‘You look more beautiful every time I see you,’ he said as he reached the table and took her hand in his.
‘Oh, goodness, you know all the right things to say.’ She beamed at him. ‘So what have you been up to? Sleeping, like me?’
He felt a spasm of anxiety, but smiled nonchalantly. ‘I couldn’t. I was up on deck to see the sunrise.’
‘Goodness me… I didn’t realize!’
‘It was almost a religious experience,’ Fortescue went on. ‘If you happen to believe in such things.’
‘John!’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend…’
‘I shall pray for you.’
He nodded solemnly.
The waiter approached and they ordered: shrimp followed by lobster for Frieda; salmon and steak for Fortescue. The wine waiter poured each of them a glass of Château Lafite 1909.
‘So tell me more about working with Georges Méliès.’
‘You’re really interested in this?’
‘I am. I think he is a genius.’
‘I do too. Well, where do I begin? What do you want to know, John?’
‘Oh, I don’t know… How does it all work? How does he make “the magic” happen?’
She took a sip of wine and replaced the glass decorously. ‘Méliès is a genius, but he is also a dirty old man!’
Fortescue had a mouthful of wine, swallowed it… just… and guffawed. ‘I imagine it comes with the artistic temperament. ’
‘Quite so… at least that’s what the other ladies at the studio said to convince themselves. But, look, don’t get me wrong… he is a sublime artist.’
‘And, to be honest, I cannot blame him for his good taste,’ Fortescue commented.
She looked at him under lowered eyelids. ‘You are an agent provocateur, Mr Wickins.’ And she beamed.
The food arrived and they ate in silence for a while.
And what about you, John? Seeing as we are playing twenty questions.’
‘Oh, Good Lord, Frieda. As I told you and your brother the other night, the last thing you want to know about me are the details of my profession. I would far rather create the impression of an artistic son of a wealthy industrialist… life as a lawyer is so deathly dull I simply refuse to discuss it.’
‘Very well, but what about your love life?’
Ah, well, admittedly, that has been slightly more eventful.’
‘Oh?’
‘But I do not wish to talk about other women when I’m in the presence of the most beautiful of the species I have yet encountered.’
‘John Wickins… you are positively incorrigible… do continue!’
As the wine started to take effect, Fortescue found himself letting loose the suspicions Billy had engendered. He became once again transfixed by this young woman who seemed so interested in him. He wanted to believe in her, he wanted to be seduced.
And seduced he was. The main course arrived, was consumed; dessert followed, then brandy and a champagne for Frieda, and soon they were walking as though in a dream towards the lift, where a young attendant stood at the controls and smiled at them benignly. From there they were in the corridor leading to Frieda’s cabin. They stopped, kissed, their tongues probing and exploring. Into the room, and onto the bed; clothes shed, skin touching skin, their breath mixing, bodies melding. They found each other and were lost to the world.
40
Fortescue awoke. It was dark and for several long moments he could not recall where he was. He had never slept so deeply and now he felt groggy. He pulled himself up in the dark and heard noises, a confusion of voices, someone shouting instructions. Then it all came back to him — the lunch, Frieda. He put a hand out across the bed. He was alone, the bedding ruffled. He fumbled for the electric light switch, found it, flicked it on and shielded his eyes.
‘Frieda?’
No reply.
The room was decorated in what the brochure had called Georgian style. He could see recessed alcoves, paintings of neo-classical beauties and spear-carrying Adonises. The floor was covered with a rich green carpet, the bedspread a lush red weave. He stood and dressed quickly. The sounds outside were growing louder, closer, but he could not make out a single word. Then he felt a hard jolt and a spasm of panic shot through him. What the hell was that? Another violent judder. It seemed unimaginable that a vessel this size could be shaken by anything… but it had… twice in the space of a few seconds. He felt a vibration stutter across the floor, gripped the ornately carved bedstead and headed for the door.
A woman rushed past him in the corridor. He walked quickly towards the reception area close to the Grand Staircase. A group of passengers had gathered there. He approached the closest person, a man in a dinner suit pulling on a lifejacket.
‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’
The man turned, his face flushed with excitement. ‘Hit an iceberg, old boy. Not supposed to be too serious.’ He glanced down at the lifejacket. A precaution apparently.’
Fortescue said nothing, spun on his heel and headed for the door leading out to the deck.
A small group of First Class passengers had gathered on the main promenade. A member of the crew was talking to them animatedly. Some people were in their nightclothes; others were still wearing dinner suits and gowns. One of the group, a large man in a top hat and smoking a pipe, headed towards the bow. Fortescue started to follow him, passed a bulkhead, and there it was.
The Titanic had pulled away from the iceberg. Fortescue could feel the ship turning tightly to port. The iceberg floated now a hundred yards to starboard, but it still looked massive, towering over the gigantic vessel. The slopes of the ice mountain were jagged, the lights from the ship illuminating its bladelike edges, frozen rivulets, and the pits and channels in its blue-tinted ice. Between the ship and the iceberg the water churned black. Fortescue went over to the rail and looked at the water. He could see dots of white, flecks of detritus.
‘Nothing to get too excited about, I’m told,’ the man with the pipe commented.
Fortescue hadn’t heard him properly. ‘What?’
‘The berg, old chap, the officer over there,’ and he pointed towards the gathering with his pipe, ‘… assures us the ship is unharmed. Close call, though.’