The Line of Beauty

letters. 'It must have looked odd, these arriving all the time,' he said. A lot of them had the special-issue army stamps of that summer.

'He told us it was all to do with some cycling thing, a cycling club,' said Rosemary.

'His bike was his first love,' said Nick, unsure if this was merely a quip or the painful truth. 'It was clever of him.'

'These ones I think he didn't see. They've got a cross on.'

'There's even a woman wrote to him,' said Gemma.

So Nick started going through the letters, knowing it was pointless, but trapped by the need to honour or humour Rosemary. He saw her as a stickler for procedure, however unwelcome. He didn't need to read them in detail, but the first two or three were eerily interesting-as the private efforts of his unknown rivals. He concealed his interest behind a dull pout of consideration, and slow shakes of the head. The terms of the ad were still clear to him, and the broad-minded age-range, '18 to 40.' 'Hi there!' wrote Sandy from Enfield, 'I'm early 40s, but saw that little old ad of yours and thought I'd write in anyway! I'm in the crazy world of stationery!' A snap of a solidly built man of fifty was attached to the page with a pink paper clip. Leo had written, House/Car. Age? And then, presumably after he'd seen him, Too inexperienced. Glenn, 'late 20s,' from Barons Court, was a travel agent, and sent a Polaroid of himself in swimming trunks in his flat. He said, 'I love to party! And sexpecially in bed! (Or on the floor! Or halfway up a ladder!! Whoops-!)' Too much? wondered Leo, before making the discovery: Invisible dick. 'Dear Friend,' wrote serious-looking black Ambrose from Forest Hill, 'I like the sound of you. I think we have some love to share.' The exclamation marks, which gave the other letters their air of inane self-consciousness, were resisted by Ambrose until his final 'Peace!' Nick liked the look of him, but Leo had written, Bottom. Boring. Nick made a stealthy attempt to remember the address.

When he'd read a letter he passed it back to Rosemary, who put it face down on the table, by the coffee pot. The sense of a game ebbed very quickly with his lack of success. The fact was these were all men who'd wanted his boyfriend, who'd applied for what Nick had gone on to get. Some of them were pushy and explicit, but there was always the vulnerable note of courtship: they were asking an unknown man to like them, or want them, or find them equal to their self-descriptions. He recognized one of the men from his photo and murmured, 'Ah…!' but then let it go with a shrug and a throat-clearing. It was a Spanish guy who'd turned up everywhere, who'd been a nice dark thread in the pattern of Nick's early gym days and bar nights, almost an emblem of the scene for him, its routine and compulsion, and he knew he must be dead-he'd seen him a year ago at the Ponds, defying his own fear and others' fear of him. Javier, he was called. He was thirty-four. He worked for a building society, and lived in West Hampstead. The mere facts in his letter of seduction had the air of an obituary.

Nick stopped and drank some coffee. 'Was he ill for a long time?' he asked.

'He had pneumonia last November, he nearly died; but he came through it. Then things got, well, a lot worse in the spring. He was in hospital for about ten days at the end.'

'He went blind, didn't he,' said Gemma, in the way people clumsily handle and offer facts which they can neither accept nor forget.

'Poor Leo,' said Nick. Relief at not having witnessed this was mixed with regret at not having been called on to do so.

'Did you bring the photos?' said Gemma.

'If you want to see…' said Rosemary, after a pause.

'I don't know,' said Nick, embarrassed. It was a challenge; and then he felt powerless in the flow of the moment, as he had on his first date with Leo, he met it as something that was going to happen, and took the Kodak wallet. He looked at a couple of the pictures and then handed them back.

'You can have one if you like,' said Rosemary.

'No,' said Nick; 'thank you.'

He sat, rather hard-faced, over his coffee.

After a bit Gemma said, 'This is proper coffee, isn't it.'

'Oh…!' said Nick, 'do you like it. It's Kenyan Rich, medium roast… It comes from Myers' in Kensington Church Street. They import their own. One pays more, but I think it's worth it.'

'Mm, it's lovely and rich,' said Gemma.

'I'd rather not look at the other letters now,' Nick said.

Rosemary nodded. 'OK,' she said, as if skimming forward for another appointment, a cancellation. 'I can leave them with you…?'

'No, please don't,' said Nick. He felt he was being pressed very hard very fast, as in some experiment on his emotions.

Gemma went to the lavatory-she murmured the directions to herself as she tried the door, and then slipped in as if she'd met a friend. There was silence for a while between Nick and Rosemary. The extremity of events excused anything, of course, but her hardness towards him was another shock to get used to: it added puzzlingly to the misery of the day. She was his lover's sister, and he thought of her naturally as a friend, and with spontaneous fondness and fresh sympathy on top of mere politeness. But it seemed it didn't work the other way round. He smiled tentatively. There was such a physical likeness now that he might have been asking Leo himself to be nice to him, after some row. But she'd decided against the note of tenderness, even towards Leo himself.

'So you hadn't seen him for a year or two?' she said.

'That's right…'

She looked up at him warily, as though starting to concede his own, homosexual claim on her brother and wondering where such a shift might lead her. 'Did you miss him?' she said.

'Yes… I did. I certainly did.'

'Do you remember the last time you saw him?'

'Well, yes,' said Nick, and stared at the floor. The questions were sentimental, but the manner was detached, almost bored. 'It was all very difficult.'

She said, 'He hadn't made a will.'

'Oh, well… he was so young!' said Nick, frowning because he found himself on the edge of tears again, at the thought that she was going to offer him something of Leo's-of course she was cold because she found it all so difficult herself.

'We had him cremated,' Rosemary said. 'I think it's what he would have wanted, though we didn't ask him. We didn't like to.'

'Hm,' said Nick, and found he was crying anyway.

When Gemma came back she said, 'You must see the toilet.' Rosemary gave a loyal but repressive smile. 'Or is that trick photography?'

'Oh…!' said Nick. 'No… no, it's real, I'm afraid.' He was glad of the absurd change of subject.

'There's a picture of him dancing with Maggie!'

It was one of the photos from the Silver Wedding, Nick red-faced and staring, the Prime Minister with a look of caution he hadn't been aware of at the time. He wasn't sure Gemma would get the special self-irony of the lavatory gallery. It was something he'd learnt from his public-school friends. 'Do you know her, then?' she said.

'No, no,' said Nick, 'I just got drunk at a party…' as if it could happen to anyone.

'Go on, I bet you voted for her, didn't you?' Gemma wanted to know.

'I did not,' said Nick, quite sternly. Rosemary showed no interest in this, and he said, 'I remember I promised to tell your mother if I ever met her.'

'Oh…?'

He smiled apprehensively. 'I mean, how has she coped with all this?'

'You remember what she's like,' said Rosemary.

'I'll write to her,' said Nick. 'Or I could drive over and see her.' He pictured her at home with her pamphlets and her hat on the chair. He had a sense of his charm not having worked on her years ago and was ready to do something now to make good. 'I'm sure she's been wonderful.'

Rosemary gave him a pinched look, and as she stood up and collected her things she seemed to decide to say, 'That's what you said before, wasn't it? When you came to see us?'