The Line of Beauty

John Timms stared unblinking towards the closed door of the room; Badger sat back in a curl of smoke. 'All right!' It was Catherine.

'That child would try the patience of an oyster,' said Gerald, with evident feeling but also a snuffle of amusement, a darting glance to judge the effect of his allusion.

Then the front door closed again, more thoughtfully, and a man's voice was heard-'You need to be careful, girl… ' Nick gave a little snigger, trying to commute it into Russell's voice, but Gerald had set down his cigar and stood up: 'Sorry…'he murmured, and walked towards the door with a dwindling smile. 'That's my sis,' said Toby. 'As I was saying… ' said Morden Lipscomb. When Gerald opened the door, the man was going on quietly but urgently, 'You need to calm down, Cathy, I don't like it, I don't like seeing you like this at all…' and Nick's heart went out to the Caribbean accent, in instant sentimental allegiance-he felt himself float out towards it from the cigar-choked huddle at the table, the Oxonian burble and Barry's whine.

'Who are you?' said Gerald.

'Oh, Christ, Dad!' said Catherine, and it was clear she was crying, the last word broke as she raised her voice.

'And are you Cathy's father, then…'

Nick got up and went into the hall, with the feeling he must try to curb Gerald's unhelpful sharpness, and an anxious sense of the things Gerald didn't know, that might now have to be named and negotiated. He was half in the dark himself. If someone told you they were OK, was it wrong to believe them? She was standing at the foot of the stairs, gripping the gold chain of her bag in both hands and looking both angry and vulnerable: Nick almost laughed, as you do for a second at the latest catastrophe of a child, and seem to mock it when you mean to reassure it; though he was frightened too. There was quite a chance he'd have to do something. He peered at her, with the frank curiosity allowed in a crisis-it really was childlike, the quick fall; she had only gone out two hours ago. Her mouth quivered, as if with accusation. She was tiny in her high heels. Nick knew the man, he was the minicab driver she'd been friendly with, the one she'd had back to the house when Gerald and Rachel were away, fiftyish, grizzled at the temples, heavy-built, a sweet hint of ganja about him: well, all the Orbis drivers sold the stuff. He was completely and critically different from everything else in the house. Nick said, 'Hi!' under his breath, and rested a hand on his shoulder.

'What's happened, darling?' he said.

'Who is this man?' said Gerald.

'I'm called Brentford, since you're asking,' the man said slowly. 'I brought Cathy home.'

'That's really kind of you,' said Nick.

'How do you know my daughter?' said Gerald.

'She needs taking care of,' said Brentford. 'I can't help her tonight, I got a job.'

'He's the minicab driver,' said Nick.

'Does he need paying?' said Gerald.

'I don't charge her,' said Brentford. 'She call me when he dump her.'

'Is this true?' said Gerald.

'It's really kind of you,' said Nick.

Catherine made a little scream of disbelief, and came and took Brentford's arm, but he kept a wary dignity with her too and didn't hold her: he pushed her gently towards Nick, and she leaned against him, wailing but not holding on to him. She was in her own distress, she wasn't seeking solace from Nick, just somewhere to stand; still he put a cautious arm round her. 'Is it Russell?' he said. But she couldn't begin to answer.

'What is it, darling?' said Rachel, hurrying downstairs.

Gerald explained, 'That bloody little shit's dumped her,' clearly saying, through pretended indignation, what he most hoped had happened. 'Poor old Puss.'

Rachel looked at the three men, and there was a hint of fear in her face, as if Brentford had brought some threat much larger than Catherine's tantrum into the house. 'Come upstairs, darling,' she said.

Barry Groom had come out into the hall, staring and twitching his head, and so drunk suddenly that there were unconscious delays to his aggression. 'Look here, you!' he shouted at Brentford. 'I don't know who you are. You fucker!'

Gerald put a hand on his wrist. 'It's all right, Barry.'

'You keep your hands off her, you…'

'Oh, shut up… you arsehole!' said Nick, without planning to, and shaken by the sound of his own raised voice.

'Yes, shut up, you wanker!' said Catherine, through her tears.

'Now, now!' said Barry, and then something awful, a sly smile, slid on to his face.

'God, I'm really sorry… ' said Nick to Brentford.

'Why are we all standing here?' said Gerald.

'Darling, come up,' said Rachel.

'Let's finish our port and cigars,' said Gerald, turning his back on Brentford. He had to show, for the sake of the party, that he took scenes like this with habitual good humour. 'Will you take her up, darling?' he said, as if there were really a chance he might do it himself.

Catherine moved away and started up the stairs, and Rachel tried to put an arm round her, but she shook it off. Nick took Brentford to the door. 'Are you sure we can't pay you?' he said, though he doubted he had the price of a fare from Stoke Newington himself. He wanted Brentford to know he wasn't guilty of the thing the whole house stood accused of.

'He's a bad man,' said Brentford, on the doorstep.

'Oh… ' said Nick, 'yes… ' He wasn't certain which man was being referred to, and Brentford's shake of the head and flap of the arm seemed to write them all off.

Nick stood on the pavement for a while after the Sierra had gone, and heard the laughter of the women from an open window above. It was good to be out of the house, in the night air. He was trembling a little from having shouted at someone he hated. He thought of Leo, and smiled, and hugged his hands under his armpits. He wondered what Leo was doing, the afternoon flared up again and warmed him with amazement; then the thought of Pete came over it like the chill of a cloud. He went in and slowed as he passed by the half-open door of the dining room: '… the beggar stank of pot!' Gerald was saying, to odd humourless laughter. Now perhaps he could really go upstairs, and taste the freedom of being the odd man. He didn't have a place in either of the two parties. It was bad form to go away, it admitted a prior desire to do so; but he couldn't go back and sit with Barry Groom. He thought Gerald might be angry with him too, but he would surely be glad of his taking an interest in Catherine. It couldn't be called a shirking of responsibility. Nick started to climb the stone stairs, and had hummed several bright anticipatory bars from Schumann's Fourth Symphony before he stopped himself.

6

'GOD YOU'RE A twit,' said Leo. He looked fretfully at different parts of Nick, unable to place his dissatisfaction exactly. In the end he licked his thumb and rubbed his cheek, as if Nick was a child. This word twit, a tiny sting, had come up before, and signalled some complex of minor reproaches, class envy, or pity, the obvious frustrations of having a boy like Nick to teach. As always Nick searched for something else in it too, which was Leo's tutting indulgence of his pupil; he still longed for flawless tenderness, but he forgave Leo, who for once was nervous himself. They were on the Willesden pavement, ten yards from his front gate. 'You're so fucking preppy,' said Leo.

'I don't know what that means.'

Leo shook his head. 'What am I going to do with you?'

They had met after work, across the road from the Council offices, and Leo was wearing a dark grey suit with square shoulders and a white shirt and a wide but sober tie. It was the first time Nick had seen this beautiful everyday metamorphosis, and he couldn't help smiling. He was in love to the point of idolatry, but the smiles, the appreciative glances, seemed to strike Leo like a kind of sarcasm. 'You look so handsome,' Nick said.

'Yeah, and so do you,' said Leo. 'Right, we're going in. Now what did I tell you, don't take the name of the Lord