She brought the packet of cigarettes back to the table.
“Tell me what the detective said,” Isabel urged, tearing at the cellophane with her scarlet nails. “No, wait- first tell me what he was like. Tall, dark, and handsome? Was he the Cary Grant type, all smooth and sophisticated, or big and dangerous like Robert Mitchum?”
Phoebe had to laugh. “He’s short, pasty, and plug-ugly, I’m afraid. Hackett is his name, which suits him, somehow. I met him before, when-” She stopped, and a shadow fell across her features.
“Oh,” Isabel said. “You mean in Harcourt Street, when all that-”
“Yes. Yes, then.” Phoebe found herself nodding, very rapidly, she could not stop, she was like one of those figures on a poor box that nod when a penny is put in, and her breathing had quickened too. She closed her eyes. She must get hold of herself. She would not think of that night in Harcourt Street, the breeze coming in through the wide-open window and the man below on the area railings, impaled there.
Isabel put a hand on hers. “Are you all right, darling?”
“I’m fine. I just- really, I’m fine.”
“Have a real drink, for goodness’ sake. Have a brandy.”
“No, I’d rather not. It’s just sometimes, when I remember-” She sat back on the seat; it was upholstered in plush the color of watered wine; she put her hands down at her sides, and somehow the texture of the nap comforted her, reminding her, she did not know why, of childhood. “Isabel,” she said, “what happened that night at Patrick’s? You remember, after the show had folded and we all came here and got drunk, and you and the others went off with Patrick afterwards to his flat.”
Isabel made herself busy detaching an imaginary flake of tobacco from her lip. “What do you mean,” she said, looking away and frowning, “what do you mean, what happened?”
“Something did. You all kept very quiet about it, and Jimmy was even more sarcastic than usual.”
“Oh, I don’t remember. We were drunk, as you have so sweetly reminded me, though you weren’t, I’m sure, since you’re such a good girl.” She smiled with mock sweetness. “I suppose there must have been a row or something- you know how Jimmy is with Patrick when he has a drop taken.” Phoebe waited. She was calm now, in a horrible sort of way. Isabel, still not looking at her, gave a vexed little sigh that did not sound quite right, that was like a stage sigh. “Yes, all right, yes, there was a row. It blew up over nothing, as usual. Jimmy wanted to walk April home-he was in his chivalrous mode- and April wouldn’t go. Eventually I persuaded him to stop sulking, and said why didn’t he walk me home?”
“And then? “
“And then we left. Jimmy and I. It was a lovely night, frost everywhere and not a soul on the streets. It would have been quite romantic if it had been anybody other than Jimmy.”
Isabel was lighting a second cigarette from the butt of the first one. Phoebe wondered if she was imagining it, or were her friend’s hands shaking ever so slightly? Was she telling the truth about that night?
“And April stayed there?” Phoebe asked. “With Patrick?”
“Well, I’m sure it depends what you mean by stayed, darling.” Now at last she turned her face and looked full at Phoebe, as if defiantly, with an odd, hard light in her eyes. “Wouldn’t you say?”
It seemed to Phoebe that the lamps in the bar had suddenly dimmed. She tasted something sour at the back of her throat. How they wait to ambush us, our true emotions, she thought.
“I really do think,” Isabel was saying, in her husky, stage drawl, “that too much is made of these late-night incidents. No one is himself, half crazy on drink and looking for hidden significance in every littlest thing. Of course, I may have missed a lot, since at that time of night I’m usually so drained after two or three hours standing on a stage shrieking at people who do nothing but shriek back at me, the same thing, over and over, every night. All I ever want to do is crawl into bed with a hot water bottle, and the only stiff thing I want near me is a drink.”
Phoebe felt as if she had struggled through a dense and thorny thicket and come out into an ashen, waste place. “So they were lovers,” she said flatly.
“What?” Isabel stared and gave what sounded like a forced laugh. “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word used in real life, outside the theater? Lovers, indeed!”
“Well, weren’t they- aren’t they?”
Isabel shrugged. “My dear,” she said in her jaded, worldly way, “you really have the most vivid imagination, for the convent girl you pretend to be. Patrick of course must be fairly bursting with primitive urges- but lovers? I can’t quite see it, can you? You know what April is like.”
“What do you mean, what she’s like?”
“Well, I rather think there’s a lot more talk there than action. In my experience the ones who seem the keenest goers turn out to be virgins in the end.” She patted her friend’s hand. “How quaint you are, darling Phoebe, quaint and adorably straitlaced. Are you jealous? You’re blushing- you are jealous. Mind you, I can understand it. He is quite a hunk of dusky manhood, isn’t he?” Her voice had hardened, and there was that cold, bitter light in her eyes again.
“Yes,” Phoebe said, “yes, he’s very- he’s very beautiful.”
Isabel looked at her. “For God’s sake,” she said sharply, “don’t say you’re smitten, too.”
Phoebe would not weep; weeping would bring no comfort to her suddenly wrung heart. She was sure, what ever Isabel said, that April and Patrick had been lovers. The notion of it had often crossed her mind, but she had never really believed it; now she did. Once planted, the conviction would not weaken. And Isabel was right, she was jealous. But the worst of it was she did not know which of them she was jealous of, April or Patrick.
No, she would not weep.
AND THEN OF COURSE NEXT DAY SHE HAD TO GO AND MAKE A FOOL of herself. She knew she should not do it, but she went ahead and did. She reasoned that since it was her lunch hour she could pretend, if she had to, that she was out for a stroll. Ridiculous, of course; who would believe that anyone would stroll all the way from Grafton Street up to Christ Church in this weather? She had not really expected to see him; after all, what were the chances that he would be at home in the middle of the day? Not that she had any intention of calling on him. What, then, was she thinking of? It was childish; she was like a schoolgirl hanging about the streets hoping for a glimpse of some boy she had a crush on. She told herself to stop being stupid and turn back, yet on she went, through the foul, damp air, and when she turned from Christchurch Place into Castle Street there he was! She saw him walking towards her from the other direction, in his brown duffle coat and a woolen scarf, carrying a string bag of groceries. He did not spot her right away and she thought of turning on her heel and fleeing, but she knew it was too late; he would see her then, surely, running away, and would think her an even bigger fool, and furthermore she would know herself for a coward. So she went on, forcing herself to seem as surprised as he must be.