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Authors: Penelope Lively
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the first likely young man to come along.
Naturally, I attended the wedding. So did her father.
Claudia stands face to face with Jasper, in the centre of a discreet vacuum; they are pruriently eyed by the other guests.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘So here you are.’
‘Here I am. And here are you. You’re looking very well, Claudia.’
There are touches of grey to his hair. He has still that slightly rumpled look – expensive suit in need of a press, tie askew, ash on his sleeve. She takes a deep whiff of him. ‘I hear you’ve got a new girl friend. And that they’re getting younger all the time. That’s a bad sign – you used to be more stylish.’
This he ignores. He waves his glasses at the room. ‘Who are all these people?’
‘The jeunesse dorée of Henley,’ says Claudia.
‘We should circulate, I suppose.’
‘Circulate away.’
He smiles, his sexual confiding smile, and she feels herself curdle with irritation and desire.
Jasper sees, across this roomful of dowdy strangers, Claudia. Claudia in a red dress, unhatted amid the veils and feathers, wonderfully inappropriate. They advance upon each other. He stands considering her, remembering her, savouring her. ‘I see your last book all over the place, Claudia.’
‘So I should hope.’
‘Are you well?’
‘Fine.’
‘Is this young man… adequate?’
‘He seems,’ says Claudia, ‘reasonable enough.’
‘Lisa looks splendid.’
‘No she doesn’t. She’s washed out, as usual, and that dress is a disaster. Your mother’s doing.’
He glances over her shoulder and sees his mother, valiantly smiling and greeting. ‘We should circulate.’
‘Circulate away,’ says Claudia. She looks at him, and he decides suddenly that he will not go back to London tonight after all.
‘Have dinner with me?’
‘Not on your life,’ snaps Claudia.
He shrugs. ‘Someone expecting you?’
‘Mind your own business, Jasper.’
At which point what had been a whim becomes a necessity; he puts his hand on hers, to take her glass. ‘Let me get you another drink, Claudia.’
And Lisa, so clenched that she feels she might well burst – out of her own thin body, out of the heavenly tussore silk dress Granny Branscombe ordered from Harrods – sees them standing together in the middle of the room (people furtively staring…) and her stomach churns. Are they having a row? If they are not having a row that is possibly even worse. She chews her lip and her heart thumps and the glory of the day is dimmed. She wishes they had not come, that they would go away, that theydid not exist. Her mother hasn’t bothered to get a hat, and her father is not wearing morning dress like Harry’s father, just an ordinary suit. But even so they look more glamorous than everyone else, larger and brighter and more interesting.
Jasper and I spent the night together in a hotel in Maidenhead, quarrelled over breakfast and did not see one another again for two years. Just like old times. The sex was prolonged and memorable; the quarrel also. It centred on Jasper’s current activities as a television mogul. He was the power behind the lavish series recently screened which presented a dramatised history of the last war. A fictional figure, a young officer, was followed in his progress through various theatres of war, from the Balkans to the Far East, against a background of enacted scenes of history – Churchill’s War Cabinet, D-Day, Yalta… The enterprise was much praised and discussed; it was to be the forerunner of many such glossy, expensive productions, meticulously reconstructing the recent past. Jasper was purring with satisfaction. He sought a tribute from me. I said ‘I detested it.’ He asked why. I told him: because it diminished the past, turned history into entertainment. Opinionated and dogmatic as ever, said Jasper, the trouble with you is you have no flexibility of mind; this is a new medium. The emotional temperature rose. I said that it was indeed, and
Naturally, I attended the wedding. So did her father.
Claudia stands face to face with Jasper, in the centre of a discreet vacuum; they are pruriently eyed by the other guests.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘So here you are.’
‘Here I am. And here are you. You’re looking very well, Claudia.’
There are touches of grey to his hair. He has still that slightly rumpled look – expensive suit in need of a press, tie askew, ash on his sleeve. She takes a deep whiff of him. ‘I hear you’ve got a new girl friend. And that they’re getting younger all the time. That’s a bad sign – you used to be more stylish.’
This he ignores. He waves his glasses at the room. ‘Who are all these people?’
‘The jeunesse dorée of Henley,’ says Claudia.
‘We should circulate, I suppose.’
‘Circulate away.’
He smiles, his sexual confiding smile, and she feels herself curdle with irritation and desire.
Jasper sees, across this roomful of dowdy strangers, Claudia. Claudia in a red dress, unhatted amid the veils and feathers, wonderfully inappropriate. They advance upon each other. He stands considering her, remembering her, savouring her. ‘I see your last book all over the place, Claudia.’
‘So I should hope.’
‘Are you well?’
‘Fine.’
‘Is this young man… adequate?’
‘He seems,’ says Claudia, ‘reasonable enough.’
‘Lisa looks splendid.’
‘No she doesn’t. She’s washed out, as usual, and that dress is a disaster. Your mother’s doing.’
He glances over her shoulder and sees his mother, valiantly smiling and greeting. ‘We should circulate.’
‘Circulate away,’ says Claudia. She looks at him, and he decides suddenly that he will not go back to London tonight after all.
‘Have dinner with me?’
‘Not on your life,’ snaps Claudia.
He shrugs. ‘Someone expecting you?’
‘Mind your own business, Jasper.’
At which point what had been a whim becomes a necessity; he puts his hand on hers, to take her glass. ‘Let me get you another drink, Claudia.’
And Lisa, so clenched that she feels she might well burst – out of her own thin body, out of the heavenly tussore silk dress Granny Branscombe ordered from Harrods – sees them standing together in the middle of the room (people furtively staring…) and her stomach churns. Are they having a row? If they are not having a row that is possibly even worse. She chews her lip and her heart thumps and the glory of the day is dimmed. She wishes they had not come, that they would go away, that theydid not exist. Her mother hasn’t bothered to get a hat, and her father is not wearing morning dress like Harry’s father, just an ordinary suit. But even so they look more glamorous than everyone else, larger and brighter and more interesting.
Jasper and I spent the night together in a hotel in Maidenhead, quarrelled over breakfast and did not see one another again for two years. Just like old times. The sex was prolonged and memorable; the quarrel also. It centred on Jasper’s current activities as a television mogul. He was the power behind the lavish series recently screened which presented a dramatised history of the last war. A fictional figure, a young officer, was followed in his progress through various theatres of war, from the Balkans to the Far East, against a background of enacted scenes of history – Churchill’s War Cabinet, D-Day, Yalta… The enterprise was much praised and discussed; it was to be the forerunner of many such glossy, expensive productions, meticulously reconstructing the recent past. Jasper was purring with satisfaction. He sought a tribute from me. I said ‘I detested it.’ He asked why. I told him: because it diminished the past, turned history into entertainment. Opinionated and dogmatic as ever, said Jasper, the trouble with you is you have no flexibility of mind; this is a new medium. The emotional temperature rose. I said that it was indeed, and
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