A Splash of Red (2 page)

'So this is good old
Taffeta
in the ample shape of Isabelle Mancini, commissioning me.
Taffeta
Schmaffeta. But at least it never lets you down. Off to France. I think Isabelle has in mind rippling tensions between a woman and a horse, with her usual optimism, whereas I see it as a lonely woman rides in Camargue. Pictures by Snowdon if we're lucky, the insufferable Binnie Rapallo if we're not. "Thoughts suggested by white chargers," cried Isabelle: she never learns. And she always adds: "Do something about the
food,
darling, don't forget." It's a hangover from her days as a cookery writer. What do horses eat in the Camargue? If I found out, would that satisfy her? Still, I'm going ahead for ten days to sit alone and perhaps wander and get new ideas. The photographer - Binnie, I have no doubt - follows.'

'Alone, Clo?' Jemima jumped up to pace round the apartment.

'Absolutely alone. I am definitely
not
taking my new angel with me. The news of my romance, by the way, is a heavy secret till I come back. I haven't broken it to the last angel, who was of all things - well, perhaps that had better be a secret too till I get back. Why give you a quick blurb on my life when a full-length novel is so much more fun? It might spoil it. A married man - no more for the present.'

Chloe was certainly right back in her old form. Two new men at least in her life - or rather new to Jemima's list of Chloe's involvements -two new men and something catalogued as an adventure. Jemima could not quite resist running through a few possible names in her head. Then she was distracted by the majestic view from the vast picture window which ran the length of the room.

Jemima could see across the tops of the great trees of Adelaide Square to the elegant eighteenth-century houses on the opposite side. Chloe's new residence was in a concrete balconied block. To Jemima's mind its style was somewhere between the Mappin Terraces at Regent's Park Zoo and the National Theatre, less charming than the former, more appealing than the latter. Its position turned its architecture into an affront.

It also seemed peculiarly unfair that the occupant of this horror would have the advantage of looking at its beautiful neighbours, whereas they in turn had to contemplate the monstrosity. Unfair indeed - she suddenly remembered the furious protests at the building of the new landmark, or rather the demolition of the great house which had preceded it. Very understandable, but somehow the protests had either been got round or muffled.

That was, perhaps, because Sir Richard Lionnel was involved: an exotic saturnine gentleman whose tweeded figure - he did not affect the normal dark suit of a tycoon - was to be glimpsed in as many government corridors as boardrooms.

'So I shall be quite out of touch and alone, as lonely as you will be here, in a different way. No angel and no telephone calls,' Chloe was saying.

'What happened to those protesters, Clo?' Jemima interrupted. 'I'm looking into Adelaide Square. The ones who threatened this building -it was this one, wasn't it? I do see their point - if it doesn't sound ungrateful, living in your luxurious eyrie.'

'Oh, I believe the original house was riddled with dry rot, in a terrible state. I know for a fact that squatters and what-have-you were imminent. No way it could have been preserved. The facade perhaps -but that would have cost the earth.'

'So the protest just died down?'

'Oddly enough it hasn't quite. I meant to warn you, except that it's not very serious and certainly won't bother you at night. They still feel strongly about Lionnel himself. That's because they're frightened he'll do the same thing elsewhere. Notably next door. You saw the scaffolding? That battle's lost but you know what demonstrators are. You may get the odd rude note downstairs, but it will just be addressed "The Occupant", so pay no attention. There are sometimes people with placards - "The Lion of Bloomsbury, seeking whom he may devour". "Don't let the Lion eat Bloomsbury", that sort of thing. I see them there most days. But they won't bother you. Some of them are quite attractive, if you like that sort of thing. Long hair, beards and very narrow hips, if you know what I mean.' Jemima did. It was not an attraction she had ever felt. Involuntarily she frowned.

'They don't make any noise, I'm glad to say. As a matter of fact, with some rather picturesque lions on their placards, they rather cheer up the pavement.' Chloe gave a little smile, rather sly, at Jemima's disapproval. 'I adore lions, don't you? I always want to hug them at the zoo. Ever one for danger in love.'

'"The Lion of Bloomsbury" - quite a title for a programme,' muttered Jemima, adding swiftly: 'But I'm having a holiday from all that. The series is resting and so am I.' Then she couldn't resist asking: 'Always the same lot? Of demonstrators, I mean?'

'To tell you the truth, I don't think I look very closely.'

'I would get rather fascinated by them if I saw them every day,' Jemima admitted.

'You would, darling, you would!' cried Chloe. Now it was her turn to abandon the vast sofa and gaze into the darkening square across the trees. Jemima noticed her slight body instinctively fall into a graceful attitude, almost that of an actress or a dancer, so that the window framed her, and her faintly leaning head. Chloe did have exceptionally long legs for such a tiny woman - a dancer's legs. Looking at her, Jemima considered that she hardly looked any older than when they were at Cambridge together; she was perhaps just a little fatter with a certain roundness of the bosom absent in extreme youth, which only added to her femininity. But her face, if anything, was thinner.

'But then you are Jemima Shore, Investigator. And I'm Chloe Fontaine, with my limited range, my domestic palette with its few and unexperimental colours as my critics frequently tell me.'

'I never underrate your range,' said Jemima. 'Not since our first day at Cambridge when I discovered to my chagrin that the prettiest girl at the Freshers' meeting was also the top scholar of the year. Your heart is another matter, but you have an excellent head, Clo, so long as you manage to keep it somewhere not too far from your shoulders.'

'No, I haven't always done that, have I?' For a moment Chloe sounded quite melancholy. The graceful head in question sank still further. She looked quite white for a moment, or perhaps it was a trick of the light. 'Memo: keep my head, lose my heart. This new romance, Jem, it's so perfect, or rather it's going to be perfect, so long as I do keep my head. Sorry to sound so mysterious but for once that's all I can say. I'll tell you all when I get back from the Camargue.' Chloe wheeled round, facing the open bedroom door.

'I lost my head and my heart over him, didn't I? You see what a warning that painting is. No more splashes of red for me. No, don't turn on the lights. I love the dusk falling over the square. Do it when I've gone. Let me enjoy my flight from responsibility. I've shown you where they all are. Dimmers and everything for a late night rendezvous. Have a good time, a very good time, darling.'

'I'm going to be working in the Reading Room of the British Library by day,' protested Jemima, 'and trying to write at night. It's my chance, while the programme's not on and before we start gathering material in the autumn. No high life at all. I promised Valentine that I would let him have an outline at least and the first chapters of my famous book by September.'

'Ah, Valentine. If we kept all our promises to him!' cried Chloe slightly petulantly. 'Anyway he doesn't expect it. So long as one is frank about it. I always tell the truth to Valentine, however awful. He can't resist that.'

It crossed Jemima's mind that in the nicest possible way Chloe might be slightly jealous of her own more recent relationship with the publisher. Jemima did not flatter herself that Valentine Brighton had commissioned her book entirely for its own sake: the image of Jemima Shore, Investigator, was a strong one in the public's eye. Jemima's name would look good on a book jacket, particularly as television books so often headed the bestseller lists.

Chloe on the other hand had supported herself by writing alone, all her working life, none of her books having been made into plays, films, or even serialized for television. It did not matter that Jemima's projected
opus
was not in fact a spin-off from her television series, but a serious study of Edwardian women philanthropists. It was possible to argue that even with her first book Jemima Shore, Investigator, would start with an unnatural advantage over Chloe Fontaine, lady novelist of some years' standing.

'Well you could always have Valentine over here,' said Chloe with a slightly mischievous smile. 'That would be work. His office is in Bedford Square, almost opposite Cape's and his
pied à
terre,
his foot on the earth as he insists on calling it, is over there, on the other side of this square. The elegant bit, behind the trees. Very handy for keeping an eye on me - that's
another
story I shall tell you on my return from the Camargue. Quite interesting. We shall make an evening of it - I shall be Scheherazade.'

'Like Garbo, I want to be alone,' replied Jemima firmly.

Jemima watched while Chloe locked the discreet white cupboard in the corner of the sitting room.

'Sorry - locking habit. You know me. Anyway I've moved most of my London clothes in there, leaving room for yours in the bedroom. I'm taking virtually nothing on holiday.' She popped the key in her pocket.

Light and charming as a fairy in her movements, Chloe was even now gathering up her bag, and in a moment was flitting down the staircase. It was a beautiful staircase, broad, even to the penultimate

flight where it twisted neatly upwards to the penthouse like a piece of barley-sugar. There at least his architect had done Sir Richard Lionnel proud. The lift did not yet work however: 'Don't go near it. You don't want to take that kind of risk,' Chloe had said, quite unnecessarily. 'And I advise you not to venture into the basement either - unless you have to plunge after Tiger who adores it. Dark and unfinished.'

Jemima stood at the door and listened to Chloe clattering down the stairs in the very high heels she always wore. Chloe was six inches shorter than Jemima; even in the Camargue, Jemima imagined that her riding boots would have very high heels.

Down to the bottom went Chloe's tapping heels, gradually growing fainter. It sounded a very long way down. Jemima continued to listen, deciding, for some reason she could not quite analyse, to wait until she heard the front door bang. After a while she thought she heard a noise - that must be the door. It all took longer than she had expected. It was like listening for a stone dropped into a well: the splash was surprisingly long in coming.

Finally, Jemima turned away and went back into the flat. Still she did not put on the lights. The sky was extremely beautiful, a Tiepolo-like sky, with turquoise and gold and areas of mauve and pink. Going to the window, she thought to watch Chloe passing across the square to the other side where she had left her car. Jemima could see the car - or thought she could. It was a bright green Renault with a hatchback, and Chloe was driving to Dover that night, before taking the ferry the next day.

However, she had evidently missed her. There were a few people about, odd passers-by, foreigners mainly; a few Japanese tourists but the tourist crowds were diminishing in the fine August evening. It was more surprising to see that Chloe's car remained untouched. For a moment she was quite puzzled. Then she gave a brief laugh and turned away. Jemima suddenly remembered that she had no idea of the colour of Chloe's new car. She was thinking of the old one, and she knew that Chloe had acquired a new car recently - 'bought out of the royalties Valentine assures me I haven't earned, the pig!' Someone quite different got into the green car and drove away in the direction of Tottenham Court Road.

It was time to turn on the lights. Something soft and furry rubbed at her knees. It was Tiger returned. His tail was up, but in friendly fashion. He must have come in through the balcony window which, Chloe had informed her, must always be left open at least five inches ('you would hardly have intruders at this height - cats are more likely than cat burglars').

Chloe had already installed some tubs, filled with grey foliage -senecio, artemisia - and trailing white geraniums with silver-green leaves shaped like ivy. The cool tones of the plants completed the feeling of serenity. Jemima drew the French window back to its fullest extent. It was hot. She stepped out onto the balcony. The sight of the ugly concrete parapet jarred upon her once again, after the harmony of the plants; perhaps it was just as well that the Lionnel architect, preferring his artistic design to safety, had made it slightly lower than might have been expected, in order not to interfere with the view.

She inspected the rest of the area. She had not realized before that the next-door house was not yet completed, the scaffolding still present. It was to be another Lionnel enterprise. There the balcony was still in embryo. To her right was one of the great houses of Adelaide Square. Here the top floor, in its original state, was not graced with a balcony.

It was immensely quiet.

Her peace was disturbed by the sound of the telephone in the flat. Jemima stepped back in, noticing once more with irritation how the picture - 'A Splash of Red' - disturbed the harmony. She, after all, did not need reminding of the value of avoiding Kevin John Athlone. She might even take it down
...
Tiger would hardly object. So far as she could remember, Tiger had shown a cat's good sense in regularly ramming his claws into the wretched Kevin John.