was rather pleased by his not quite approving of you.’
‘I’m afraid it’s a con.’ I explained about the reading list for intelligent conversation and that I had so far only managed to read a fraction of each of the two books at the head of it.
‘Thank God for that. I was worried that you’d turned into a prig. Have a cigarette.’
She picked up a packet of Disque Bleu and offered them to me. I was about to refuse, mindful of my lungs, but I was afraid of seeming priggish so I took one. Isobel lit it with a lighter shaped like a silver pistol.
‘You needn’t hold it as though it was a stick of dynamite. It won’t blow up in your face.’
I took a puff. My body went into revolt. Even my toes and fingertips got pins and needles.
‘Tell me,’ I blurted out between coughs, ‘about Conrad.’
‘Hm. Where shall I begin? Can I trust you, Mother’s nark?’
‘If you’re going to be beastly … I shall … go home.’ This had been my refrain when we were children.
‘I was a beast. And I still am. I’m sorry, you’re an angel.’ Isobel put her hand – soft, with nails painted dark-red – on mine and looked solemn. ‘Don’t take any notice of me. Being at home does terrible things to my character. Say you forgive me?’
‘Oh, I know all about that mock penitence.’ I smiled and turned my hand up so that hers rested in my palm. ‘You’re trying to lure me into trusting you so that you can trip me up later. Tell me about Conrad. What does he look like?’
‘Well,’ Isobel appeared to be thinking, ‘you couldn’t say he was exactly good looking. Unless you have a taste for short, bald men with large stomachs.’
‘Does anyone?’
‘Some people might. And he has a very large hooked nose. His feet are very broad and long. It was almost the first thing I noticed about him, that he had very big feet. But though the packaging isn’t beautiful, he has the most engaging personality and that’s far more important, isn’t it?’ I agreed that it was, feeling impressed by Isobel’s maturity. ‘And of course he can afford the most elegant clothes, so you don’t notice so much. He’s one of those people who’s always the centre of attention. He has a joke for every occasion. A fantastic memory. I can never tell jokes, can you?’ I shook my head. ‘Well, Conrad remembers entire stories and the punch-line. Honestly, he’s a hoot!’
I tried to look captivated by her description. No doubt it was due to a reprehensible lack of humour on my part, but I was not particularly fond of jokes. I always found it a strain to try to rig my face into pleased anticipation before producing the mandatory laughter at the end. ‘How can you tell if they’re funny if he tells them in Yiddish?’
‘Oh, yes. Well, he speaks French. And German, of course. And I’ve got O levels in both. He’s a great tease, too, tying people’s shoelaces together when they’re asleep and putting salt into the sugar caster, that sort of thing. He’s got a disarmingly childish streak but he’s really terribly clever.’
‘Where does all the money come from?’
‘I’m not sure. Property I think. And Conrad’s made masses himself. He owns a lot of casinos.’
‘Does Evelyn know that?’
‘No, and she won’t like it at all, though it’s a more honest way to make a living than exploiting the poor like Lord Dunderave. He owns half of Paddington, apparently. Poor people are shoved ten to a room in his nasty tenements while Lord D creams off all the profits. I can’t see what’s so admirable about that.’
‘I quite agree,’ I said. ‘But casinos do sound a little …’ I paused, wondering how to put it. I took another puff of my cigarette and felt a strange giddy sensation, not unpleasant.
Isobel withdrew her hand from mine. ‘Vulgar, you mean.’
‘Oh, not that I think that. But your parents might … undoubtedly will. Do you think you could persuade Conrad, without hurting his feelings, not to mention the casinos?’
‘I’m not ashamed of Conrad.’ Isobel looked rather angry and I accused myself of tactlessness.
‘Absolutely not. He sounds … remarkable. Such a jokey character when you consider how tragic his childhood was.’
‘I can’t live my life according to my mother’s rules.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘One of the good things about money is that when you’ve got a lot of it you can do as you like.’ Isobel threw herself back on the sofa and smiled with satisfaction.
I had a healthy respect for money myself, never having had any, but I wondered if Isobel wasn’t relying too much on the happiness she imagined it would bring her. Altogether I began to fear for her future.
‘Don’t look so solemn, you little Jeremiah!’ Isobel stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Let’s go and see Rafe. He’s in the conservatory.’
I put out my cigarette thankfully, for the room was beginning to spin and my mood seemed to dip and soar alarmingly. Isobel walked on ahead with that swaying sexy walk she had had from her early teens, while I stumped along behind. The conservatory looked west towards the head of the valley. On any day of the year it was filled with light; in warm weather it became steaming and sultry because the gardeners watered the plants several times a day. Years ago, during a rare heat wave, Isobel had dared me to see how long we could withstand the furnace-like temperature, lying on the burning encaustic tiles with the sun scorching our faces through the glass. I had given in quite soon, emerging scarlet and sizzling, but Isobel had stuck it out. She had been discovered by one of the gardeners in a dead faint. She was put to bed and my father sent for and there had been another row.
Now the conservatory was dazzling because of the snow. Rafe was standing with his back to us, looking out at the hillside, an easel in front of him, a paintbrush between his fingers. Isobel crept up behind him and put her hands over his eyes. He gave a shout, spun round, hit out and caught the side of her face with his hand. She staggered and fell. It all happened in a second and then he was on his knees beside her.
‘Darling, I’m so sorry!’ Tenderly he pulled her into the circle of his arm and examined her face, then stroked her head. ‘I was miles away and you startled me. Did I hurt you?’
‘I’m all right. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have crept up on you. It was stupid of me.’
Rafe helped her up. ‘Hello, ‘he said to me, but his attention was given to Isobel.
‘Lucky it wasn’t Marigold.’ Isobel laughed. ‘Imagine the clatter of flying crutches and cracking of plaster and the crunching of bones.’
‘I’m ashamed of myself, overreacting like that.’ Rafe’s voice was soft, his hands gentle as he smoothed his sister’s hair. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m absolutely fine. Don’t fuss. How’s the painting going?’
‘I was so absorbed trying to capture those shadows … there, beneath that line of trees –’ he looked out towards the landscape and tapped his own painting with the end of his brush – ‘that I was in another world.’
‘Dancing feels like that quite often,’ I said. ‘The walls of the rehearsal room simply disappear. And on the stage during a performance you completely forget about the audience. It’s a terrific jolt when you come back to reality.’
‘Yes. Forgetting oneself is the best thing about painting for me.’ I saw the incident with Isobel had jarred his nerves. His eyes were very bright in contrast with cheeks that were pale, unless it was the reflection of the snow.
I looked at the snowscape on the easel, a watercolour of greys and purples and blues, very bold, almost abstract. ‘It’s very good.’