‘Oh . . .’ said Johnny, as if nervously agreeing.
‘Or perhaps you like it,’ said Denis.
‘Well,’ said Johnny, ‘no, not really my sort of thing,’ but seeing it almost as a symbol of the London life – it could certainly never have hung in his father’s house, or even his mother’s.
‘No, I’m sure.’ Denis pondered for a moment. ‘Come and look at this,’ he said, going past him into the bedroom.
‘Is it urgent?’ said Johnny, and laughed apologetically – the lady who’d been interested in his hair was emerging at that moment from the lavatory.
‘It won’t take long,’ said Denis sharply, but then stopping and giving him an abruptly courteous, almost grateful smile. Johnny had to leave the candle where it was for the lady and followed Denis stiffly into the bedroom. It was more than a mere reflex that made him flick the dead light switch on and off. The glimmer from the passageway showed red curtains hitched back, the side of a wardrobe, and the shadowy edge of a bed. He saw himself stoop forward, in the mirror, in cautious silhouette.
‘There’s a flashlight here somewhere,’ said Denis, feeling on a bedside table behind the door – there was a clatter of small things knocked over. Then a beam of light, stifled at first in the shrouded hump of the pillows, then swinging round, blindingly reflected for a moment in the uncurtained window. ‘Ah, there you are.’ Denis played the torch up and down, with the murmur of uncertain judgement, over Johnny wincing and turning his head. It was a game whose rules had yet to be explained. ‘I thought, since you like art’ – he let him go, sent the beam across to where a dark-framed picture hung above the fireplace. ‘Yes, that’s right, you’re the art-Johnny.’ He reached out to steer him across. ‘Come over here,’ taking Johnny’s wrist.
‘Oh yes . . .’ – dazzled and cringing he saw Denis was mocking him for suspicions they both knew he was right to feel. The white glare of the torch floated on his retina, jumped and floated across what seemed to be a large Graham Sutherland, its hooded picture-light now casting shadow, the red skeletal plant or tree dramatic in the gloom. ‘Mm . . . great,’ said Johnny, who’d been taught to respect Sutherland but had never really liked him.
‘I knew you’d like it,’ said Denis, relaxing his grip – at which Johnny took his hand back. ‘I’ve never cared for it myself, though I’m told it’s worth a packet’ – and he laughed, as he had stared earlier, with an odd mixture of respect and disdain.
‘Yes, I suppose so . . .’ said Johnny. The unworldly ethos at Hoole, when he was a student, discouraged all talk about the price of a picture, and he still felt unhappy with the subject now he found himself working for a dealer. Denis toured the torch’s beam across the painting, which showed it as eerily material, a surface blankly unconcerned with what it depicted; the rough sweeps of white and grey flared back.
‘So are you often to be found in the Notting Hill station Gents?’
‘What . . . ?’ Johnny said, blinking as the light swept into his face again, and feeling for a moment as if the sudden arrest he’d felt almost certain of there had come for him now. The idea only lasted for a dreamlike two seconds, but the blood rose to his face. All he managed to say was, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You probably couldn’t see much through all that hair’ – Denis seemed to dare him to move as he reached out and lifted Johnny’s hair and pushed it back past his right ear and held his scared but indignant gaze with his large dark eyes. ‘But I saw you,’ he said, ‘very clearly,’ just as he turned off the torch and tossed it on to the bed. He laughed distantly, pulled Johnny hard against him, made him gasp and in that same moment stuck his tongue into his open mouth. For a breathless five seconds of surprise and curiosity, Johnny let it happen, not quite responding as Denis’s tongue, neither warm nor cool, and abnormally long, seemed to worm its way into him – until he twisted his head away. Denis had him caught against the side of the bed. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Sorry . . .’ said Johnny, ‘please . . .’ pushing at him, but with an anxious sense that perhaps this was what people did, he was rejecting a compliment, even a privilege – Denis, under that waistcoat and silk tie, was hard and sinewy, his breath in his face as he pressed against him, but visible only as a dark obstruction against the faint candlelight from outside. It was confusing, the moment Johnny gave in, Denis lost interest, and had let him go.
‘I see you’re not your father’s son,’ he said.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Johnny, and Denis gave a surprising laugh, as if pleased at a show of spirit after all. Johnny slid round him and out of the room, and locked the lavatory door behind him with a gasp of relief, though his face in the mirror revealed something further, the little flinch of guilt, whatever happened.
Ten minutes later he was sitting on the window seat with Ivan, their plates on their laps. He smiled at him and said, ‘So you were expecting me.’
‘Mm?’ said Ivan, shaking the tip of his fringe from his eyes.
‘You knew my name.’
Ivan smiled back. ‘Oh, well, Denis said you might be coming.’
‘Oh did he?’
‘A little surprise for Evert, I think.’
Johnny wanted to say he’d had a bit of a surprise himself, but he didn’t like to sound stupid. He had the soft burn in his mouth still, and kept it to himself, but imagined just mentioning it, not sure if Ivan would think he was complaining or boasting. Denis was going round with two wine bottles, and when he got to them he refilled their glasses with a bored look as if he barely knew who they were.
‘Why would it be a surprise?’ Johnny said.
Ivan looked at him and after three seconds gazed out and nodded at the rest of the room. ‘Well . . . fresh blood,’ he said.
‘Oh . . .’
He lowered his voice. ‘The thing is, Denny’s still quite young, and as you can see most of the rest of the gang are getting on a bit. You know Freddie and Evert were at Oxford together – well, you’ve just heard. So was Jill. Freddie’s going to be fifty-five on the fourth of June.’
‘Is that all?’ said Johnny.
Ivan shot him a glance. ‘The old lady talking to Evert was one of his father’s girlfriends, Glynis Holt. She’s the one Evert mentioned in his reading. I thought she looked a bit shocked; but you know that’s the point with the Memo Club – they have to tell the truth.’
‘Oh, do they.’
‘Not all the time, obviously! – just on the third Tuesday of the month . . .’
‘Right . . .’
‘You know, that’s when someone reads a memoir.’
‘And how do you fit in, then?’
‘I sort of come and go,’ said Ivan. He peered at them all fondly.
‘I’d have thought you were a bit young to write a memoir,’ said Johnny.
‘Yes, but I’m saving things up,’ Ivan said.
‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘Ooh, I don’t know about that.’ Ivan looked at him oddly, Johnny felt the attraction of his soft pale face and brilliant dark eyes that he watched the tips of his fringe slide into and be blinked away. His small white teeth leant inwards in a moistly carnivorous way. ‘So how is your father?’ he said.
‘My father . . .’ Johnny blinked too. ‘He’s fine.’
‘Because he remarried, didn’t he, after . . . all that?’ said Ivan quickly, and as if David Sparsholt’s personal happiness were his main worry. He went red but he went on, ‘His secretary – if I’ve got that right.’