A Bouquet of Barbed Wire (3 page)

Manson said, ‘Rupert, you’ve been up to your old tricks again. Let me see.’

Abruptly, now that the truth was out, Rupert ceased to be shame-faced and became almost belligerent. ‘Well, it worked with Lucy.’

‘Yes, it did. Once. But she was forty years younger and green as grass. Let me see.’ He held out his hand.

‘Well, it was worth a try,’ Rupert said sulkily, handing the contract over.

Manson skimmed through it with the thorough speed of familiarity. ‘Oh, Rupert.
Twenty
per cent of the film rights.’

Rupert shrugged. ‘First novel, publisher’s risk,’ he remarked in mock-Jewish tones.

Manson said, ‘But there won’t
be
any film rights, will there?’

‘There you are,’ Rupert exclaimed in triumph. ‘That’s what I told her.’

‘Meaning there will be? I thought you told me it was dry as dust but clever and good for our intellectual image, especially now with a lawsuit pending.’

Rupert looked sly. ‘That’s what I thought, at first. But when I looked at it again I began to see Distinct Possibilities.
A sort of mélange of Jane Austen, God rest her soul, and Ivy Compton-Burnett, and Iris Murdoch. What more could anyone ask? Good intellectual stuff but with a nicely bubbling cauldron of evil beneath its voluminous skirts.’ He gave a manaical laugh, almost a cackle, like a stage witch, that quite startled Manson.

‘Well, I only read it once,’ he said, ‘and I agreed with your first impressions. Anyway, this plainly won’t do. Fifty per cent of the foreign, twenty-
five
per cent of America—Christ Almighty, Rupert, you’ll never swing that.’

‘I did with Lucy,’ said Rupert with complacent nostalgia, ‘and it paid off.’

‘Yes, it did,’ Manson agreed, ‘and where is Lucy now?’

Rupert threw up his hands, scattering ash. ‘I know, I know. You don’t have to remind me. Gone over to the enemy. Alas, the fickleness of women. Mozart was right.’

Manson actually feared that Rupert, in his present mood, might be going to burst into song. He said hurriedly, ‘So the little old lady has rumbled you. She knows she can take it anywhere and get better terms than these.’

‘Yes,’ said Rupert calmly. ‘But she won’t.’

‘Why won’t she?’

‘A reason so simple it may not have occurred to you. She likes me.’

‘Oh, really,’ Manson said. ‘That’s nice. How did you bring that about?’

‘You may not have noticed,’ said Rupert smugly ‘but I am really very likeable. Underneath, as you might say. Fundamentally. When you get past the unnerving artificiality of my veneer.’

‘I had noticed,’ Manson said, smiling, ‘but I didn’t expect this to be instantly apparent to little old ladies who write like a cross between Jane Austen and Ivy Compton-Burnett.’

‘And Iris Murdoch,’ said Rupert. ‘Don’t forget Iris Murdoch.’

‘I am hardly likely to. Ah, thank God—’ as Monica entered with a cup in her hand. ‘Tea, Rupert? I’m sure Monica can find an extra cup.’

Rupert flashed a dazzling smile in Monica’s direction. ‘Coffee?’

She beamed back. ‘I’ll see what I can do for you, Mr. Warner.’

‘But, Monica, you know what you can do for me. We’ve discussed it often. I can’t imagine what’s holding you back.’

‘I’ll get your coffee.’ Monica, scarlet-faced but still smiling, left the room. Rupert shouted after her, ‘Tell whats-is-name I shall claim
droit de seigneur.’
He turned to Manson. ‘What
is
his name?’

‘Harry.’

‘Oh yes, Harry. Girl blushes easily these days, doesn’t she? What made old Harry finally pop the question then?’

‘He got a decree nisi,’ said Manson drily.

‘Oh really,’ said Rupert. ‘I didn’t think Monica was that kind of girl. She certainly doesn’t look like that kind of girl, more’s the pity. If ever I saw a real example of clean-living, a healthy mind in a healthy body—oh, thank you, lovey, that’s marvellous—’ as Monica reappeared with a cup. ‘Made with your own fair hands, is it? Bless you. And when’s the happy day?’

Monica said in a faint, little-girl voice, ‘Three weeks on Saturday.’

Rupert took hold of her hand. ‘You know I don’t mean to be offensive. You know I wish you every happiness, don’t you?’

Monica’s eyes sparkled. ‘Of course.’

Rupert released her. ‘There’s a good girl,’ he said, as the door closed behind her.

‘You’re quite right, as it happens,’ Manson said, drinking his tea. ‘It’s desertion, all quite above board. Monica’s not involved at all.’

‘I knew it,’ said Rupert with satisfaction. ‘Funny thing about names—have you noticed that? They’re more potent than we realise. Now
Monica
… what image does that conjure up? The hockey-field. The swimming bath. The gymnasium. Tennis courts and netball and lacrosse.’

‘All right, you’ve made your point.’

‘Well, I’m just trying to cover all possibilities. After all I don’t know what kind of school she went to. Might have been croquet. But the principle’s the same, I agree. The poor girl simply couldn’t fight the image of her name. Society imposed it on her and she had no choice but to live up to it. Her thighs waxed muscular through no fault of her own. Her cheeks grew red without her willing them to do so. Poor child. No wonder she’s so innocent. And Rupert,’ said Rupert, warming to his theme, ‘now am I not the perfect example of the genre? If Monica had to be Monica, am I not the quintessence of Rupert? No Rupert-seeker could possibly be disappointed in me, for I combine in glorious disarray every quality that is implicit in the name of Rupert. Shall I go on?’

‘No,’ said Manson, amused but satiated. ‘Please don’t.’

Rupert affected to look hurt. ‘After all, it
is
the tea-break. It’s not my fault that in your case it comes hard upon the heels of lunch. Has Monica nominated her successor yet?’

‘Not yet. I gather she’s having trouble finding one. She’s interviewed them by the score, but there’s always something wrong. I suspect any one of them would be perfectly adequate but Monica’s standards are far higher than mine so the search goes on. Anyway. How did you charm your old lady?’

Rupert quenched his cigar. ‘All right. I give in. You’re the boss. Well, first of all I conceded defeat with good grace—that’s always appealing—and lopped off five per cent all round. Then I discovered she was what your son-in-law would probably call a health food nut. Now this was something in the nature of a tragedy, since I’d taken her to
L’Escargot, but I rose above it and turned it to our best advantage. We had a strictly vegetarian lunch while she lectured me on vitamins and I admitted most touchingly that for years I had been poisoning my system with dead animals and toxic fertiliser and that at last someone had put me back on the road to health. She went away quite convinced it was an honour to pay some small percentage for this privilege.’

Manson said, ‘I always knew there was a special reason why I hired you.’

Rupert looked enquiring.

‘You’re a con man.’

Rupert looked gratified. ‘Of course I shall have to phone the manager before I dare use the place again. They must have thought I’d gone clean out of my mind. She’s a wee bit deaf as well, so the whole discussion was conducted fortissimo, just to drive the point home, as if it wasn’t enough that they’d never seen me eat an omelette before. And of course no alcohol. That’s highly toxic. That was the really gruesome part.’

‘Good God,’ said Manson, impressed. ‘I’d no idea your devotion to duty was so great. Are you sure we’re paying you enough?’

Rupert smiled modestly. ‘Well, now you mention it, perhaps the time has come for a small revision. But far be it from a teetotal vegetarian to take advantage of a man in his cups, burdened with toxic juices. Anyway you haven’t heard the bad news yet. Joe still hasn’t come through with the re-write. Says he’s not convinced the passages
are
obscene and anyway they’re essential and integral, etc., etc. The correspondence continues and it’s all
rather
dreary.’

‘Get Lloyd to write to him. Maybe he’ll take more notice if he gets it straight from the legal boys.’

‘I doubt it, but it’s worth a try.’ Rupert uncurled himself and stood up, a long mustard streak. ‘Eric wants to know why we don’t want
Indigo
and I thought I’d already explained.’

‘You could show him the readers’ reports.’

‘Yes. I’d just rather not be
quite
so callous, if I can avoid it. Well, I’m off. Oh, is that the Delmer rough?’

‘Yes. What d’you think?’

‘Hmm.’ Rupert held it at arm’s length. ‘Not sure about that orange.’

‘Neither am I. But Morris has gone to Ibiza for a month so there’s not much we can do about it.’

‘We’re not in a hurry, are we?’

‘No. It’s just annoying.’

‘Quite. Well, Peter, these things are sent to try us, as my old nanny used to say. Have you ever stopped to wonder why one’s old nanny should be a repository for so much corny folk-lore?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Ah well, there you are.’ Rupert wagged a finger at him. ‘Now perhaps you see the error of your ways. The secret lies in the nanny, or, Whatever Happened to Bette Davis?’

Manson smiled at him with the fondness he could afford to indulge because the calibre of Rupert’s actual work, on paper and with people, was so unfailingly high, and his judgment so unerring. In seven years, Manson thought, I have never known him back a loser, and the winners I have lost count of. He may talk like an idiot but it’s all there. God knows what instinct guided me to him at one interview, with no background, no experience. Just occasionally he overreaches himself, that’s all. But that’s a fault of youth.

‘Rupert,’ he said affectionately, ‘you’re impossible.’

Rupert appeared pleasantly surprised. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that may be the secret of my success.’

P
RUE
, putting the phone down, thought: I exploit him, I know I do. Or victimise him even. Now Mummy’s different: hearing her voice just now there was no tug of war. Perhaps she prefers the boys, always did; or maybe she just accepts me as another grown-up woman. But Daddy I take advantage of, even more than I used to. I simply can’t avoid it: an irresistible impulse to play the little girl, to see how far I can go, to what length of self-indulgence he will allow me to sink. Gavin won’t. Gavin won’t put up with my nonsense. It simply doesn’t appeal to him. He’s tough.

It’s extraordinary how quickly Daddy’s forgiven me. Amazing, when I remember how angry he was. But he hasn’t forgiven Gavin. Not at all. He can’t even mention his name. I’m rather glad. That’s wrong of me, I know. I should want them to like each other, but I don’t, not if I’m really honest, and I always am, to myself. They both love me: that’s enough. I don’t need them to love each other as well. And if they did it might somehow diminish their love for me. I might not be quite such a special person for either of them if they drew together over me. They might see me too clearly. Or they might like each other too much, and where would I be then? Squeezed out by all those things men like to talk about, whatever they are, when they’re alone. It’s bad enough when Gavin’s friends come round.

I wonder who would have won if they’d had that fight. I’ll never forget it: how they looked and how grim they
sounded. (Daddy: I’d like to break your neck. And Gavin: That’s understandable, sir, but I don’t advise you to try.) And Daddy didn’t try. I was disappointed. There now, there’s honesty. What a nasty thing it is too. I wanted to see a fight, a fight over me, a fight between
them
, my two men. But I wanted Daddy to win, because that would have made something up to him, if he had beaten Gavin. In a way he
should
have beaten Gavin, he
needed
to beat him. And I could have comforted Gavin for losing, whereas I could never have comforted Daddy. But if Gavin had beaten him I could never have touched Gavin again. It would have shown such greed, with everything else on his side. No one deserves that much victory. It’s immoral. Sometimes I think there’s something immoral about how I feel over Gavin. It’s just too much. It takes up all my energy. I feel I’m plugged in to a generator that’s pumping out love for Gavin all day and I have to absorb and consume it, or make good use of it, because there’s always more on the way. Sometimes I think it’s going to do me actual damage.

No, I wouldn’t have liked to see them fight, not really. Of course I wouldn’t. I was appalled by the very thought of them taking off their jackets, lashing out at each other. Would they have done it then and there, in the house, or would they have gone into the garden? It’s comic. And what would Mummy and I have done: stood by and watched or rushed in to separate them like mad dogs—with buckets of water perhaps? Oh, it doesn’t bear thinking about. But if part of me was relieved that they didn’t, part of me was disappointed too. I don’t know what that proves—that I’m a bitch I suppose. I wonder if my baby will like having a bitch for a mother.

Funny how Daddy went on as if it was all Gavin’s fault. And now still: forgiving me but not him. I suppose he can’t bear to think what his daughter’s like. It would have been positively alarming if it hadn’t clicked with Gavin, the way
we were doing it all the time, all over the place, with nothing. Even then it took months. So much for teenage fertility.

She paused in front of the mirror, catching sight of herself, and patted her stomach. Oh, come on, baby, hurry up and grow so I can feel you. Hurry up and come out of there so I can see you.

T
HE AFTERNOON
stretched into the early evening and Manson missed his usual train. He had been involved in a long discussion with Hargreaves, the accountant, who wisely lived just around the corner and so had no train to miss. A man of more decision, Manson thought, would have said, ‘Now, look here, Bill, this won’t do. I must be off,’ and would have
been
off, regardless. Or he would have said, ‘Well, I’ve got a home to go to if you haven’t,’ and gone to it, promptly. Instead he had let the discussion grind to its conclusion, and watched Hargreaves leave, and then, having just missed his train, stayed at his desk in the now empty office and phoned Cassie, to warn her, so that dinner would not spoil. Her voice betrayed no irritation, merely concern for him; she was, he thought, the calmest and kindest human being he had ever known, if it was possible to say that without making her sound dull. For she was anything but dull; to him she even had certain earthy qualities that he himself lacked. I should have been an academic, he reflected, not for the first time. Someone had told him this once, he forget who, and it had stuck. At Cambridge he had not thought of anything else: while others wrestled with the shock of claustrophobic isolation, to him it was like coming home. He had never wanted to leave such a place. The peace of it alone seemed to make his brain expand, like grass growing invisibly in the night. Sometimes he felt himself on the edge of some important discovery, some revelation about the world or the nature of
man. It was nearly there, but it eluded him, finally. The whole place made his nerves tingle, like a delicate tooth exposed too abruptly to the extremes of hot and cold. But with Father dying and Uncle Bernard ever with an eye to the main chance, there had not been much choice, and he did not exactly regret it. He had been happy enough.