Freya (15 page)

He looked at the pudding menu and discarded it, but he decided that we must have another drink to send us on our way. His tipple of the moment is Brandy Alexander, though he claimed not to have heard of Anthony Blanche, the witty exquisite of Evelyn Waugh's recent novel
Brideshead Revisited
, who in one memorable scene drinks four of them in quick succession. Blanche becomes to the narrator, Ryder, a near-mythical figure, a brilliant dandy who is also the story's inadvertent truth-teller. In him one may discern something of Nathaniel Fane, the marvellous boy who seemed to arrive in Oxford a fully-formed man, innocent yet sophisticated, forward yet elusive. Just as in that rehearsal room, he hovers on the edge of proceedings while simultaneously focusing them. He is, in every sense of the word, egregious: standing apart from the flock, an outrageous foe of propriety, and a caution. Fame, one senses, is hurrying towards him.

‘It's … wonderful!' said Nancy, lifting her face from the new issue of
Cherwell
. She wore a look of grave admiration. ‘You've got him completely, the manner, the talk. And it's
funny
, too.'

Freya, with a little uncertain laugh, said, ‘D'you think so – really?'

‘To be honest, I didn't know you were –' She stopped herself, and blushed.

‘Capable of it? Nor did I! But it was a stroke of luck to have Nat for my first assignment. I may never be as entertaining again.'

They were occupying their usual places in her rooms, Freya lounging on the couch, Nancy in the armchair, cross-legged and leaning forward. It was a fresh spring morning towards the end of Hilary term, and Nancy had brought a bunch of daffodils as a present. Freya, skittish about the reception of her debut in print, felt in her friend's verdict a grateful shock of relief. Before Nancy arrived she had placed the paper at a carelessly discarded angle on the floor that gave no hint of herself having read the thing over and over again. To contemplate her byline at the head of the page became in itself a near-erotic delight; it was as though she had never really
seen
her name before, with the pleasing visual rhyme of its three ‘y's, kicking their legs sideways like chorus girls. Freya Wyley: it sounded so authoritative, so mature, a byline that knew what it was talking about and would tell it straight. From the moment it seized on her eye she realised that
this
was what she wanted to do. It wasn't even that she had an urgent message for the world: she knew only that she must write.

‘Has
he
read it yet?' asked Nancy.

‘I don't know. He asked to have a look at the piece before I filed –' she was picking up the terminology – ‘but I refused, told him no journalist would let a subject read their copy before it went to press. Alex said the editors were delighted and want me to do more.'

‘I should think so,' said Nancy with reflexive loyalty. She allowed a beat to pass before changing her tone. ‘Have you made any progress with him – I mean Alex?'

Freya shook her head. ‘The game's up. I did a bit of digging, all quite innocent-seeming, and it seems that he's got some girl up in Edinburgh. I'm not sure how serious it is, but …'

‘That's bad luck,' Nancy replied, somewhat preoccupied.

‘How did your evening with Robert go?' said Freya lightly.

Nancy's brow creased in an unhappy frown. ‘OK, I suppose. We had a few drinks in the White Horse. He's very easily distracted. Every time an attractive girl passed by his eyes came out on stalks.'

Freya made a commiserating gesture. ‘You know how men are. Do you think he's –?'

‘Keen? No, not really. I mean, he's charming company, and he paid me some nice compliments. But I get the impression he has his sights fixed on someone else.'

‘Did he say anything?'

‘Not exactly. I think something's happened, I can almost hear it in his voice, but he won't tell me what.'

Freya nodded, and said quickly, ‘He does get distracted, you're right. I'm not sure he'd be terribly trustworthy as a romantic prospect.' She had to be careful, she knew; if Nancy were to find out about her and Robert this line of conversation might not reflect well on her.

‘What have you done about the novel, by the way?' She was aware of raising another awkward subject between them, though in the diversion to a matter of literary uncertainty it felt much the safer of the two. She sensed Nancy's sidelong glance to be a touch sharper than usual.

‘I've put it away. I can't bear to reread it at the moment.'

‘Oh. I hope it's not because –'

Nancy gave a little shake of her head before saying, ‘Once I'd thought a little more I realised you were right about certain things – the need for a single narrator, for instance. But I don't think I should waste any more time on it.'

She spoke of that criticism with a dispassionate calm that both impressed and embarrassed Freya, contrasting as it did with Nancy's generous estimation of her own venture into writing. ‘Nance, I do think you have a true talent –'

She looked at her directly. ‘I know I do.' The steely note of self-assurance gave Freya a start – this was not the first time she had felt this disjunction between Nancy her friend and Nancy the would-be writer. ‘Which is why I've started a new one,' she continued. ‘Only this time I must hold off showing it to you. I don't think I can bear that much honesty.'

She concluded this with a rueful little laugh, which seemed at once to absolve Freya of undermining her and to assert that she would never do so again. There was a warning there, and it caused her an odd double spearing of her conscience. With justice might Nancy allude to the pain her friend's ‘honesty' had caused – and yet was it not, conversely, the very absence of that virtue that would damn Freya in the light of what she and Robert were doing?

The following day she answered a knock at her door to find the porter toting a riotous, and somewhat ridiculous, bouquet of spring flowers.

‘There's a note attached,' he said, laying the flowers in her surprised embrace. ‘He must be some admirer!' he called in retreat.

For a dreadful moment she thought they had come from Robert, but a glimpse of the actressy handwriting on the envelope reassured her as to the sender.

She looked for somewhere to put his flowers; the one vase she owned already held Nancy's daffodils, which she was reluctant to displace: though modest in comparison, they seemed to her the more authentic gift. She found her scout's tin bucket in a cupboard on the stairs and dunked the bouquet in it.

Her post had included a note of congratulation from Alex, who enquired as to what she was going to write next for the paper. She felt somewhat disappointed that this time he stopped short of suggesting a drink to discuss it. She wondered now if his revelation of a girlfriend back home was meant to warn her off; perhaps he had picked up in her manner a vibration of something beyond the orbit of friendliness – the gaze held a moment longer, the smile that was a little too winsome. Yet she felt herself to be caught in a maddening bind. She didn't want to be seen gaining a foothold at
Cherwell
by ingratiating herself with one of the editors – she would get by on merit. But how could she prove her professional integrity if the rest of the time she was helplessly making eyes at him?

Later that week she did something she had vowed not to do and let Robert into her bed again. Even as she did so an inner voice chided her, scaldingly aware of at least two reasons why she ought to have resisted. First, she felt her betrayal of Nancy redoubled. There had been no explicit agreement that either one of them had prior claim on him. But there didn't need to be. It was simply that Nancy had declared a liking for him, so for Freya to jump in ahead of her, in secret, would be both underhand and disloyal. The other reason, less serious but more immediately demanding, was Robert's swain-like intensity. Now that he had ‘breached the sacred portal' (he found this faux-courtly language much funnier than she did) he was becoming determined to gain exclusive access. There had been an early warning sign when, some days after they had first slept together, she had been at dinner in hall. One of the white-jacketed serving staff had sidled up to her and asked shyly, ‘Miss Wyley, is it? There's a gen'elman outside –' he gave a quick backward glance as if worrying that he'd been followed – ‘says he knows you. A Mr Cosway. Guests who aren't on the list, you know …'

‘Yes, of course,' said Freya, rising. ‘Thank you.' She felt several lifted gazes pierce her as she walked the gauntlet of the humming hall. She found him skulking in the stone-flagged entrance, and was irritated to see no hint of apology clouding his face.

‘There you are,' he said, smiling apparently in relief. He moved towards her, but she deflected his attempt at an embrace.

‘Robert, what are you doing here?'

‘I was going crazy looking for you – in your rooms, in the library –'

‘I'm having
dinner
,' she said, frowning hard. ‘What on earth is the matter?'

He looked rather offended by her tone. ‘Well, you didn't reply to my letter, for one thing. I also thought, given what we'd done in your room –'

‘Shh, for God's sake,' she hissed, aware of pricking ears in the vicinity. ‘You want the whole bloody college to know?'

He bristled visibly. ‘It's of no consequence to me who knows.'

‘Well, it is to
me
,' she snapped, wincing at her own volume. This would not do. She couldn't very well go back into hall, but she didn't care for a set-to in public with Robert, either. Her brusque manner had reduced him to silence, and seeing his hurt expression she relented. With a toss of her head she led him off around the quad and into a shadowed staircase, deserted at this hour. This furtive setting evidently gave Robert the wrong idea, for once hidden from view he grasped hold of her and pressed his mouth on hers.

Having struggled to free herself she pushed him away. ‘Robert,
please
–'

In the grainy gloom his face had lost definition, but the wounded edge to his voice was unmistakable. ‘Why are you being so unfriendly? Have I done something wrong?'

‘No – no. But you can't just come barging in here any time you please.'

‘I wanted to see you! And it was only the other night you seemed quite happy to see me –'

‘Yes, but that was – We did something on the spur of the moment that probably wasn't a good idea.'

‘What do you mean?'

She sighed. ‘I don't want to hurt people – Nancy.'

He snorted in disbelief. ‘That's ridiculous. This isn't
about
Nancy, it's about you and me.'

‘She's in love with you, Robert. And she's my best friend.'

‘Bit late to worry about that, wouldn't you agree?' A silence fell between them, and she could sense from his brooding that he had spotted a different angle to the problem. When he next spoke his tone had become judicial. ‘I don't think you're doing this to protect Nancy. It's because you're involved with Alex, isn't it?'

Freya gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Oh, I wish –' That tore it. She heard Robert give a little gasp of surprise, and knew she had blundered.

‘I thought so,' he said coldly. ‘He's turned you down, I suppose.'

‘No, he hasn't. He doesn't even know I –' She wasn't going to spell it out.

‘Sorry, but I – I'm baffled. How can you prefer him to me?'

‘You've asked me that before.'

‘So give me an answer.'

He had pushed her, pestered her, to speak honestly. And since that was her governing principle she would let him have it. ‘I prefer him because I just do. He's charming, and he's kinder than you are. And he would never ask me a question like the one you just did.'

Robert stared at her as though she had slapped him. There was a little catch in his throat when he said, after a moment, ‘You're a bitch, you know.'

He turned on his heel and stalked off into the night.

A week went by, then most of another, without any word from him. That was fine by her, still mindful of his unpleasant parting shot and the look of disgust as he delivered it. More troubling was her obligation to keep up appearances in front of Nancy. Robert had been such a frequent caller on both of them that a sudden break in his visiting pattern would naturally arouse suspicion. When the subject came up between them Freya was quick to make a show of indifference as to his whereabouts.

‘Maybe he's snowed under. You know how he moans about being worked so hard. Have you sent him a note?'

Nancy nodded. ‘Last week. It's odd, he's usually so prompt to reply. It may not be work, of course …'

‘What d'you mean?'

She couldn't keep a forlorn note from her voice. ‘Well, you know what he's like –
cherchez la femme
.'

‘I'm not sure. He'd very much
like
to play the Lothario, but he's not especially good at it – you can feel the desperation underneath.'

‘Can you?' said Nancy quietly, her eyes averted.

Freya sensed her subtle misdirections being baulked. Nancy didn't like the idea of Robert as a skirt-chaser, but she was too kind-hearted to derive satisfaction in thinking him, on the contrary, a sexual failure. All might be well if Robert could only see Nancy for the amazing catch she was and sweep her off her feet, thus releasing Freya from the treacherous position she had connived at. But even for this fantasy to stand a chance would require a basic commitment on her own part – namely, to detach herself from Robert. She would have preferred to effect this in a civilised way, with an agreement to stay on friendly terms. In the event he had aborted that possibility on the night he called her a bitch and stormed off – but at least the break had been made, and a distance of days put between them. Pride alone was enough to keep her silent; now she was also fortified by a moral purpose to resist any reconciliation.