldn’t we give him something else?”
“I don’t see why. We hardly see him, what with rehearsals. And Cully.”
“There’s talent, if you like.”
“Terrifying. I thought Nico was good, but she lights up the stage.”
“Tim … you’re not sorry Kitty’s gone?”
“Of course not. Don’t start.”
“I’m not. Truly.”
And, truly, he wasn’t. Avery, having weathered the first really shattering blow to the relationship that was the cornerstone of his existence, now experienced, somewhere unreachably deep within his heart, a safe, abiding peace. He didn’t quite understand this. It wasn’t that he thought that Tim would never stray again. Or even that he might not, on some future occasion, stray himself (although this struck him as incredibly unlikely). Rather, it seemed that his personality had somehow developed an extra dimension where hurts or sharp surprises could be absorbed or even neutralized. Gratitude for this unexpected and surprising state of affairs and for the very fact of his continuing existence, struck him anew, and he smiled.
“What are you beaming at in that fatuous manner?”
“I’m not.”
“You look ridiculous.”
“I was just thinking how nice it was that the good ended happily and the bad unhappily.”
“I thought that was only in fiction.”
“Not always,” said Avery, and poured some more wine.
“Can you drop me off?”
Barnaby and Troy were about to leave the office. Troy, trench coat tightly belted, a shiny packet of cigarettes to hand, was already anticipating that first cloudy, cool lungful. Barnaby shrugged on his greatcoat, adding, “It’s on your way home.” When his sergeant still did not reply, the chief inspector added, “You can smoke if you like.” Blimey. In my own car. In my own time. Thanks a bloody million. Troy noticed his boss’s eyebrows, which today looked more like used-up shreds of Brillo pads than ever, lift inquiringly.
“Where’s the Orion, sir?”
“Joyce took it in for an MOT.”
“Only I’m not going straight home … calling at the Golden Swans.” More waggling. “It’s a free house,” explained Troy. “Out on the Uxbridge Road.”
“That’s all right by me. I could do with something wet and warm on a night like this.”
“Well …” Red-faced, hanging on to the door handle, Troy elucidated further. “It’s not really a pub—that was just a joke—they’re on the bath, you see.”
Barnaby looked at his sergeant. And saw. “Ah. Sorry, Troy. I’m not usually so slow on the uptake. It’s been a long day.”
“Yes, sir.” The younger man made it halfway through the door, then turned and squared up to Barnaby in a manner both awkward and defiant. “I mean, the case is over.”
“Oh, yes, yes. What you do off duty’s your own affair.” Then, when Troy still hovered: “If you’re waiting for my approval, you’ll stand there till daisies grow out of your arse.”
“Good night then, sir.”
“Good night, Sergeant.” As the door closed, Barnaby called, “Give my regards to Maureen.”
That reminded him of the song about Broadway, which reminded him of theaters, which reminded him of the Latimer, which reminded him of Harold, whom he was trying to forget, which he did most of the time, especially once he got into the business of the day. After all, he told himself (yet again), it was just another arrest. A bit out of the ordinary in that it was someone he knew. Also slightly out of the ordinary in that, once Harold had realized that the crème de la crème of British journalism had not gathered to honor him, it had taken three men to hold him down and get him into a cell. Barnaby, for the first time that he could remember in working hours, took the coward’s way out and left them to it. But even in the canteen, he could still hear Harold screaming.