Follies. Rosie Thomas
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Helen, but she was no less electrically aware of him than ever. The four of them were packed close around the little table, and her skin prickled with the nearness of his long sprawled legs. The sight of his fingers curled round the wineglass brought a flush to her cheeks and the sound of his voice, not even what he was saying, obliterated the clatter of the noisy restaurant. Yesterday, just to have been close to him like this would have enough to make her happy. But the intrusion of this beautiful, assured newcomer had changed all that. Helen looked from Pansy to Oliver, whose dégagé air had completely disappeared, and felt a twist of apprehension.
She turned back to her unwanted food, oblivious to everything but the threat that suddenly loomed in front of her. She didn’t see a pair of her College friends gazing round-eyed across the room at the sight of quiet bookish Helen Brown in such glossy company. It would have come as a surprise to Helen to know that she was part of a striking picture, with the two bright blonde heads and two intensely dark ones bent close together.
At last Pansy looked at her tiny gold watch. ‘God, look at the time. I was supposed to be at a tutorial five minutes ago.’ She made the word sound archaic and faintly ridiculous. And she made no move to get up. Instead, she poured herself another glass of wine and beamed round at them. ‘Still, I expect he’ll wait for me. I’m not a real student anyway, I’m just doing a one-year art history course. To please Daddy, really. He wanted me to come to Oxford to meet the right people. Future kings of Broadway. And lords, that sort of thing. And brilliant women dons.’ Generously, she included Helen too, and Helen felt herself warming in response to Pansy’s friendliness. ‘I have to do something while I’m here and I don’t know anything about art or history, so it seems as good a choice as any. Daddy said doing a typing or cookery course wasn’t “suitable”, and Kim backed him up. Kim’s my stepmother. My third stepmother, actually. She’s all of twenty-seven, and acts like seven. You must all meet her, it’s a real eye-opener.’
‘Why?’ asked Tom, interestedly. ‘Does she beat you and dress you in rags, like a proper stepmother does? Even though she’s a bit young for the job?’
Pansy laughed merrily.
‘Just the opposite. I don’t care much about clothes, but Kim endlessly drags me round to shops and fittings and designer shows. And she’s too languid to mix a cocktail, let alone beat me. But if you think I’m not very bright, you should meet Kim.’
‘I suspect you’re quite bright enough,’ Tom said quietly.
‘You are a darling. And don’t worry, I’ve got enough native wit to handle Rosalind. Inherited from Daddy, no doubt. Oh Lord, he’ll be furious if I don’t even get to my first lesson. I don’t even know where the place is.’
Pansy fumbled in the soft Italian leather pouch bag that was slung over the back of her chair and brought out a list. ‘Ashmolean Museum?’
Oliver, who had been watching her with fascination, suddenly stood up. ‘I’m going over there. I’ll take you.’
Solicitously, just as he had done yesterday for Helen, he drew back her chair and helped her to her feet. Pansy put her hand on his arm, thoughtlessly accepting it as her right to be escorted and protected.
‘’Bye, then.’
‘Oliver …’ Helen had no idea what she wanted to ask him, but he half turned in response and she thought his face softened.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said. ‘At Follies.’
He was gone so quickly with Pansy that Helen found herself staring at the empty space where they had been.
I’ll see you soon. She would have to be content with that.
Opposite her Tom was staring blankly too. It was a moment before they faced each other and realised that they were alone.
‘Well.’ Tom was smiling crookedly. ‘Shall we finish the wine?’
Helen pushed her glass across to him. Instinctively, she liked Tom Hart and – more than that – he was Oliver’s friend. She could at least talk about him.
‘I’ve never met anyone like him before,’ she said softly.
‘Oliver? Neither have I. He’s got a lot of style, and I admire that. He doesn’t give a damn about anything either, and I don’t think that’s just because of who he is. Although that helps. Think of living in a place like Montcalm. Of coming from a family like that … holders of the highest offices in the realm for hundreds and hundreds of years.’
You’re impressed by that, Helen thought. Am I? Am I? Perhaps.
Tom was still talking. His dark eyebrows were drawn together over his high, beaked nose and his mouth, usually compressed in a sardonic line, curved wider as he looked into the distance.
‘That’s quite something, you know, to a Jewish boy like me. My family tree goes back no further than my great-grandfather. He was called Hartstein, and he arrived in New York with no more than the clothes he stood in. He scraped a kind of living for his wife and kids by doing piecework in the garment trade. The business he slaved for happened to have a sideline in theatrical costuming. My grandfather had a flair for that, took it over at the age of twenty, and ended up a celebrated costumier. And my father – well, my old man has a flair for everything. Greg Hart owns five Broadway theatres now, and a string more across the country.’
‘I think that’s more impressive than just being born a Mortimore,’ Helen told him gently.
Tom smiled at her in response, and she saw that although his face was stern and his mouth ungiving, there was real kindness behind his dark, hooded eyes.
‘Perhaps.’
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘What are you really doing in Oxford, if you’ve got all that waiting for you in America?’
Tom picked up a fragment of bread from the tablecloth and rolled it between his fingers into a grey, doughy ball.
‘I’m in disgrace, as it happens. Serving out a year’s exile in the guise of doing my apprenticeship in the British theatre. By the time I get back, my old man reckons all the fuss will be forgotten.’
Helen stared at him, intrigued. She had forgotten herself enough not to worry about being tactful. ‘What fuss?’
‘D’you really want to know?’
‘Of course. What could be bad enough to deserve being banished from home for a whole year?’
Tom laughed shortly. ‘It’s not so bad. I miss New York, that’s all. Do you remember that production of The Tempest that was so successful in the West End last year? With Sir Edward Groves and Maria Vaughn?’
Helen nodded, dimly recollecting having read about it.
‘My father brought the production over for his summer season. With the original cast, starring the theatrical knight and his new wife Miss Vaughn.’
Helen remembered that, too.
‘Well, whatever Maria had married her knight for, it had nothing to do with bed. In spite of the fact that she’s very interested in that side of things herself. Most of us are, after all. When I was offered the choice, before the run had even started, I was hardly likely to turn her down. She’s very beautiful, and disturbingly sexy. Before long we were screwing each other at every possible opportunity. At my apartment, in her hotel room, in her dressing room. And that’s where Sir Edward caught us at it. Careless of me, really. The scene that followed was high drama – threats, screams, hysterical weeping, the whole works. It culminated with Sir Edward stamping down to my father’s office and announcing that the Hart family was not to be trusted, so he and Maria were back off to London and fuck the opening night. Greg flung himself into the scene like the old trouper he is. There were more accusations of filial disloyalty, immorality, perfidy and general filthiness. Of course, Edward really had no intention of missing out on the chance to bestow his Prospero on Manhattan. They compromised by despatching me to England instead. This job was fixed up for