Читать книгу Mystical Paths - Susan Howatch - Страница 22

My father said I had to take Martin a small present to signal my thanks for his hospitality so I bought some oranges from a barrow-boy at Waterloo station. Martin, a reformed alcoholic, regarded freshly-squeezed orange juice as a big treat. When I arrived at his flat in Chelsea he had just returned from a rehearsal at the theatre. A revival of Noel Coward’s Present Laughter was due to open in the West End shortly after a successful trial run in the provinces. My father and I had seen the production at the Starbridge Playhouse.

‘Oranges!’ exclaimed Martin as I mutely shoved the bag at him. ‘How clever of you!’

I tramped along behind him into the spare bedroom where the wallpaper, curtains and bedspread all matched. The whole flat had this same manicured, expensive look, conjuring up images of a high-class tart. In the living-room middle-brow books sat on white shelves. Nasty examples of modern art leered from the walls. Signed photographs of show-business luminaries, all professing undying love, were positioned at various strategic points so that it was impossible to look anywhere without seeing a famous face who allegedly adored Martin. Below the middle-brow books were the middle-brow records where the noises of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Peggy Lee were lavishly represented. The current copy of Variety lay open on the coffee table. On the desk were scattered provincial press cuttings, all proclaiming how wonderful Martin was in Present Laughter. I wandered around feeling like a creature from another planet and tried to work out how I could stay in my bedroom till it was time to go to the party.

‘Can I have a bath?’ I said in a moment of inspiration.

I soaked and I soaked and I soaked. Eventually Martin called: ‘You haven’t drowned, have you?’ and I had to get out. When I finally reappeared, dressed in my best jeans and my favourite blue shirt, Martin said: ‘A casual party, is it? Whereabouts do you have to go?’

‘Albany.’

This impressed him. Martin, whose mother had been working-class, was a snob. ‘You mean the Albany? Off Piccadilly?’

‘You don’t say “the” Albany. That’s not done. You just say “Albany”,’ I said, very much the son of Anne Darrow, née Barton-Woods, of Starrington Manor.

‘What’s good enough for Oscar Wilde is good enough for me, you little snob – look up the reference in The Importance of being Earnest! Who’s your host?’

‘A guy called Perry Palmer.’

‘Perry Palmer?’ Martin’s face, trained to express every conceivable emotion to every conceivable degree, now registered a profound astonishment. ‘What are you doing going to one of Perry’s parties?’

I was equally astonished. ‘You know him?’

‘Not well, no, but we’ve friends in common – friends in the theatre. How on earth did the two of you meet?’

‘He’s a friend of Christian Aysgarth’s.’

‘Ah yes, the Starbridge connection – all is explained. But nevertheless, how extraordinary! If I were on stage I’d declare in my best sinister voice: “It’s a small world!” and a shiver would sweep through the audience!’

I experienced a moment of amnesia, as so often happens when one’s confused. ‘Have you met any of the Aysgarths?’

‘Almost the whole damned lot, yes – don’t you remember me telling you? When Present Laughter played in Starbridge recently Dean Aysgarth and that fantastically bizarre wife of his gave a party for the cast.’

‘So they did, I remember now. And Christian was there, wasn’t he – he came down specially from Oxford –’

‘And Perry came down specially from London. Tell me, who else is going to this party of his tonight?’

‘Oh, various people I know.’

‘Girls?’

‘You bet.’

‘Thank God!’ said Martin. ‘For one ghastly moment I thought I’d have to come to Albany to chaperone you, and all I want to do after that rehearsal is put my feet up and watch the box.’

‘Are you trying to tell me –’

‘Perry moves in certain circles, yes. God, what a relief it is to live like a monk! I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but when one gets to the advanced age of fifty-eight, the thought of performing in bed as well as on the stage is simply too exhausting to contemplate, and now I find I’m hopelessly hooked on the delights of living alone.’ He laughed before adding: ‘Getting like Dad, aren’t I? No wonder he’s decided I’m a fit person to keep an eye on you when you come trundling up to London! I’ve even started to go to church. They do a first-class show at St Mary’s Bourne Street – brilliant stagecraft enhanced by the English lust for ceremonial! I’m wild about the whole gorgeous circus.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That type of Anglo-Catholic ritualism has always appealed to people like you.’ I stood up. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Well, watch yourself with Perry Palmer,’ said Martin smoothly as the conversation degenerated into a verbal punch-up. ‘Psychics are usually attractive to both sexes. I bet Dad’s had plenty of men in love with him in his time.’

‘The most irritating thing about homosexuals,’ I said, heading for the door, ‘is that they believe everyone’s secretly homosexual. A true triumph of hope over statistics.’

‘That’s a great exit line!’ cried Martin, genuinely amused, but I walked out without looking back.