The three sat themselves in chairs right at the back, and this time Henry managed to stay seated through the performance. It was all wonderful! It was extraordinary! It was fantastic! These comments and a hundred others, in various languages, were to be heard all through the intervals, and the applause was unending. And then it was all over, and the company were down outside the cafe again, embracing, affectionate, mad with euphoria, in love and out of it, wild with relief. The brassy little moon, like a clipped coin, stood over the town, and resulting moonlight was satisfactorily moody and equivocal. Les Collines Rouges announced it would stay open as long as anyone was still up, and cars roared triumphantly around the little town. Jean-Pierre could not stop smiling. He had continually to rise and shake hands, or be embraced by prominent citizens of the area, for whom he was embodying all the success of the production. Midnight came and was past. Jean-Pierre said he had to get home to his wife and children. Henry went too, saying he must telephone his wife. He murmured to Sarah that he would be seeing her soon in London, with a look that brought tears to her eyes. Richard left, saying he was tired, looking at Sally but not saying goodnight to her. Soon after, Sally announced that this old woman was going to sleep. Sarah heard Andrew's low laugh, saw that he wanted to share amusement with her, Sarah, and, as she too got up, heard him say, 'Well, how about it, Sarah?' This was so improbable she decided she had not heard it. She announced that this old woman too had to sleep. Groans of protest that the party was ending. Bill leaped up to accompany her to the hotel door, there enfolding her in an embrace and murmuring that he thought of her as a second mother. She went upstairs white hot with love and with anger.
She stood at her window, looking down at the company, and knew that this loss, the desolation of being excluded from happiness, could only refer back to something she had forgotten. Had she too been that child who had stood on the edge of a playground, watching the others? She had forgotten. Fortunately.
And soon all this would have put itself into the past. Julie Vairon would never take shape in this way again, in this setting, with these people. Well, it was not the first time — rather perhaps the hundredth — that she had been part of some play or piece, and it had always been sad to see the end of something that could never happen again. The theatre, in short, was just like life (but in a condensed and brightly illuminated form, forcing one into the comparison), always whirling people and events into improbable associations and then — that's it. The end. Basta! But this event, Julie's, was not anything she had known before. For one thing, she had not been 'in love' — why the inverted commas? She was not going to make it all harmless with quote marks. No, there was something in this particular mix of people — that must be it — and of course the music… So Sarah talked aloud to herself, walking about her room, returning often to the window, where she could see how Stephen sat next to Molly, while Bill — but enough. She went to her mirror several times during the course of this excursion around and about her room, for an inspection that deserved to be called scientific. That a woman's interaction with her mirror is likely to go through some changes during the decades goes without saying but… someone should bottle this, she announced aloud to the empty room, visible over her reflection's shoulder (Woman Gazing Curiously into Her Mirror)… Yes, someone should bottle these substances flooding me now. They probably did bottle them. Probably potions were on sale in beauty shops and chemists: if so, they should have on the label the warning p o I s o N — in brightest red. It is not merely that I feel twenty years younger, I look it…
Meanwhile she wrote:
Dear Stephen,
I simply have to write this letter, though letters being the tricky things they are and so easily misunderstood, I am afraid. Look, I really am not in love with you. Loving someone is one thing, but being in love another. As I wrote that it occurs to me that 'loving' can mean anything. But I really do love you. It is awful that I should have to spell this out. If it makes us both easier, I can say,
Affectionately,
Sarah
P.S. I really cannot bear to think of our friendship being spoiled by misunderstandings as silly as this.
This was not the letter she slid under Stephen's door on the floor above hers, for she thought, One can't say 'I love you' to an Englishman. Stephen would take to his heels and run. She tore up that letter and wrote:
Dear Stephen,
I simply have to write this letter, though letters being the tricky things they are and so easily misunderstood, I can't help feeling nervous. Look, I really am not in love with you. I know you think I am. I am very very fond of you — but you know that. It is awful that I should have to spell this out. If it makes us both easier, I can say,
Affectionately,
Sarah
This was the letter she took upstairs, hoping she would not run into him.
Next morning, very early, she woke to see an envelope sliding under her door.
Dearest Sarah,
I'm off. Unexpectedly got myself on an early flight, so won't see you today. But see you soon in London.
With all love,
Henry
As she stood reading this, another envelope slid towards her feet from under the door. She cautiously opened the door, but it was too late: the corridor was empty, though she heard the lift descending.
Dearest Sarah,
I am so unhappy you are going and I may never see you again. You are a very special friend and I feel I have known you all my life. I shall never forget our time together in Belles Rivieres and I shall always think of you with true affection. Perhaps next year? I can't wait!!!
Gratefully,
Bill
P.S. Please feel free to let me know if other productions of Julie are projected anywhere in Europe or the States????????? Why shouldn't Julie conquer New York? That is a lovely thought, isn't it?
While she was drinking coffee at her window, the porter brought two letters.
Dear Sarah,
Before leaving the beguiling atmospheres and influences of Julie Vairon, but I am happy to say only temporarily, I feel I must tell you how much it has meant to me to be with you all, but particularly with you. The financial aspects of this enterprise will I am sure prove more rewarding than we ever anticipated, but it is not this that prompts me to write to you. You will, I am sure, find it improbable that I never even suspected the theatre could offer such rewards, though when I think about it, I enjoyed acting in a minor role in Death of a Salesman in the school theatrical group when I was a youngster. When I reflect that all this has been going on ever since and that I have had no part in it, I really can't forgive myself. And so, my dear Sarah — I hope I may call you that — I look forward to seeing you at Julie's first night in Oxfordshire.
Until then -
Benjamin
Sarah!
You won't know who this is, I suppose, since you are so obstinately gazing in the wrong direction. I am madly in love with you, Sarah Durham! I have not been so overthrown since I was an adolescent. (Yes, all right.)
Somebody loves you I wonder who I wonder who it can be.
Your secret lover
P.S. I have always been crazy for older women.
At first shock, this letter actually seemed to her insulting. She was about to tear it up, her fingers trembling, in order to deposit the fragments in the wastepaper basket, when… Wait a minute. Hold your horses, Sarah Durham. She carefully reread the letter, noting with satirical appreciation for her inconsistency the following reactions: First, the attack of false morality. Second, irritation, because she simply couldn't attend to it, when she was so beset with emotions. Third, the classic retort to an unwanted declaration of love, faintly patronizing pity: Oh, poor thing: well, never mind, he'll get over it.