G Malliet - Death of a Cozy Writer

“I do,” said Natasha hastily, to stem the flow of unneeded apology. There was something rather touching, and at the same time alarming, about Sarah’s gaucheness. A painful honesty that kept the truth just gushing out of her mouth. “I am completely an outsider, having known George-or Scorpio, as he prefers to be called these days; it’s the name of the gallery-such a short time. I gather there was quite a family powwow last night. He was livid when he came back to our room. Also worried, I’d say. Not the kind of fine emotion I’d often connect with George.”

Sarah heaved something that might have been a sigh of relief. Natasha seemed already to have taken George’s measure fairly well, relieving Sarah of the responsibility for any dire warnings.

“The marriage, you see. It changes things.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Don’t you?”

Sarah had allowed a touch of asperity to creep into her voice unbidden. She chased a bit of sausage around her plate, then rose for a refill. While in London she tried to adhere to the dietary prescriptions of her books, here at “home” no hold appeared to be barred. She felt ravenous; hummus was all very well, but there was nothing like a good fry-up on occasion, with eggs swimming in a fine film of bacon grease.

Turning back to Natasha, she said, “It’s the will, of course. They’re wondering what he’ll do, now that there’s another potential heir in the picture. Heiress, in this case.”

“If you don’t mind my mentioning it, it appears to me there’s more than enough to go around,” said Natasha. “You can’t enter a bookstore anywhere in this country without tripping over a display of Miss Rampling, peering accusingly at one through her pincenez.”

Which, on the face of it, was true, Sarah reflected. Or would be true, if her father weren’t the kind of man he was: more than capable of cutting any or all of his children out as it suited him, to the full extent allowed by law. Oh, there would probably be something left to all of them, an amount nicely judged to prevent any of them from going to the bother and expense of a lawsuit. The sad thing, to Sarah, was that Albert was the only one of them who really needed the money. George just wanted the money, almost as if he needed the reassurance his father still remembered who he was. Ruthven wanted the money, also, but because he felt it was his by right, as the eldest.

As for Sarah, she was already making more money than she could spend: the kind of wealth in royalties and advances guaranteed to bring on the unwanted scrutiny of the Inland Revenue. Most of it just sat in her bank account, earning more interest for her to pay more taxes on. People who claim to have simple tastes are generally the first to run out and buy a Jaguar as soon as they win the pools. Sarah really did have simple tastes, and no particular interest in cars. (She had accidentally run over a squirrel using her provisional license; it was years before the guilt receded enough to allow her to attempt driving again.)

She returned to the table with her refilled plate.

“I don’t think it’s the money-not entirely, or not in all cases. It’s that my father has made money into a substitute for love, if you want to know what I think. And the boys have bought into that. After years of neglect they’re all looking for some sign that he acknowledged their existence, even if it did come too late, after he was dead.”

Love. She blurted out the word in her earnest, wide-eyed way. Natasha felt she was speaking for herself rather than her brothers. Certainly, Natasha believed George when he said his father could drop dead any time, for all George cared, whether or not there were money involved.

Natasha studied Sarah thoughtfully, mentally rearranging her first impressions. Not as stupid as she appeared. Naïve and lacking in confidence, certainly, but not stupid.

“Of course, it doesn’t help Ruthven that he has Lilith whispering in his ear all the time,” Sarah was saying, warming to her subject. She found she was quite enjoying this all-girl’s chit-chat. She had so few acquaintances, male or female.

“Lilith? Surely you mean?-”

“Oh, sorry.” Sarah erupted in schoolgirlish giggles. “It just slipped out. That’s my private name for Lillian. Lilith means “Night Demon” in Arabic. Much more fitting, don’t you think?”

“Do you think so?”

The voice from the doorway held all the warmth of the Queen’s in some of her later private conversations with the then-Princess Fergie.

“Lillian! I didn’t-”

“Yes, the old demon seed herself.” With the poise born of complete indifference to such as Sarah, Lillian swept into the room.

She began to select from among the several newspapers arranged on a tray near the sideboard before helping herself to coffee.

“Night Demon,” corrected Sarah automatically. “I’m sorry, Lillian, it’s just something I came across in my research. Lilith was supposed to be Adam’s first wife. Somehow, the name just stuck in my mind. I didn’t mean…” She trailed off slowly, her unnatural honesty preventing her from finishing the sentence.

“Lillian means ‘lily flower’ in Latin, did you know that?” she finished brightly.

“What a bore this must be for you, Natasha,” said Lillian. “You’ll find our little family has its ups and downs, just like all families, although most of my acquaintance are far too well-bred to air their differences beyond the confines of the family group.” Complacently, she shook out her copy of The Guardian and, flipping noisily to its version of the society pages, began reading.

Natasha admired the woman’s self-possession. It was an excellent impersonation of aristocracy putting the revolting masses back in their place. Natasha, who had done her own research, found the act nearly pitch-perfect-for an act it was, she was certain. She wouldn’t have put it past Lillian to have arrived at breakfast dressed in jodhpurs, cracking a whip against her highly polished boots, despite the absence of a stables for forty miles or more. Instead, Lillian had opted for the simple wool sheath bedecked with a king’s ransom in pearls at neck and wrist: the uniform of the bored society matron. But not, Natasha recognized, quite the done thing for breakfast in a country manor house.

“Well,” said Natasha, dabbing at invisible crumbs before putting her napkin by her plate, “I’m off. Time to mobilize George. We’re going into Cambridge today to have a look in the Fitzwilliam, perhaps visit some of his old haunts.”

Ignoring the pleading look in Sarah’s eyes that said more plainly than words, Don’t leave me here alone with her! , Natasha took herself off. High time Sarah learned to stand up to bullies and snobs, she told herself.

Lillian aimed an insincere but well-bred “Enjoy your day” at Natasha’s back. Natasha turned at the door, smiling, and said, “Oh, never fear.” Lillian’s newspaper shielded her from the chilly smile, which was just as well. With a kindly wink at Sarah, Natasha was gone.

“I CAN SEE WHAT he sees in Mrs. Romano,” Albert was complaining, “but why the deuce does he put up with Paulo?”

“Deuce?” drawled Ruthven, from behind his paper. “Do you know, I can’t recall the last time I heard anyone use that expression.”

“Occupational hazard,” muttered Albert. “Too many drawing-room dramas.”

“I thought you were excellent in Noises Off ,” said Lillian.

Albert looked at her. For one thing, he had never actually been in Noises Off .

“Thank you,” he said at last. Lillian, he decided, was probably always so fashionably late to the theatre it was doubtful she’d ever actually seen a play.