A Conspiracy of Friends (24 page)

“And so it continued over the next few days. We played deck quoits, went swimming in the first-class pool and played a weird South American card game which she taught me. We went to see films too, and entered the ship’s fancy-dress competition. I went as a pirate and Irma as a female aviator; she had obtained flying glasses from somewhere or other, and one of those strange leather caps pilots and racing drivers used to wear. She looked very glamorous and dashing … I suppose it would have continued like that had it not been for …”

Hugh hesitated, and Barbara, who had been listening to him intently, urged him on.

“Something went wrong?”

He did not answer immediately.

“Oh Hugh,” Barbara said, “you can’t keep me in suspense.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m ashamed of the next bit, Barbara. I’m afraid that … Oh well, here goes. It was quite hard sharing a stateroom with her, if you see what I mean. She was very attractive, and she had these marvellous silk pyjamas and … Well, I’m afraid that one thing led to another.”

He paused, watching for the effect of his words. Barbara did not flinch. “One thing often leads to another, I’ve found,” she said quietly.

Hugh looked miserable. “Are you going to think the less of me?
Please don’t. You see, I had no intention of starting anything with her, but I’m afraid I just couldn’t help it. And she … Well, she was a bit surprised and said, ‘What does this mean, Hugo? Have you decided to
change
? Or are you like that aircraft my husband keeps building—the one that goes backwards and forwards? The Bi-D.’

“I didn’t answer her, and so she said, ‘Well, actions speak louder than words, don’t they?’ And that was the beginning of our affair. There, I’ve said it. I had thought I was going to avoid being a gigolo, but that was exactly what I had become. I was a kept man too—”

Barbara raised a hand to stop him. “Please don’t say that, Hugh! You were
not
a gigolo, neither were you a kept man. You were a
captive
. And that’s absolutely different. There’s an ocean of difference between the two. And anyway, it was only until you could escape—only until you reached Jamaica.”

Hugh shook his head. “I wish that were true, but it isn’t, I’m afraid. You see, when we reached Jamaica, I went ashore with Irma. We went on a tour and saw the sights, and then we went to lunch at a restaurant just outside town. I could very easily have run away at that point—there was only one officer from the ship with our party and he didn’t seem to be watching me very closely. I could have escaped but, you know what, Barbara? I went back to the ship entirely voluntarily.”

Barbara stared at him. “Why?” she asked.

Hugh looked down at the floor. “I was enjoying myself,” he said. He raised his eyes and met her gaze. “So you see, Barbara, I was a gigolo in every sense of the word. I was signed up. Committed. Call it what you like.”

W
ILLIAM’S WEEKEND WITH
his friends, Geoffrey and Maggie, was turning out to be neither restful nor enjoyable. Things could have been worse, of course: there must be weekends during which the hosts’ house burns to the ground, one of the guests murders another, the hostess is arrested in extradition proceedings or the guests are all poisoned by the inclusion of death’s cap mushrooms in the stew. Such weekends must be very difficult indeed, not least because of the wording of the thank-you letters that one would have to write. The disaster, whatever it was, could hardly be ignored, but must be referred to tactfully in the letter, and always set in proper perspective. Thus, in the case of mushroom poisoning, one would comment on how the other courses of the meal were delicious; in the case of the hostess’s arrest, one would say something comforting about the ability of defence lawyers in the jurisdiction to which she was being extradited—and so on,
mutatis mutandis
, trying at all times to be as positive as possible.

In William’s case, the weekend got off to an egregiously bad start with Maggie’s extraordinary confession that for years she had nurtured a secret passion for him. Such declarations can be unsettling, especially when they come from the wife of one of one’s oldest friends. So it was hardly conducive to the spirit of relaxed and tolerant friendship that is the hallmark of a good weekend visit; and how badly it was to go further downhill with the subsequent realisation that Freddie de la Hay was lost, possibly permanently. This realisation dawned shortly before dinner, when Freddie had still not returned, and, in the fading light, William began to walk through the neighbouring fields, calling his dog’s name but getting
no response: no bark or whimper, no howl, just silence as the descending night swallowed his calls.

Those who had been invited for dinner—specifically to meet William—came and went with scarcely a glimpse of their fellow guest. They were disappointed but understanding; being country people themselves, they knew the importance of animals and could sympathise with the distress that follows upon the disappearance of a much-loved dog. A couple of them spotted William as they drove home—a figure outlined against the night sky, stumbling across a field, in danger, they thought, of suffering the fate of Freddie de la Hay himself—of losing his way, of falling into a ditch or breaking an ankle in a rabbit hole.

But none of this happened to William, and he returned to the house shortly before midnight, dirty and dispirited. Geoffrey tried to cheer him up, pronouncing optimistically on the likelihood that Freddie would suddenly show up the next morning none the worse for his escapade. “They follow an interesting scent,” he said, “and then they suddenly realise that they’ve gone too far. They find their own way back, though, as often as not.”

William was not in the least bit consoled by this, and when he awoke the next morning he did so with the sinking feeling that there would be no sign of Freddie that day. And he was to be proved right: though he covered even more ground in his searches, when evening came Freddie was still lost. Even Geoffrey seemed less optimistic, and dinner on Saturday was an affair of long faces and very little conversation.

Freddie was reported as missing to the local police on Sunday. Then, once that was done and William had made a final drive around the network of local lanes, stopping every so often to call for Freddie, he said goodbye to Geoffrey and Maggie, before heading home. There was nothing in his leave-taking with Maggie to give any indication that what was happening was more than one good friend saying
goodbye to another; but William sensed that something was changed between them. Maggie embraced him, avoiding his eyes, and that confirmed his fears that things were not and could never again be the same.

The drive home was melancholy. He switched on the car radio for distraction, but thoughts of Freddie de la Hay kept intruding. Was he still alive, or had he died some awful, suffocating death in a rabbit hole? Had he been run over and bundled guiltily into a ditch by a driver too cowardly to make enquiry or too selfish to take him to a vet? Both of these were possibilities, William thought, and both were very hard for him to accept.

William wondered whether he should have stayed a little longer with Geoffrey and Maggie in order to widen the search. The difficulty with that, though, was that somebody had to open the shop the next morning, and his assistant was on a week’s holiday. And it would not make any difference, he decided, because Freddie was dead—he was sure of it.

He parked the car in its lockup and made his way back to Corduroy Mansions. It was now late on Sunday afternoon, an emotionally flat time for many people, and for none more than William that day. Letting himself into the flat, he put on some music in an attempt to cheer himself up. He chose the Penguin Café Orchestra, a lively band that could normally lift any depressed spirit—but not his at that particular moment. And then he remembered why: this was Freddie de la Hay’s favourite music. He turned off the CD player and switched on the television. It was a banal game show, but at least it amounted to light and noise.

He went into his bedroom and began to unpack his bag. He had bought a new pair of Belgian shoes, but he had barely worn them that weekend; he replaced them on the shoe rack next to his wardrobe. Then he took out his dirty washing and bundled it into the washing basket for his cleaner to tackle the following day. Then his
spare pair of socks and … He stopped. Somebody had slipped an envelope into his bag, a white envelope on which these words were written:
William—you must read this
.

He opened the envelope and took out a folded sheet of paper.

“Dearest William,” he read. “Since I spoke to you on Friday I have been unable to think of anything but you. I have tried to fight my feelings, and I have failed. I cannot conquer them. I have to see you, my darling, I really do. If there was ever any doubt in my mind as to the rightness of our getting together, now there is none. And so, I am coming to see you in London. I’ll arrive at the end of the week and shall stay in Islington with my cousin. Please keep Friday night for me—I’ll come to Corduroy Mansions and we can go out for dinner, my treat. Thank you, and keep safe, my darling—Maggie.”

I
F
W
ILLIAM WAS
inclined to self-doubt, the same cannot be said for his son, Eddie. While his father wrestled with the anxiety stemming from his increasingly complicated life, Eddie was cheerfully embarking on the next stage of the plan that he and Merle had hatched to convert the house in the Windward Islands into a hotel. They had travelled there a week or so earlier, and were now waiting at the local airport—a modest affair—for the arrival of the aircraft that was bringing the celebrated interior designer Cosmo Bartonette, to put into effect his themed conversion of the house.

Cosmo appeared to be not in the least tired by the long journey from London, via a change of plane at Kingston.

“My dears!” he said. “Here I am, completely
un-wilted
, thanks
to the ministrations of British Airways first class. Bumped up from mere business class into first because somebody somewhere—and God bless him—recognised who I was! Honestly, my dears, I had no intention of trading on my name but I could hardly prevent them in their eagerness!”

“Nice bit of luck,” said Eddie, taking Cosmo’s suitcase from him.

“Indeed,” said Cosmo, kissing Merle on the cheek. “Perhaps I’m
hedged about
by the protection of the saint who looks after interior designers—and there must be one, though who knows what he’s called; I don’t. One thing’s for certain, though: he must have had
tremendously
good taste, both in this life and in the next. Perhaps he met his saintly end while rearranging furniture, or
refusing
to hand over to some
beastly
pagans the plans for the decoration of his bishop’s palace.”

They left the airport and set off on the hour-long journey to the house. Cosmo spoke more or less without interruption. “I must say,” he began, gazing out of the window at the passing countryside, “I must say that I’m getting a strong impression of
green
. That is undoubtedly the
key
of this
delightful
landscape. I believe in keys, you know, in the same way as musicians believe in them. The predominant shade provides the
key
in which we experience our surroundings. There are some places that are blue, and some places that are white. Finland is white. Have you been to Helsinki? It has a strong feeling of white: white steel, white glass, white snow-covered fields.

“This place is very green. This is a green, green place. See over there, see those trees? That verdant, brilliant green. It’s all so green.

“Have you been to Cape Town? I did some designs for one of those new hotels they have down there, near the waterfront. Its key is blue, not the dark blue that the sea tends to be but an attenuated blue, a hazy blue. I simply
must
tell you, I’ve never seen blue like that before—never, except once, in Western Australia. You know, where Australia turns a corner and goes on and on, all the way to the next
corner, down near Melbourne? Well, that bit, that corner just below Perth, has the same blue. Remarkable.”

By the time they reached the house, Merle had become grimly silent. While Cosmo unpacked in his room, she drew Eddie aside.

“He’s a gas-bag, Eddie,” she whispered. “I wish he’d just shut up, or take a deep breath or something.”

Eddie smiled, and pressed a silencing finger to her lips. “He’s the talent, Merlie. He’s the real thing. These guys are like that. There’s a direct link between their very creative minds and their tongues. They can’t help it.”

Merle was not convinced. “And do you know what this is going to cost, Ed? Did you look at the figures in the letter he sent?”

“Worth every penny, Merlie,” said Eddie. “You can’t get quality for nothing. My old man always says: you get what you pay for. And he’s right. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

Cosmo reappeared and insisted that Eddie show him round the house. The building work had now been done, and the rooms were ready for Cosmo to supervise the installation of what he called the
accoutrements
. These had arrived from London a few days earlier and were waiting in a crate behind the main building.

“We must start with the bar,” said Cosmo. “I’ve been
dreaming
about that bar, Eddie. Positively salivating at the thought of what we’re going to do there. The Hemingway Rum Bar. Ernest’s place. Eddie, it’s going to be seriously
hot
.”

Eddie took him into the bar, which had been created by knocking together two large rooms at the front of the house. As they entered, Cosmo stopped just inside and let out a low whistle. “
Magnifico!
Oh, this is
just
right. Great big fishing trophies over there on the wall above the bar—perfect space—marlin, tuna, I’ve got both in the crate, you know. Not in formaldehyde, like Damien’s smelly old shark, but stuffed and mounted on
gorgeous
hardwood boards. Beautiful. And perhaps you could pay a few
convincing
fishermen
to perch on the bar stools and
thrill
visitors with their fishing stories.”