“Smashing,” Peter murmured. “Well, Jo, it’s a pity we came on the wrong day — but we’ll just have to see the place on your next trip to England.”
“Whenever that is,” Jo mourned. She gave Lucy a brave smile.
“Are you American?” the girl asked.
“Yes. I’m from L.A.,” Jo invented, remembering Ter. “California. Hollywood. You’ve heard of it?”
“I should say so!” Lucy said scornfully. “Not that I think much of the place, mind. The way those people treat poor Posh and Becks. It’s inhuman.”
“He should never have left West Ham,” Peter observed.
“You mean Manchester United.”
“Yes, well, I’m heading back tomorrow,” Jo persisted. “And the whole point of my trip, really, was to see Virginia’s house.”
“You’re having me on,” Lucy said.
As they were undoubtedly lying through their teeth, Jo was momentarily flummoxed by this comment, but Peter said hastily, “It’s true. Jo’s life dream has been to stand in this very spot. She’s a writer, you know.”
“Oh. Books,” said Lucy dispiritedly.
“Movies, actually. That’s why I live in LA. We’re thinking of doing something on Virginia. Sort of like The Hours, only less…”
“Dreary.” The girl eyed Jo suspiciously, as if uncertain whether to believe her, and said: “Ever met Brangelina, then?”
Jo shook her head regretfully. “But my friend’s niece was one of their nannies. They have several, you know.”
“Well, they would, wouldn’t they?”
“Jo, we really should be going.” Peter’s voice was that of the long-suffering Englishman forced to endure more Hollywood gossip than anyone should, over the past few days.
Lucy licked her lips and glanced hurriedly over one shoulder, as though the ghost of the Woolfs might be watching. “Look, if you’d like to come in for a few minutes — it seems a shame, you’ve come all this way…”
“Really?” Jo cried. Without waiting for an answer, she bounded forward and hugged the girl impulsively. “You’re just too sweet. I’ll never forget this. It’ll make my whole trip worthwhile!”
“I’ve always wanted to see California, myself,” Lucy said. Her cheeks were flushed and hectic, like a nineteenth-century consumptive’s.
IT WAS A SMALL, LOW-CEILINGED PLACE LIT BY ONLY A FEW windows; and the pervading sense was of green: green shadows, green walls, faded wood the color of slate, chairs sagging from use. It was a restful house; but inescapably of a period — impossible to imagine Lucy’s friends truly living here. It was probable, Jo thought, that the caretakers had a modern apartment somewhere on the premises. It would not do to betray nosiness, and ask.
Lucy was chattering on about a Jennifer — there were so many possibilities with that name, it might be Lopez or Aniston; Jo murmured something about Madonna, and diverted her immediately.
A succession of tables filled the sitting room; Jo could imagine books stacked and spread out to be read, or manuscript pages fluttering. A pot of tea and a plate of something simple — Virginia was a notoriously spare eater, an anorexic, probably. There was a poky old kitchen and two bedrooms. Virginia’s sitting room was closed to the public.
“In good weather, she liked to write in what she called the Lodge — the old gardener’s hut at the bottom of the garden,” Peter murmured.
Jo followed his gaze through the back window and saw it: a perfect little room of one’s own, with a porch.
“One of the suicide notes was found there. On her desk.”
“Why kill yourself,” Jo asked wistfully, “when you’ve got all this?”
Lucy was hovering, probably regretting her impulse to let them in; Jo smiled at her encouragingly. “Who’s your favorite British actor?”
And received a disquisition on several raffish young men of dubious sexual orientation.
Peter was bent over a glass case, studying some pictures. There were albums, too, all of them very old. “Jo,” he said. “Still have that photocopy from Charleston?”
“The mural?”
“The group snap.”
She fished in her purse and drew it out.
“I thought so. There’s another version of the same people displayed here — only they’re named, this time.”
She looked from her photograph to Peter’s. It was dated 1936. Quentin Bell, Maynard Keynes, she read; Roger Fry, Clive Bell, Julian Bell, Anthony Blunt. The final figure was Leonard Woolf; thin and spare even in his middle period, his nose strong as a ship’s prow, his hair swept back from a broad forehead. The most interesting face in the bunch — besides Virginia’s suffering one.
“Lucy,” Peter said firmly, “you’ve been too lovely — but we mustn’t trespass any longer. Enjoy your evening in Lewes. Try not to go mad amongst all these ghosts.”
“I won’t charge you entry fees,” the girl said tentatively. “It being a Closed Day. I wouldn’t like to have to explain to the Trust.”
“Very right,” Peter agreed. He slipped her a ten-pound note. “Have a pint or two at the Arms, won’t you? With our thanks?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
GRAY EXPECTED MARGAUX TO KEEP HIM WAITING that Wednesday evening. Still, he arrived at Bar 190 a few minutes early; ordered a very dry gin martini; and sank back against the dark oak paneling. He was adept at stillness, and in his charcoal-colored jacket and simple white shirt he might have disappeared into the crowd. It was his composure, however, that drew attention. Most men, left alone with a drink, would have immediately accessed their BlackBerries and trolled through email, or dialed someone on a cell phone. Gray simply sat, one hand lying casually on the table before him, the other thoughtfully stroking the stem of his martini glass. His self-containment suggested he was somebody; and it is possible that more than one person drinking at the Gore Hotel that evening wondered who.
Margaux had left her contact number on the document she’d signed that morning. It was a simple matter to persuade her to meet for drinks; and Gray let her choose the bar. He knew that posed a difficulty: How to guess what Gray liked? Or what would impress him? What could appear too tawdry, too hip, too cheap? He expected Margaux to settle for the obvious and safe choice of the Connaught itself — and was pleased when she didn’t.
And there she was: Dramatic in black and red, a variation on the theme of the morning. Black matte jersey wrap dress, the hemline well above her knees; black leather boots almost reaching them. A red swing coat. Her black hair falling nearly to her waist in a mass of waves. She was a gorgeous woman, without question — but Gray was unmoved. He had seen so many gorgeous women before. They always knew their worth — and expected it to buy them more than it did. His lips quirked slightly as he thought of a woman who remained unforgettable, despite being long gone: His mother, Barbara. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, she used to say. Meaning: If she’s gorgeous, she’s probably lacking a soul. Or a heart. Or a mind. It was rare to find all three, and beauty, too, in the same person. Although Barbara Westlake had certainly managed it.
Gray raised his glass to her memory as Margaux swept toward him, turning heads all through Bar 190. She ignored them. She turned heads every day.
“Gray.” She extended a hand but didn’t lean in, as he expected, to brush his cheek with hers. “Sorry I’m late — my last meeting ran hideously long, but then they always do.”
He suspected she’d spent the hours since he’d last seen her shopping. How many changes of clothing could she have brought, realistically, for a single morning appointment? But perhaps he wronged her. Perhaps, as she clearly intended him to think, her life was one long series of important commitments. Or maybe she kept a flat in London filled with black and red clothes.