William Boyd - Stars and bars

He could recall her tone of voice exactly. No outrage, no indignation, just a calm logical assessment. Melissa’s strength was that she was one of those women who know exactly what they want from life and set about methodically acquiring it. There was an unruffled placidity and certainty at the basis of their natures, as if life and the world were somehow in their debt…When Henderson thought about his relationship with Melissa he sometimes asked himself if it had been not so much love and affection that had drawn him towards her, but envy. Envy’s role in human emotional affairs was seriously undervalued, he considered. The people we fall in love with are very often people we envy. Marry them, become close to them, and that poisonous resentment becomes easier to live with, easier to handle…How did that poem go? “Tight-fisted as a peasant, eating love.” In that regard, he thought, enviously following Melissa into the drawing room, he hadn’t changed that much at all, and Melissa too was as alluringly confident and sure of herself as ever — with the deep tranquillity of an abbess.

The drawing room was the same colour as Melissa’s clothes: blond, beige and cream. She was completely camouflaged in it. Once, he looked round from pouring a drink and thought she had disappeared — but she had only moved in front of the curtains.

A twelve-year-old boy sat in front of a television set. He didn’t acknowledge them as they came in. Irving Wax jnr.

“Irving, it’s Henderson. And switch that off.”

“Hi,” the boy glanced round. His mouth was a canteen of orthodontic braces, the first acne clusters were evident on his chin. In general the pubertal cocktail currently being shaken up inside him coarsened his features, making him look awkward, slightly subnormal.

“Hello, Irv,” Henderson said jovially.

“Where’s Bryant?” Melissa asked.

“I’m here.”

Henderson looked round. Bryant was a tall thin pretty girl with short wild fair hair. Small breasts barely denting her baggy T — shirt, very old jeans, training shoes. He had only ever seen her looking bored or sulky.

“Happy birthday,” Henderson said and handed her the envelope that contained her present.

“What’s this?”

“Open it, Bry,” Melissa said.

She did. “Life membership,” she read slowly. “Friend of the Frick? What do I do with this?”

“Aw, Henderson. How thoughtful.”

“Yes. I thought—”

“Say thank you, little missie.”

“Yeah, but what can I do with it?”

“Well. Ah…” Melissa looked at Henderson for help.

“You can go to the Frick free, for a start. For the rest of your life.”

“What’s the Frick?”

“For Prick’s sake,” snorted Irving Wax.

“I’ll take you, baby,” Melissa said. She mouthed ‘thank you’ at Henderson and pouted a kiss in his direction. Henderson stiffened. Despite the guilt he felt, he still wanted desperately to go to bed with Melissa. He called into mind memories of Oxford, all those years ago, and tried to ignore the ungrateful way Bryant tossed her membership card on the coffee table.

Henderson opened a bottle of champagne. They toasted Bryant’s health and congratulated her on reaching the age of fourteen. She didn’t really look fourteen, Henderson thought. If he hadn’t known better he would have said twenty-two.

He sat beside Melissa on a long suede couch while a Philipino maid distributed birthday cake. Then they had coffee and Melissa lit a very long cigarette. Bryant’s request for one was turned down. She was allowed two a day and had already exceeded her quota. Henderson was vaguely shocked at this. Eventually the kids wandered out.

Henderson kissed Melissa gently on the lips. He tasted lipstick and tobacco.

“Love you, darling,” Melissa said absently.

“Me too…That is, I love you too.”

Henderson put his hand on her thigh and kneaded it gently. Melissa combed the hair above his left ear with her long nails. Henderson realized he was smiling and frowning at the same time. No wonder: he felt at this moment greatly attracted to Melissa, and wanted keenly to remarry her, and yet simultaneously was planning a dirty weekend with Irene. Once again he was dismayed at the ease with which he fell into and coped with duplicity. Was this, he wondered, something that was basically — seriously — wrong with him, or did everybody behave the same? Perhaps it was the only response possible to the generosity of America: here you could have your cake and eat it too…It was a very un-English notion, that, he reflected. We disapprove strongly of that sort of attitude.

“Melissa, darling,” he said carefully. “I’ve got to go away tomorrow for a few days. Business.”

“Oh? Where?”

Don’t give away too many clues, he thought.

“Um, near Washington. Still waiting for details.”

“Washington? But that’s wonderful.”

“It is?”

“Of course. You can go with Bryant. She’s going to stay with Mom and Daddy Wax. Flying tomorrow.”

“Ah. Shame. I’m driving, you see.”

“Henderson! Take the train as a last resort. Nobody drives to Washington.” Melissa laughed delightedly at this eccentricity.

“I do. I mean, you know how I hate flying.” Something in his mind seemed to flail around, like a snake pinioned at the neck.

“Well, look, OK. So much the better then. You must drive down with Bryant.” Melissa put her hand on Henderson’s thigh. “Think how you’ll be able to get to know each other.” She prattled on. To Henderson’s eyes the room seemed to darken with foreboding. His frail excuses and blocking tactics were swept aside as new, plans were made and schedules altered. He began to feel sick and frightened.

“What time is it?” he asked eventually.

“Quarter of nine.”

“Oh God! I’ve got to go!”

Henderson arrived gasping at The Blue Room just as Irene was leaving.

“Hey. You are one lucky guy,” she said, pointing a finger at him.

They walked back inside. Henderson deposited his coat and sabres and followed her to the bar. Stark white, thin, naked trees had been planted here and there, and the tiny blue lights festooned in their boughs gave the place an odd doleful-yet-festive air. The bar was busy. People in New York, Henderson noted, seemed to consume alcohol in vast quantities.

“Good evening,” another handsome barman said. Where do these guys come from, Henderson asked himself? Where are they made?

“Same again please. And a large scotch.”

The glasses were plunged in the ice trough, the measures were poured from a height of three feet, small limes were crushed in clean powerful fingers.

“Oh and, um,” a lime segment plopped into his whisky. “No twist.”

“Sorry, sir?”

“Cough,” Henderson cleared his throat and thumped his chest. He coughed. “Nothing.”

He turned to Irene and smiled at her.

“Here’s how,” he said in weak self-parody and sipped his drink. Then he leant forward and kissed the muscle that ran from her neck to her shoulder. He noticed she was wearing high heels. It was a bad sign: she wasn’t pleased with him. On high heels she was an inch taller than he. He told himself to relax. Controlled relaxation. He felt the whisky sluice through his veins, gee-ing up the corpuscles. Irene looked at him and laughed.

“I don’t know how you do it, Henderson,” she said. “You make me so fucking mad. Then you show up with your golf-clubs and I’ve got to laugh.”

“My sabres,” he explained. “How are you? Look nice.”

“I’ve got a cold coming. I need some Southern sun.”

“Ah.”

He had met Irene a month before at a private view in a Madison Avenue gallery. It had been raining and, like this evening, he had arrived late, damp and slightly out of breath. Standing at a wide white desk covered in catalogues and xeroxed price-sheets had been a dark, well-built girl. Absentmindedly, Henderson handed her his dripping umbrella and raincoat.