Follies. Rosie Thomas
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easy audience, Chloe found. She made the edited version of why she had decided to come to Oxford sound as amusing as she could, and she gave him a quick, vivid sketch of her London advertising life. Stephen laughed with her, admiring her animated face as she talked. The morning’s good humour consolidated itself inside him. At length, he made himself look at his watch.
‘Oh God, I’m due to watch some auditions at twelve. I must go.’
‘With the young Apollo and his business manager?’
Stephen laughed. ‘Exactly. I’d forgotten you were there.’
‘Who are they?’
‘The tall fair one is Lord Oliver Mortimore.’
Chloe saw again the aquiline good looks and the unmistakable hauteur in Oliver’s bearing as he stood back to watch the world go by. Just as if it was there for his benefit alone, she thought, and her heart sank for Helen’s sake. Helen’s eyes had been just too bright when she talked about him, and her bewildered eagerness had been just too obvious. Chloe sighed. A mismatch, she thought, if ever there was one, and the only person likely to be damaged by that was Helen herself. Well, perhaps it would come to nothing anyway.
‘Do you know him, then?’ Stephen was asking.
‘No. It’s just that a friend of mine does. And who was the other, the business manager?’
‘You’re quite close to the truth, as it happens. Tom Hart, son of Greg Hart and heir to just about the entire New York theatre business.’
‘What can he be doing here?’ Chloe asked, interested. Hart was a famous name.
‘God knows. Nothing to do with the University. He’s got an assistant directorship at the Playhouse, so I suppose he’s dabbling in front of the scenery instead of behind it. He seems to have a dramatically clear idea of who he wants to know over here, anyway. He attached himself to young Mortimore within days of arriving in Oxford, and now he’s cast him as Orlando. Not that they make a bad pair – they’re both as self-satisfied as each other. I’m responsible for seeing that they don’t make a travesty of the production …’ Stephen made a quick, boyish face, ‘… and so I try to sit in on things from time to time.
‘Look, why don’t you come along too, if you’re not doing anything else? It might interest you; they’re looking for Hart’s idea of the perfect Rosalind.’
‘Yes, why not?’ Chloe wanted to see if her first impression of Oliver had been the right one, and she was more than happy to spend another hour in Stephen’s company.
Once more she felt the light touch of Stephen’s guiding hand at her elbow, and they walked down the steps together and out into the wintry sunshine. As they turned in the direction of the theatre, Stephen peeled off his gown and bundled it under his arm. Chloe tucked her hands deep into her pockets and let herself enjoy the cold air in her face and the play of the light on the stonework around them. They were crossing the inner quadrangle of the great library, the Bodleian, and unconsciously Chloe’s step slowed as she looked up at the ancient façades.
‘Mmm, yes,’ Stephen said beside her. ‘I must have walked through here a million times, and it can still stop me dead in my tracks. On the right day, and in the right company, of course.’
They paused for an instant in silence, and as Chloe’s gaze travelled downwards she caught sight of a familiar, slight figure. Helen was standing under the great arch that led through into Broad Street, silhouetted against the intricate tracery of the wrought-iron gates. She was carrying a stack of books that looked too heavy for her thin arms, and was struggling to hoist a heavy bag over her shoulder.
Chloe waved at once, and called out, ‘Helen! Over here!’
Helen stopped at once and they caught up with her a moment later. It was Chloe, she saw, with Stephen Spurring. She couldn’t prevent a smile from escaping. It was so perfectly in character that Chloe should already have secured for herself a tête-à-tête with the heart-throb of the faculty. Helen herself suspected that Stephen was more two-dimensional than the image he projected, but she was well aware that he cut a wide and successful swathe through the hordes of women surrounding him.
‘I was just going to lunch,’ she told them quickly, not wanting to interrupt whatever it was they were doing together. ‘If you go early it doesn’t take so long, and I want to get back to work …’
‘Hello, Helen,’ said Stephen easily. ‘I haven’t seen you since last term, have I? Good Vac?’
Helen bit her lip, but it wasn’t a question that needed to be answered. Stephen had cocked his head to one side to read the titles of the books under her arm.
‘Mmm, mmm, good. Oh, don’t bother with that one,’ he pointed. He was effortlessly back in the role of teacher again.
Impulsively, Chloe took Helen’s arm. ‘Look, we’re going to the Playhouse to hear some girls audition for your friend Oliver’s play. Come with us. That’ll be all right, Stephen, won’t it?’
‘I should think so,’ Stephen said without enthusiasm. He would have preferred to keep this effervescent, glowing girl to himself rather than have half the students in town accompanying them.
‘Really?’ Helen’s face lit with a wash of colour that spread over her pale cheeks. ‘I’d love to come along and watch. You know, Tom Hart even asked me to have a go, so I’d be intrigued to see what people have to do.’
It was something else that had brought the blush to her cheeks. Oliver had asked her, too, one morning during the breathless week that had just passed.
He had come strolling into the library where she was working and she heard the rustle of people turning to stare before she looked up herself. Oliver leaned over and took the pen out of her fingers before kissing the knuckles. The girl next to Helen gasped audibly.
‘Come and be my Rosalind,’ he said. He made no attempt to whisper and she heard his voice carrying to the far corners of the room. But no-one tried to say hush to Oliver.
‘I can’t act,’ she murmured.
Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. ‘A good thing too. Don’t ever try to act with me, because I’ll know.’ He kissed her, a gentle experimental kiss as if they were alone in the world. Even here, Helen felt herself tremble in response. ‘No,’ he said meditatively. ‘You don’t pretend anything.’
Helen left her papers in a drift on the desk and stumbled out of the library.
Oliver followed her, bestowing his dazzling smile on the rows of readers.
‘Oliver,’ she gasped, shaking with laughter, ‘don’t do this. What must all those people think, in there?’
There was a narrow stone window beside them, with a dizzy view down to an oval of lawn set like a green jewel in an ancient ring. He drew her into the window embrasure and held her there against the smooth stone.
‘It doesn’t matter to us,’ he told her, ‘what anyone thinks. Does it?’
Helen looked up into his tanned face and saw his tongue against his even teeth. ‘No,’ she said, almost believing him. ‘Not one bit.’
Oliver reached out to her and undid one button at her throat.
‘Cold, and then hotter than fire,’ he murmured. ‘You know, I came to ask if you would sit in at a rehearsal for us. Read Rosalind’s lines and help me to concentrate. But now I don’t feel like rehearsing at all. Come back to the House with me. Now.’
‘I can’t …’
‘Oh yes, Helen, you can.’
They laughed at each other, and she repeated, delighted at how easy it was, ‘Oh yes, I can.’
He took her hand and they ran down the spiral stairs, along a cobbled lane and across a little square, and out into the brightness of Canterbury Quad. Oliver banged his oak behind