Love, Again

the door, but it was too late: the corridor was empty, though she heard the lift descending.

Dearest Sarah,

I am so unhappy you are going and I may never see you again. You are a very special friend and I feel I have known you all my life. I shall never forget our time together in Belles Rivieres and I shall always think of you with true affection. Perhaps next year? I can't wait!!!

Gratefully,

Bill

P.S. Please feel free to let me know if other productions of Julie are projected anywhere in Europe or the States????????? Why shouldn't Julie conquer New York? That is a lovely thought, isn't it?

While she was drinking coffee at her window, the porter brought two letters.

Dear Sarah,

Before leaving the beguiling atmospheres and influences of Julie Vairon, but I am happy to say only temporarily, I feel I must tell you how much it has meant to me to be with you all, but particularly with you. The financial aspects of this enterprise will I am sure prove more rewarding than we ever anticipated, but it is not this that prompts me to write to you. You will, I am sure, find it improbable that I never even suspected the theatre could offer such rewards, though when I think about it, I enjoyed acting in a minor role in Death of a Salesman in the school theatrical group when I was a youngster. When I reflect that all this has been going on ever since and that I have had no part in it, I really can't forgive myself. And so, my dear Sarah — I hope I may call you that — I look forward to seeing you at Julie's first night in Oxfordshire.

Until then -

Benjamin

Sarah!

You won't know who this is, I suppose, since you are so obstinately gazing in the wrong direction. I am madly in love with you, Sarah Durham! I have not been so overthrown since I was an adolescent. (Yes, all right.)

Somebody loves you I wonder who I wonder who it can be.

Your secret lover

P.S. I have always been crazy for older women.

At first shock, this letter actually seemed to her insulting. She was about to tear it up, her fingers trembling, in order to deposit the fragments in the wastepaper basket, when… Wait a minute. Hold your horses, Sarah Durham. She carefully reread the letter, noting with satirical appreciation for her inconsistency the following reactions: First, the attack of false morality. Second, irritation, because she simply couldn't attend to it, when she was so beset with emotions. Third, the classic retort to an unwanted declaration of love, faintly patronizing pity: Oh, poor thing: well, never mind, he'll get over it.

Who was it? Because of what she had heard last night but had at once said to herself was impossible — 'How about it, Sarah?' — she had to admit it must be Andrew. To whom she had never given a thought not strictly professional.

She carefully put this letter away, to be read later when not intoxicated. To be accurate, when no longer sick. Bill's letter she did tear up and she dropped the pieces neatly one by one in the basket as if finally ridding herself of something poisonous.

It was now eight in the morning. She chose a sensible dress in dark blue cotton, partly because she thought, I will not be accused of mutton dressed as lamb, partly because a dull dress might sober her. The noise outside was already so loud she sat for a few minutes, eyes closed, thinking of that long-ago youth on his hillside — absolute silence, solace, peace. But suddenly into this restoring dream the three war planes from yesterday inserted themselves, streaking across the antique sky and vibrating the air. The boy lifted his dreaming head and stared but did not believe what he saw. His ears were hurting. Sarah went quietly downstairs. She did not want to have to talk. In a side street was a little cafe she believed was not used by the company. The tables outside Les Collines Rouges were all empty except for Stephen, who sat with his head bent, the picture of a man struck down. He did not see her, and she walked past him to the Rue Daniel Autram. Whoever Daniel Autram was or had been, he did not merit pots of flowers all along his street, though on either side of the cafe door were tubs of marguerites. This cafe had a window on the street and, presumably, something like a window seat, for she saw two young sunburned arms, as emphatically male as those of Michelangelo's young men, lying along the back of it. The forearms rested side by side, hands grasping the elbows of the other. The arms being bare, there was a suggestion of naked bodies. This was as strong a sexual statement as Sarah could remember, out of bed. She was stopped dead there, in the Rue Daniel Autram, as noisy children raced past to a bus waiting for them in the square. I have to go back, go back, breathed Sarah, but she could not move, for the sight had struck her to the heart, as if she had been dealt lies and treachery. (Which was nonsense, because she had not.) Then one young man leaned forward to say something to the other, as the other leaned forward to hear it. Bill and Sandy. This was a Bill Sarah had never seen, nor, she was sure, had any female member of the company. Certainly his first mother had never been allowed a glimpse of this exultantly, triumphantly alive young man, full of a mocking and reckless sexuality. And the charming, winning, affectionate, sympathetic young man they all knew? Well, for one thing, that person had little of the energy she was now looking at: his energy was in bond to caution.

She forced herself to take two steps back, out of the danger of being seen, and walked like a mechanical toy to the table where Stephen still sat. Now he did lift his head, and stared at Sarah from some place a long way off. He reminded himself that he should smile, and did so. Then he remembered there was something else, and said, 'Thanks for your letter, I'm glad you wrote it.' And he was glad, she could see that. 'I did get it wrong, actually.'

She sat by him. There was nobody else on the pavement yet. She signalled for coffee, since Stephen had not thought of it.

'I got another letter this morning,' he said. 'A day for letters.'

'So it would seem.'

He did not hear this, and then he did and came to himself, saying, 'I'm sorry, Sarah. I do know I'm selfish. Actually I think I must be ill. I said that before, didn't I?' 'Yes, you did.'

'The thing is… I'm simply not this kind of person. Do you understand that?' 'Perfectly.'

He produced a letter, written on the paper of l'Hotel Julie, in a large no-nonsense hand.

Dear Stephen,

I was so flattered when I read your letter and realized you were kindly asking me to spend a weekend with you in Nice. Of course I did know you were fond of me, but this! I do not feel this could be an ongoing committed relationship where two people could grow together on a basis of shared give-and-take and spiritual growth.

I do believe I can look forward to this kind of relationship with someone I got to know in Baltimore in spring when we were both working on The Lady with a Little Dog.

So wish me luck!

I shall never forget you and the days we have all spent together. I can only say I profoundly regret the commitments which make it impossible for me to be Julie in Oxfordshire. Because there is something special about this piece. We all feel it.

With sincere good wishes,

Molly McGuire

Sarah tried not to laugh, but had to. Stephen sat with lowered head, looking across at her, sombre and even sullen. 'I suppose it is funny,' he conceded. Then he did, unexpectedly, sit up and laugh. A real laugh. 'Well, all right,' he said. 'A culture clash.'

'Don't forget they have to divorce and remarry every time they fall in love.'