delaying. He did not need to look in the red calf -bound notebook for
the number of the house in Eaton Square.
Mrs. Chantelle Alexander, please. I am sorry, sir. Mrs. Alexander is at
Cap Ferrat. Of course/ he muttered. Thank you. Do you want the
number? That's all right, I have it. He had lost track of time. He
dialled again, this time down to the Mediterranean coast.
This is the residence of Mrs. Alexander. Her son Peter Berg speaking.
Nicholas felt the rush of emotion through his blood, so that it burned
his cheeks and stung his eyes.
Hello, my boy. Even in his own ears his voice sounded stilted, perhaps
pompous.
Rather/ undisguised delight. Dad, how are you - sir?
Did you get my letters? No, I didn't, where did you send them?
'The flat - in Queen's Gate. I haven't been back there for/ Nicholas
thought, for nearly a month. I got your cards, Dad, the one from
Bermuda and the one from Florida. I just wrote to tell you -'and there
was a recital of schoolboy triumphs and disasters.
That's tremendous, Peter. I'm really proud. Nicholas imagined the face
of his son as he listened, and his heart was squeezed - by guilt, that
he could do so little, could give him so little of his time, squeezed by
longing for what he had lost. For it was only at times such as these
that he could admit how much he missed his son.
That's great, Peter -'The boy was trying to tell it all at the same
time, gabbling out the news he had stored so carefully, flitting from
subject to subject, as one thing reminded him of another. Then, of
course, the inevitable question: When can I come to you, Dad?
'I'll have to arrange that with your mother, Peter. But it will be
soon. I promise you that. Let's get away from that, Nick thought,
desperately. How is Apache? Have you raced her yet these holidays?
'Oh yes, Mother let me have a new set of Terylene sails, in red and
yellow. I raced her yesterday. Apache had not actually been placed
first in the event, but Nicholas gained the impression that the blame
lay not on her skipper but rather on the vagaries of the wind, the
unsporting behaviour of the other competitors who bumped when they had
the weather gauge, and finally the starter who had wanted to disqualify
Apache for beating the gun. But, Peter went on, I'm racing again on
Saturday morning Peter, where is your mother? She's down at the
boathouse. Can you put this call through there? I must speak to her,
Peter. Of course. The disappointment in the child's voice was almost
completely disguised. Hey, Dad. You promised, didn't you. It will be
soon? I promised. Cheerio, sir. There was a clicking and humming on
the line and then suddenly her voice, with its marvelous timbre and
serenity.
C'es t Ch an telle Alexander qui parle.
C'est Nicholas ici. Oh, my dear. How good to hear your voice.
How are you? Are you alone? No, I have friends lunching with me.
The Contessa is here with his new boyfriend, a matador no less! The
'Contessa was an outrageously camp and wealthy homosexual who danced at
Chantelle's court. Nicholas could imagine the scene on the wide paved
terrace, screened from the cliffs above by the sighing pines and the
