Liberty Silk (43 page)

‘Postcards.’

‘Postcards!’ Cat almost laughed.

‘Sure. Have you ever seen a postcard that would make you want to frame it?’

‘No. Well actually, yes. I had an idea of making a collage of the tackiest postcards ever.’

‘The kind you get in souvenir shops?’

‘Yeah. Someone once sent me a postcard of Preston bus station for a joke.’

‘You should give it some thought, seriously. If you’re taking time off from war zones, I can’t think of anything more relaxing than landscape photography. My wife swears by it.’

‘Your wife is nifty with a camera?’

‘No. She’s a weekend painter. She does little water-colours.’ Stuart folded his napkin, and got to his feet. ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? I have to pay a visit to the Gents.’

‘Sure.’

Cat smiled as she imagined Stuart’s little wife in front of her little easel with her little paintbrush working on her little watercolours. And then she thought of what Gervaise had said, about how landscapes could be as eloquent as portraits and how liberating he found spending time
en plein air
. . . Cat was looking for a new kind of freedom. Maybe Stuart had a point.

She took a long, luxurious draw on her cigarette, helped herself to more coffee and leaned back in her chair. She’d consumed a glass of champagne before lunch and half a bottle of very good Bordeaux during the main course, so a hit of coffee was no bad idea – especially since there was brandy on the way. But Cat prided herself on her ability to hold her liquor: she drank with the boys, after all, and when she drank with the boys she didn’t drink vintage champagne or château-bottled wine or VSOP brandy. She drank hooch and rotgut and jungle juice when they were dossing in fleapit hotels or bivouacking round feeble campfires, or holing up in officers’ messes. All the war correspondents drank, and most of them drank to excess because liquor guaranteed emotional anaesthesia.

The brandy arrived. Cat swirled the topaz-coloured liquid around the glass and raised it to her lips. As she did, she caught sight of a man leaning against a pillar, watching her. The hem of her dress had ridden up high on her thigh, and he was looking at her legs with evident enjoyment. Pointedly, Cat drew her skirt down and looked away – but not before she’d seen a smile curve his lips. She tried to keep her gaze fixed on the street beyond the plate-glass window, but it wasn’t easy in view of the reflected distractions that were going on behind her. She could see that the stranger had been joined by a woman, and that the woman was wearing one of those neat little suits with the boxy jackets.

‘Geraldine! I didn’t know you were lunching here today.’ It was Stuart Seow’s voice.

‘Oh, hello, Stuart. Yes. Nick and I were discussing his next book. You two know each other, of course.’

‘Sure we do,’ Stuart told the woman. ‘Are you rushing off, Geraldine, or would you care to join me and my companion in a post-prandial brandy?’ Cat saw Stuart motion towards the table where she sat.

‘Not for me, thank you,’ said the woman. ‘I have a meeting to get to. But perhaps you would, Nick?’

‘I’d be glad to. I haven’t shot the breeze with you in a while, Stuart. Thanks for lunch, Geraldine.’ The man dropped a kiss on the woman’s cheek, and she prinked a little before leaving the restaurant with a self-important clacking of heels.

Stuart and the man he’d called Nick approached Cat’s table.

‘Cat? I’d like to introduce you to Nick Ryder. Nick, this is Cat de Courcy.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Nick, extending a hand.

‘Likewise,’ said Cat laconically, mirroring the gesture.

Stuart signalled to the waiter to bring another brandy, and the two men sat down.

‘Nick is one of my writers,’ explained Stuart. ‘He specializes in travel books.’

Of course! She’d heard the name before. Nick Ryder was an author who wrote backpacker guides to countries all over the world, compiling and combining practical information with historical and cultural details. She’d found his guide to Jamaica particularly helpful, but she was damned if she was going to tell him that after the lecherous way he’d eyed her up.

‘Where are you off to next?’ she asked him politely, stubbing out her cigarette.

‘Ireland.’

‘Really? Have you been there before?’

‘Yes. I have grandparents there.’

‘Are you covering the entire island?’ Stuart asked him. ‘Or just the Republic?’

‘I’ll be taking in all thirty-two counties.’

‘The North is a real hot spot at the moment.’

‘Yeah. But you know me. I like to do all my own stunts.’

Stuart laughed.

‘Excuse me, Mr Seow.’ The waiter had materialized at Stuart’s elbow. ‘There’s a telephone call for you at reception.’

‘Dammit,’ said Stuart, getting to his feet. ‘D’you mind if I take this? My secretary never disturbs me unless it’s urgent.’

‘Fire ahead,’ said Nick Ryder.

‘Sure. Fire ahead!’ Cat watched her editor go, then returned her attention to Nick. ‘So. You say you have Irish grandparents? Ryder’s hardly an Irish name, is it?’

‘My mother’s side was Irish. My father is from Boston. I was born and reared there.’

‘I see.’ She slid a cigarette from her pack, and Nick leaned forward to light it. She saw his gaze go to her braless breasts, and she narrowed her eyes and smiled sweetly at him as she exhaled. ‘Ireland’s a trendy place to visit, then?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Stuart mentioned a “hot spot”.’

‘He was talking about political unrest.’

‘Politics?’ Cat held her napkin to her mouth to disguise a tiny yawn. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Well, in the North there’s a city called Londonderry where civil rights marches have been banned—’

‘Civil rights? I didn’t know there were blacks in Ireland.’

‘Well . . . there aren’t that many—’

‘I’ve heard they’re very small, the Irish.’

‘Small?’

‘Aren’t they known as “The Little People”?’

‘No, no. That’s just the leprechauns.’

Cat giggled. ‘You don’t mean to tell me you believe in leprechauns?’

‘Er – no. Of course I don’t.’

‘Well, that’s a relief! Go on explaining about the blacks and the unrest.’

‘There really aren’t very many blacks,’ he said, with a heroic attempt at a smile.

‘So how come there’s fighting over civil rights?’

Nick adopted a manner not unlike that of a teacher with a first-grader. ‘Well, there’s a great schism – a
divide
– between Catholics and Protestants in Ireland. Catholics are discriminated against in all walks of life – jobs, and housing and voting rights.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It goes way back – to Cromwell’s time and beyond.’

‘Cromwell? Who was he?’

‘You must have heard of Cromwell! Didn’t you study history at school?’

‘The past doesn’t interest me.’

Nick looked stoical. ‘Well, Cromwell was responsible for perpetrating . . .’ But the expression Cat adopted was so blank that Nick clearly decided to skip the history lesson. ‘You see, to vote in local government elections over there, you have to have a house,’ he resumed, bringing her up to date. ‘And in order to prevent Catholics from getting on the electoral register, the powers that be in Londonderry won’t build houses for Catholics.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the Housing Commission is comprised of Protestants.’

‘How mean!’

‘It’s more than mean. It has the potential to be incendiary. Um.
Explosive
. There’s been rioting recently.’

‘Why can’t the Catholics build their own houses?’

‘Because they have no jobs and no money,’ explained Nick, gently.

‘You don’t need money to buy a house in Ireland!’ said Cat, scornfully. ‘I learned a poem in school by a famous Irish poet who said that he was going to build a house of clay and wattles – whatever they are.’

‘“I will arise and go now.”’

‘Oh? You go right ahead and do that. It was very nice to have met you. Goodbye, Mr Ryder.’ Cat disguised the smile she felt creeping onto her lips by taking a sip of brandy.

‘No – I mean “I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree.” It’s the first line of the poem you mentioned –“The Lake Isle of Innisfree”, by Yeats.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Cat made a dismissive sound. ‘He must have been a
complete
weirdo.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, didn’t he want to go and live on an island all by himself and eat nothing except beans and honey? What person in their right mind would want to do that? Beans and honey – yeuch! Worse than giant snail.’ She took another dainty sip of brandy and looked pensive. ‘Although – perhaps it’s
not
such a bad idea after all. I know of another poem that was written along similar lines.’

‘Oh? Which one’s that?’

‘I eat my peas with honey,’ pronounced Cat. ‘I’ve done it all my life. It makes the peas taste funny, but it keeps them on the knife.’

‘Cat?’ Stuart was back. ‘I’m really sorry, but I have to get back to the office. Something urgent’s come up.’

‘Oh, that’s all right, Stuart. Nick and I are enjoying a lovely chat.’

‘Of course. You’ve got a lot in common.’

‘We have?’ Nick looked slightly aghast.

‘For sure. You both have jobs that allow you to travel the world.’

Cat kept schtum, her catlike smile still in place.

Stuart looked from Nick to Cat and back again. ‘You didn’t know that Cat’s a photographer? She’s had pictures published in all the important periodicals.’

‘Fashion pictures?’

‘No,’ said Stuart, looking bemused. ‘Cat doesn’t shoot fashion. She shoots war zones.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Cat sweetly, getting to her feet and reaching for her purse. ‘I just
have
to visit the little girls’ room – I need to powder my nose and repair my lipstick. Please don’t allow me to keep you. And thanks so much for lunch, Stuart.’ Cat picked up her duffel bag and dropped a kiss on her editor’s cheek. ‘It sure beat feasting on giant snail.’

In the Ladies, Cat divested herself of her frock and heels and slid into motorbike leathers and boots. On her way out of the restaurant she blew a kiss at Nick Ryder, who was still sitting over his brandy, and laughed at his astonished expression. Outside, parked on the footpath next to the window, was a Kawasaki 250. Slinging her leg over the machine, Cat gunned the engine and took off down Kensington High Street, still laughing.

Dearest Cat
,

I think of you often. I’m posting this letter to Connemara rather than London because Róisín tells me that you are planning a visit there, but goodness knows when you will receive it. You have always reminded me of a will-o’-the-wisp: what’s the Irish word for it? – you said it once. A pooka?

A will-o’-the-wisp sounds so fey, doesn’t it, when I know your life is anything but. How many years now have you been covering war zones? It’s not the most suitable job for a woman, but then, what is? A housewife? A mother? That was, once upon a time, all that women had to look forward to in life. I was very lucky to have squeezed in a career before I settled down with Raoul – even though life in Hollywood was tough in its own way, and very different to the life you have chosen. In those days everybody thought that Hollywood was the epitome of glamour: what a joke! I have often wondered if I should pen an autobiography, tell the truth and shame the devil.

I rarely go near Antibes now, or Cannes – they really have become such preposterous places. I never dreamed when I escaped here from LA that its culture would come creeping all the way across the Atlantic like a poisonous miasma. Maybe there are no good places left in the world to live. Although Róisín tells me that ‘peace comes dropping slow’ in Connemara still, like in the Yeats poem.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I am thinking of you, and would love to see you any time you feel like it. There are riots in Paris – perhaps you’ll be covering those? How strange a thing, to be luring a young woman to Paris with promises of riots rather than romance and fashion! But if you come, you could always head down here to the Cap afterwards for a breather.

Raoul sends his love, as do Orlando and Gervaise.

Your loving aunt, Lisa

That night Lisa had the dream again, of Connemara and the lake shore and the laughing sprite who was Cat. She was wearing around her neck the little jade talisman Lisa had given her, and she was moving in slow motion down a purple hillside towards Lisa, seeming to take for ever. And then all of a sudden Cat was in her arms, and her voice was in her ear, and she was saying, ‘Anubis will help you, Mum. You mustn’t be afraid.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ Lisa told her, kissing Cat’s face; her forehead and her eyes and her nose and her chin. ‘Thanks to you, I’m not afraid. You’ve passed your fearlessness on, from daughter to mother.’

And then Lisa woke with the kisses still on her lips, and the scent of her daughter on her skin.

She sat up in bed; beside her, Raoul was still asleep. The clock told her that it was four in the morning; she knew she would not go back to sleep. She’d go for a walk on the beach, and think about the day ahead. It would be one of what Lisa called her ‘real life’ days. Every so often she picked a date in her diary to do the maintenance stuff she most hated – dentist, hairdresser, banking, marketing, whatever – fitting in as many appointments as possible before treating herself to a leisurely lunch.

She threw a coat over her nightdress and went out onto the terrace. The sun had not yet risen, but there was enough residual moonlight for her to see her way down to the water’s edge and walk the patterns traced by the tide. At the end of the beach she stopped and looked back. Her footprints were the only ones glimmering on the wet sand, and she knew the sea would come in again later that day and wash them clean away. How many thousands of footprints had come and gone in the ebb and flow? Who would walk there next? Lisa gave a shiver as a goose trod on her grave.

Turning, she placed a bare foot on to the last print she had last made, and followed her tracks back home.