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Authors: Margot Livesey
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a series of anguished letters:
You could not step or move an eyelid but it would shoot to my heart—I am greedy of you—Do not think of any thing but me. . . . If you could really what is call’d enjoy yourself at a Party—if you can smile in peoples faces, and wish them to admire you now, you never have nor ever will love
me. We have to understand this in the light of his illness, Georgina had
argued; nothing else makes sense of his reaction. At the time Sean had agreed.
Now he wandered from room to room. In the living room another stack of plays was waiting. In the bedroom the neatly made bed seemed to mock him. In his study the chapters clamored. He ought to be working, transcribing the interview, but he did not want to be alone with Bridget’s voice. Why had he resisted her? Finally he went downstairs and knocked on Dara’s door. A light shone in the window but there was no answer. He knocked again and, when he still heard nothing, retreated.
Back upstairs he telephoned his brother. For most of their adult lives, since he went to university and Lochlan decided to work in a men’s clothing shop, the two of them had been on perfectly cordial, utterly different wavelengths. But Lochlan had liked Judy, and since the divorce they had spoken less often. Or so it had seemed to Sean. Now, as he heard Lochlan’s voice, he wondered if he had simply imagined his brother’s disapproval.
“How’s it going?” said Lochlan.“Cleo and I were just saying we hadn’t spoken to you in ages, our fault as much as yours.”
Sean reported that he was working on a new book with Valentine. “About euthanasia. Not the most cheery topic.”
“And what about your own book? Is there light at the end of the tunnel?”
“I’m afraid Keats is on the back burner.” He couldn’t deal with all that at the moment. “How are you and Cleo? Did you have a good summer? How’s the job?”
“We did have a good summer. We had a terrific holiday in Corsica and my job is going well, touch wood. Sales for the last quarter are up. But the big news is that Cleo is pregnant, four months and growing. We told the parents last week.”
“Great,” said Sean. This time he managed to ask the right questions and exclaim appropriately. He couldn’t wait to be an uncle, an Easter baby, fantastic.
Then Lochlan asked about Abigail, and he tried to sound just as pleased about his own life. That his brother had not, on the basis of a single awkward lunch, warmed to Abigail only made him more anxious to conceal his present difficulties. He described the tour and managed to bring the conversation round to their mother’s birthday. Did Lochlan have any ideas for a gift?
bigail arrived back from Bradford on a Sunday afternoon. When she had unpacked and dealt with the mail, she suggested they go to the local Italian restaurant for dinner. At their window table she plied him with wine, told amusing stories, reminisced about Tuscany, and asked about the interviews. Sean answered, drank the wine, and observed his own bifurcated reactions. One part of him
blossomed in the warmth of her attention; the other was convinced that she was trying to pull the wool over his eyes. As she described a crisis with the sets, he remembered his father explaining how the train driver could stop and start the train but had no choice as to where he went. Whoever controlled the points controlled the route. Finally, from behind his raised glass, Sean mentioned Valentine: had she seen him up north?
“No. Was he planning to come to the show? This is almost as good as Siena, isn’t it?” She gestured at her plate of ravioli.
“He was in Leeds, doing an article. I thought he might pop over to Bradford.”
“If he does have any media connections in the north, I wish he’d use them. We keep getting great reviews that come out on our last day. Did I tell you that I met a young playwright, Sayid something? He’s going to send us a play.”
“I’ll look out
You could not step or move an eyelid but it would shoot to my heart—I am greedy of you—Do not think of any thing but me. . . . If you could really what is call’d enjoy yourself at a Party—if you can smile in peoples faces, and wish them to admire you now, you never have nor ever will love
me. We have to understand this in the light of his illness, Georgina had
argued; nothing else makes sense of his reaction. At the time Sean had agreed.
Now he wandered from room to room. In the living room another stack of plays was waiting. In the bedroom the neatly made bed seemed to mock him. In his study the chapters clamored. He ought to be working, transcribing the interview, but he did not want to be alone with Bridget’s voice. Why had he resisted her? Finally he went downstairs and knocked on Dara’s door. A light shone in the window but there was no answer. He knocked again and, when he still heard nothing, retreated.
Back upstairs he telephoned his brother. For most of their adult lives, since he went to university and Lochlan decided to work in a men’s clothing shop, the two of them had been on perfectly cordial, utterly different wavelengths. But Lochlan had liked Judy, and since the divorce they had spoken less often. Or so it had seemed to Sean. Now, as he heard Lochlan’s voice, he wondered if he had simply imagined his brother’s disapproval.
“How’s it going?” said Lochlan.“Cleo and I were just saying we hadn’t spoken to you in ages, our fault as much as yours.”
Sean reported that he was working on a new book with Valentine. “About euthanasia. Not the most cheery topic.”
“And what about your own book? Is there light at the end of the tunnel?”
“I’m afraid Keats is on the back burner.” He couldn’t deal with all that at the moment. “How are you and Cleo? Did you have a good summer? How’s the job?”
“We did have a good summer. We had a terrific holiday in Corsica and my job is going well, touch wood. Sales for the last quarter are up. But the big news is that Cleo is pregnant, four months and growing. We told the parents last week.”
“Great,” said Sean. This time he managed to ask the right questions and exclaim appropriately. He couldn’t wait to be an uncle, an Easter baby, fantastic.
Then Lochlan asked about Abigail, and he tried to sound just as pleased about his own life. That his brother had not, on the basis of a single awkward lunch, warmed to Abigail only made him more anxious to conceal his present difficulties. He described the tour and managed to bring the conversation round to their mother’s birthday. Did Lochlan have any ideas for a gift?
bigail arrived back from Bradford on a Sunday afternoon. When she had unpacked and dealt with the mail, she suggested they go to the local Italian restaurant for dinner. At their window table she plied him with wine, told amusing stories, reminisced about Tuscany, and asked about the interviews. Sean answered, drank the wine, and observed his own bifurcated reactions. One part of him
blossomed in the warmth of her attention; the other was convinced that she was trying to pull the wool over his eyes. As she described a crisis with the sets, he remembered his father explaining how the train driver could stop and start the train but had no choice as to where he went. Whoever controlled the points controlled the route. Finally, from behind his raised glass, Sean mentioned Valentine: had she seen him up north?
“No. Was he planning to come to the show? This is almost as good as Siena, isn’t it?” She gestured at her plate of ravioli.
“He was in Leeds, doing an article. I thought he might pop over to Bradford.”
“If he does have any media connections in the north, I wish he’d use them. We keep getting great reviews that come out on our last day. Did I tell you that I met a young playwright, Sayid something? He’s going to send us a play.”
“I’ll look out
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