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Chapters (30)
  1. Introduction
  2. LIFE AT THE TOP
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. About the Author
  30. About the Cover

He went prattling on, a child with a glass of Bristol Milk in one hand, and a big cigar in the other; I moved a little closer to Norah so that our shoulders at least might touch. I wanted to tell her what I felt, quickly and concisely as in those plays where ten seconds whispering informs the hero that the Countess is really the Field-Marshal’s illegitimate great-niece and the firing squad used blanks and that the plans which were burnt were blank paper and the Countess’s daughter who is really a British agent will be waiting with the real ones at the east gate of the Château de Crapaud at sunset. There should be some way, I thought resentfully, of communicating my message as easily; and then I realized, with a mounting joy, that no words were nec­essary. What I had to tell her, she knew already.

Brown crooked his finger at me. “Come here, Joe,” he said. “Come here and set Julian right.”

“I’ll try,” I said.

A child, I told myself, a child. And at sixty you’re nearer the night; how could I have forgotten that?

8

8

I suppose that Sybil bathed as often as anyone else we knew, and certainly her conversation was full of references to her daily bath. But she always smelled of stale sweat: I caught a whiff of it now as I patted her shoulder.

“Don’t cry, love,” I said. “It may never happen. What’s the matter, anyway?”

“I can’t tell you,” she said. “It’s too much to bear. It’s too much to bear.”

“All right,” I said. I went over to the cocktail cabinet and mixed myself a whisky and soda. This was the second time this week that I’d come home to find Sybil weeping in the drawing-room; my question had been merely a matter of form. I was well aware of the reason for her tears; she’d found out about Mark and Lucy Harbutt. You stupid fat smelly old cow, I said to my­self, why are you cluttering up my drawing-room?

“I’ve been such a fool,” she said. “Such a blind fool. How they must have laughed at me, the poor blind fool!” She uttered the phrase with a grotesque relish.

“You’d better have a drink,” I said.

“You men think that’s an answer for everything. Have a drink, have a cigarette, here’s some flowers, buy yourself a new hat—” She laughed. “I’m not a baby, Joe, I’m a woman. I’m a woman who’s been hurt and humiliated and I can’t bear any more of it. If it weren’t for the children, I’d put an end to it all.”