‘Oh dear, yes. What a curious amalgam of antique metaphysics, harsh Calvinism and contemporary absurdism that play was… What was it called? They invariably sink without trace, plays like that…’
‘But don’t you see? If I did accept Arcati, there would be no going back – I’d have reached the point of no return – don’t you see?’
‘See what exactly?’
‘The die, darling. The die would be cast.’ Melisande shut her eyes. ‘I’d be entering the dreadful dimension of typecasting. No-nonsense nannies – Valium divas. Character parts, darling! Dipso dolly divorcees on the verge of a nervous breakdown.’
‘The dipsomaniac divorcee is a particularly Anglo-Saxon phenomenon,’ Winifred said thoughtfully. ‘In French films, I have noticed, women excel in a kind of existential hysteria without need for a whiff of alcohol-’
‘All right, there are some good dramatic parts, perhaps, for, to employ your pet phrase, women of a certain age. I wouldn’t mind playing Mrs Stone in her Roman spring… Blanche Dubois – don’t tell me I am too old to play Blanche! No, not Bernarda Alba – I have pledged never to play matriarchs… I wouldn’t mind Florence Lancaster either, or Livia in Women Beware Women.’
‘How about morose Mrs Alving?’
‘I am not sure… I have a soft spot for Ibsen, true… But it would mean patting the cheek of some sallow, sweaty, syphilitic Oswald night after night after night… A most definite no to Miss Havisham and Aunt Betsey Trotwood, or to any other Dickens woman, for that matter. Most Dickens women are such bores.’
‘Lady Dedlock and Rosa Dartle are not bores.’
‘I haven’t really done much comedy, have I?’
‘You did Miss Prism last year.’
‘Miss Prism was an exception. I did it as a special favour to Neville. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.’ Melisande lowered her eyes. ‘I believe I was a little in love with Neville. I wore pince-nez! How ridiculous people in pince-nez always look!’
‘You made Miss Prism recite a limerick, which is not in Wilde. “The Young Lady of Clare”.’
‘That wasn’t too awful, was it?’
‘No, not at all. It struck the right note. It was hilarious. You brought the house down. Your comic timing was perfect.’
They were sitting at a corner table at the Savoy Grill. The service, as could have been expected, was impeccable, the food delicious, if a little too rich for Winifred’s taste. She regretted having plumped for roast Anjou pigeon with sauteed Jerusalem artichoke and pommes Anna after the pan-fried foie gras. She should have had the veal cutlet with root vegetables. Melisande had insisted that they have dinner together. Melisande had hinted she might have important news to impart…
‘Actually, Win, I would love to play you one day.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. One of those ladylike, rather repressed Rattiganesque Englishwomen, passionless in a cloche hat.’ Melisande sketched an amorphous shape above her head. ‘The kind of woman who haunts the Riviera in the low season, having taken advantage of reduced rates, not minding the discomforts of her small pension, her excessively composed manner hinting at latent hysteria. One sees her reading a novel after dinner, or merely immersed in maiden meditation – having ordered a small pot of black coffee in perfect French.’
‘Is that how you see me? How very amusing.’
‘No, not passionless. Seething with suppressed emotions behind her fastidious and aloof exterior – disguising her true feelings from everyone, even from herself. I’d insist on a scene where she takes off her hat and brooch and disrobes herself to reveal some really outre underwear.’
‘Why outre?’
‘That would convey the idea that she has a startling fantasy life,’ Melisande explained. ‘Do you remember how Papa Willard used to say that you would make a good actress? He refused to even consider the possibility of me becoming one.’
‘On that count Papa Willard was wrong.’
‘As it happens, Papa Willard was wrong on most counts.’
They had always called their late father Papa Willard.
Melisande peered at her. ‘You look a bit wan, Win. Grey and withered. What’s the matter? Or is it the light?’
‘Must be the light. I am fine, really. A little tired, perhaps.’
‘What have you been doing to tire yourself? I know you’ve been up to something.’ Melisande spoke in teasing tones. ‘I never know what you do or what you think. You look as prim as a prawn, but I am far from convinced that’s the real you. I haven’t the faintest idea what goes on in your head. No one would think we shared a house!’
‘It’s a large house,’ Winifred said lightly. ‘We have our separate quarters.’
‘I have been feeling trop troublante,’ Melisande said after a pause. ‘The truth is that I have been occupying an emotional cul-de-sac. I have been conforming to a pattern of existence only the most desperate human being would have chosen for themselves. You see, I haven’t recovered yet. The perfidy of my cavalier servante still haunts me.’
Winifred’s face remained blank. When it came to putting on a display of histrionics, her sister had no equal. ‘You mean James, don’t you?’
Melisande covered her eyes with her hand, as though to protect them from the glare of a merciless sun. ‘I still can’t believe he left me for that woman. Isn’t it incredible that I should have been deposed by a bulky-bottomed Balkanite? Isn’t it grotesque? Well, perhaps now he’ll reconsider. Perhaps now he’ll come to his senses.’
‘What do you mean – now?’
‘I know that I hated James and I wished him dead and I wanted to cut his Savile Row suits and ties into strips and raid his cellar and smash all his bottles of vintage port and pour paint all over his Porsche – but that was because I loved him so much.’
‘You said that James’ conduct, by any standards of civilized behaviour, was despicable.’
‘I am sure you think me inconsistent and irrational, but I am quite prepared to give him another chance. I believe it is not too late for me and him to find mutual flowering in each other.’
‘You swore you’d never give him another chance.’
‘It is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. There will be some conditions of course. He will have to apologize. He will have to show genuine remorse. He will have to give me his word of honour that nothing like that would ever happen again.’
‘You said you didn’t want to see him for as long as you and he occupied this world. You said he deserved to be buried alive.’
‘Oh dear. Such colourful denunciations! Such pyrotechnics of verbal dexterity! I believe I was in a Medea mood. I remember alternating between rage and despair. When one is upset, darling, one says all sorts of things one doesn’t really mean. Try not to look so disapproving. The poor waiters will think there’s something wrong with your Anjou pigeon. They are so horribly sensitive here.’
‘It would be a mistake to have James back.’
‘You talk like this, because you were always a little in love with James yourself – you think I don’t know? No, it isn’t nonsense. Whether we like it or not, Win, we are both at an age when our cells and tissues start to impart unwelcome information, when the tick-tock of our body clocks becomes as loud and insistent as a church bell-’
‘I don’t think it would work. I really don’t.’
‘I wish I had your uncompromising spirit. Unfortunately, I haven’t.’ Melisande dropped her starched napkin on the table. ‘Furthermore, I am not ashamed to admit my weakness. James and I had something very special. Still have – these things don’t change overnight.’
‘But he is engaged to be married – I thought that was as good as settled. You said he told you they’d be leaving for Bulgaria early next month. They’ve bought the plane tickets, rings and practically everything, haven’t they? Stella’s moved in with him. Stella wants to be married in an Orthodox monastery, so they even contacted a priest-’
‘Oh, how I wish I didn’t tell you everything!’ Melisande cried. ‘Why am I such a fool? You even use the priest against me!’
