Follies. Rosie ThomasЧитать онлайн книгу.
the dark, intense face among the pink- and-whiteness of the English upper classes, and smiled a little. She remembered him, too, as much less formidable to her than the closed ranks of Oliver’s social peers.
‘Don’t change the subject, anyway,’ Oliver reprimanded her. ‘Don’t you like talking about yourself? Every other woman I know adores it.’ He leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands behind his head, waiting for her to speak.
Helen was silent. How could she talk to this suave, privileged young man about any of the things that mattered to her? She knew, instinctively, that Oliver would just be puzzled, and probably embarrassed, if she told him about the problems that beset her now. She had no desire to talk to him about her father, or even her mother and brother at home in their underheated little house. And then, the things that didn’t really matter were so dull. She couldn’t hope to amuse Lord Oliver Mortimore by giving him the details of her quiet, work-filled life and the few small diversions that she allowed herself. She felt herself colouring under his stare before her resolution to stay true to herself came back to her.
‘No,’ she said coolly. ‘I’d prefer not to talk about me.’ The amiability in Oliver’s face didn’t fade, but Helen was aware that he was staring at her with a shade more curiosity in his eyes. Unexpectedly, she grinned at him. ‘Doesn’t that make me fascinatingly different from all the other women you know?’
Oliver shrugged briefly. ‘Different, anyway.’ He raised his hand in a gesture to the barman to show that he wanted more champagne.
Aware that she had dampened the conversation, Helen cast about for a neutral topic to fill the silence between them.
‘Where do you live? When you’re not in Oxford, I mean.’
Oliver frowned over his tankard. ‘Quite near here. At least, my family does. Thankfully, as a younger son, I’m not expected to involve myself too closely in all that.’ Helen could only guess at what ‘all that’ might be. She had a dim vision of a feudal hierarchy presided over in baronial magnificence by Oliver’s father. What would he be? A duke? A viscount?
‘What about you?’
Helen told him the name of her home town and Oliver looked blankly back at her. ‘Ah. Is it nice?’
‘Not especially. But then we can’t all have Gloucestershire estates.’ I shouldn’t have said that, she thought, as soon as it was out, but Oliver only smiled his brilliant smile.
‘No,’ he agreed as if she had made a telling point. ‘It’s a pity.’
Helen was realising as she sat in her corner, caressed by the glow of the champagne and the warmth of the log fire, that she and Oliver were even further apart than she had first thought. They might as well have come from different planets. Yet, surprisingly, the knowledge excited rather them depressed her. Covertly, Helen watched him lounging opposite her. He was playing absently with his silver tankard, turning it to catch the reflection of the fireglow. His fine blond hair was reddened by the warm light and his cheeks were faintly flushed by it. The aquiline features that reminded Helen of a marble knight on a marble tombstone were softened, so that he looked – as he did when he smiled – more like Oliver himself than Oliver the scion of a noble house.
I want him. The words sprang into Helen’s head unvoiced, and for an instant they shocked her. What do you want, she made herself ask. A share, came back the answer from the other, hidden Helen. To share a little bit of him, because he’s exotic and glowing and – perhaps – more than a bit dangerous. And to share through him all those things that I admire and have never had, like certainty and assurance. Not the money, or privilege necessarily, except that those things make it easier to have the others. I do want him, she thought, but I’m not making a very good job of getting what I want. If I was Flora or Fiona, I could giggle and gossip; maybe he’d think I was stupid but at least I wouldn’t be sitting here in silence.
As if to help her out, a waiter in a sleek, black jacket came over to their corner.
‘Your table is ready, Lord Oliver.’
‘Great. Are you ready, Helen?’
Under his casual demeanour, Oliver sometimes displayed beautiful, rather old-fashioned manners. His hand was under her elbow to help her negotiate the single step up into the dining room. He waved aside another hovering waiter and pulled out Helen’s chair himself, settling her into it and shaking out her thick, white linen napkin before laying it across her lap.
‘What d’you think?’ From across the starched white cloth Oliver waved around the little dining room. Helen peered about her. The light outside was brilliant, but in here it was all absorbed by dark walls and heavy oak furniture. Small, shaded lamps on each table cast pools of light, but the rest of the room was dim. There were only a dozen tables. The other diners were mostly much older than Oliver and Helen; men with port-wine complexions and silvery moustaches, women with high voices and well-cut tweeds.
‘I’ve never been to one,’ Helen told him, ‘but it looks like I imagine the dining room of a gentleman’s club.’
Oliver laughed, surprised. ‘You’re quite close. Except that the food’s a million times better. And, considering it’s really only a country pub, it has the most amazing cellar.’
He means wine, Helen reminded herself, dispelling the image of a mysterious cobwebby recess beneath her feet.
Oliver nodded to the still-hovering waiter. At once a bottle was reverently brought, wrapped in a white napkin. Oliver tasted the half-inch of red wine which was poured into his glass, frowning, intent. Then another sharp nod to the waiter gave him the signal to fill Helen’s glass. She watched, intrigued, then picked up her glass and sniffed at it as Oliver had done. The wine smelt rich, fat and beguiling, quite unlike the smell of any wine she had tried before. And a single sip told her that it was indeed something very different.
‘This,’ said Oliver, ‘is burgundy. Gevrey-Chambertin, Clos St Jacques. Not quite the very greatest, but as good as one can find almost anywhere.’ He turned his glass to the light and looked at it intently, then drank. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, and Helen knew that she was forgotten.
After a moment Oliver looked up again and recollected himself. ‘One comes here for the game,’ he told her. ‘We’re having grouse, okay?’ She nodded, not caring if they were going to eat penguin.
In fact the food, when it came, didn’t appeal to her. The meat tasted strong and not very fresh. Helen ate what she could and gave all her attention to Oliver. In response, he set out to amuse her. She realised that when he chose, he could be excellent company. He made her laugh with stories of his own casual irresponsibility, and he swept the conversation along without making any more awkward demands on Helen’s self-protective quiet. He seemed to live in a world of parties, weekends in Town, as he called London, dining clubs – and, even less intelligibly to Helen – dogs and horses.
‘Do you do any work?’ she asked.
‘Not a jot.’ His beguiling smile drew her own in response. ‘I shall get a Third, of course. Just like my father. And his father, for that matter. My brother didn’t bother with a degree at all. What difference does it make?’ He shrugged amiably. ‘More wine?’
Halfway through the meal Oliver drained his glass, tipped the empty bottle sideways, then signalled to the waiter to bring another.
‘Another?’ Helen said it out loud, in spite of herself.
‘Of course another.’ Oliver looked faintly surprised. ‘The days of the one-bottle lunch are, as far as I am concerned, ancient history.’
He drank most of the burgundy, but he took care, too, to refill Helen’s glass whenever she drank a little.
After the grouse came thick, rich syllabub in little china cups, and then brandy which made even Helen’s fingers warm as she wrapped them round the glass.
When they had finished, one of the self-effacing waiters brought the bill. Helen tried to look away, but curiosity dragged