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  Paddy abruptly rose and poured two brandies. She handed one to Lindsay and paced the floor. Lindsay sensed her anguish. She knew Paddy had worked hard to achieve her present position. That hard work hadn’t come easily to someone who was used to having the world on a plate. So it was all the more galling that even now it might come to nothing because of a way of life that hadn’t seemed so risky at the time. Lindsay ached for Paddy. She tried to find words that might help.

  “Why should she say anything? After all, she’d be admitting her involvement in the drugs scene and she’d surely be loath to damage her own reputation,” was all she could manage.

  “No, she wouldn’t do herself any damage. You see, she never used the stuff herself. Always took the deeply self-righteous line that she could feel good without indulging in artificial stimulants. As to why she should say anything—well, why not? It might be her idea of fun. She could always say she had the best interests of the school at heart.”

  Lindsay was silent. She got to her feet and went to Paddy. They held on to each other tightly. Lindsay prayed Paddy could sense the support she wanted to offer. Then, relieved, she felt the tension begin to seep out of her friend.

  The moment was broken by a single peal of the telephone. They smiled at each other, then Paddy went to her desk and picked up the phone, pressing the appropriate button to take an internal call.

  “Miss Callaghan here . . . Oh good, I’ll be right over.” She put the phone down and started for the door. “Cordelia’s arrived. I’ll go and collect her from the main building. There’s some cold meat and salad in the fridge. Could you stick it on a plate for me? She’ll doubtless be starving. Always is. Dressing’s on the top shelf, by the tomatoes.” And she was gone.

  Lindsay went into the kitchen to carry out her instructions. Her mind was still racing over Paddy’s problem, though she knew there was nothing she could do to improve the situation. She was also considering the more general problem of how to persuade Lorna Smith-Couper to grant her the sort of interview that would provide more than just a piece of padding for her feature on the school. Then there was Cordelia Brown. She might also be good for a feature interview to sell to one of the women’s magazines.

  Lindsay had never met the writer, but she knew a great deal about her from what she had read and from what mutual friends had told her. Cordelia Brown was, at thirty-one, one of the jewels in the crown of women’s writing, according to the media. She had left Oxford halfway through her degree course and worked for three years as administrator of a small touring theatre company in Devon. Then she had gone on to write four moderately successful novels, the latest of which had been short-listed for the Booker Prize. But she had broken through into a more general public awareness with a television drama series, The Successors, which had won most of the awards it was possible to be nominated for. A highly acclaimed film had followed, which had appeared at precisely the right moment to be described as the flagship of the re-emergent British film industry. All of this, coupled with an engaging willingness to talk wittily and at length on most subjects, and an acceptable quota of good looks, had conspired to turn Cordelia into the darling of the chat shows.

  As she shook the dressing and tossed it into the bowl of salad, Lindsay had to admit to herself that she was looking forward to their meeting. She had no great expectations of finding the writer sympathetic; on the other hand, she might be considerably more pleasant than her television appearances would lead one to imagine. She heard the door opening and the sound of voices. She went to the kitchen door just as Cordelia dropped a leather holdall to the floor. The woman had her back to Lindsay and was speaking to Paddy. Her voice sounded richer face to face than it did coming from the television set, which managed to strip it of most of its warmth. The accent was utterly neutral, with only the faintest trace of the drawl Lindsay had become familiar with at Oxford and with which she had renewed her acquaintance earlier that evening at dinner. “There’s four or five boxes, but I’m too bloody exhausted to be bothered with them now. Let’s leave them in the car till tomorrow.”

  Then she turned and took in Lindsay standing in the doorway. The two women scrutinized each other carefully, deciding how much they liked what they saw, both wary. Suddenly the weekend seemed to hold out fresh possibilities to Lindsay as Cordelia’s gray eyes under the straight dark brows flicked over her from head to foot. She felt slightly dazed and weak with something she supposed was lust. It had been a long time since she had felt the first stirrings of an attraction based on the combination of looks and good vibes. Cordelia, too, seemed to like what she saw, for a smile twitched at the corners of her wide mouth. “So this is the famous Lindsay,” she remarked.

  Lindsay prayed that her face did not look as stricken as she felt. She nodded and smiled back, feeling a little foolish. “Something like that,” she answered. “Nice to meet you.” She found herself desperately hoping that what she’d heard about Cordelia’s taste in lovers was true.

  She was spared further conversational efforts just then by the demands of Cordelia’s stomach.

  “I say, Paddy, any chance of some scoff?” she demanded plaintively. “I’m famished. It took much longer than I thought to get here. The traffic was unbelievable. Does the entire population of London come to Derbyshire every weekend? Or are they simply all desperate to see the new one-act play by Cordelia Brown?”

  Paddy laughed. “I knew you’d be hungry. There’s some salad in the kitchen. I’ll just get it.” But before Paddy could make a move, Lindsay had vanished into the kitchen. Cordelia shot a look at Paddy, her eyebrows rising comically and a smile on her lips. Paddy merely grinned and said, “I’ll fix you a drink. What would you like?”

  “A Callaghan cocktail special, please. Why the hell do you think I was prepared to come back to this dump?” As Paddy mixed the drinks, Lindsay returned with Cordelia’s meal. She promptly tucked in as though she had not eaten for days.

  Paddy strained a Brandy Alexander out of the shaker and passed it to Cordelia, saying, “Lindsay is writing a feature about the fund-raising.”

  “Poor old you. But you’re not an old girl, are you?”

  “Do I look that out of place?” asked Lindsay.

  “No, not at all. It’s simply that I knew that I’d never seen you before, either at school or at any of the old girl reunions. I’d have remembered. I’m good at faces. But you’re not one of us, are you?”

  “No. I know Paddy from Oxford. I was up when she was doing her teacher training. And she talked me into this. I’m freelancing at the moment, so it’s all grist to the mill.” Lindsay’s response to the assurance of the older woman was to adopt the other’s speech pattern and to polish up her own accent.

  “And what do you make of us so far?”

  “Hard to tell. I haven’t seen enough, or talked to many people yet.”

  “A true diplomat.” Cordelia resumed eating.

  Paddy chose a Duke Ellington record and put it on. As the air filled with the liquid sounds, Lindsay thought, I’m always going to remember this tune and what I was doing when I first heard it. She was embarrassed to find she could hardly take her eyes off Cordelia. She watched her hands cutting up the food and lifting the glass; she watched the changing planes of her face as she ate and drank. She found herself recalling a favorite quotation: “A man doesn’t love a woman because he thinks her clever or because he admires her but because he likes the way she scratches her head.” She thought that perhaps the reason her relationships had failed in the past was because she hadn’t looked for such details and learned to love them. She was surprised to find herself saying rather formally, “I was wondering if there was any chance you could be persuaded to give me half an hour during the weekend? I’d like to do an interview. Of course, I can’t guarantee that I’d be able to place the finished feature, but I’d like to try if you don’t mind me asking on a weekend when you’re intent on having fun with your old friends.”

  Cordelia finished eating and put her plat
e down. She considered her glass for a moment. She turned to Paddy and said in a tone of self-mockery familiar to her friend, “What do you think, Paddy? Would I be safe with her? Is she going to lull me into a false sense of security and tempt me into indiscretions? Will she ask me difficult questions and refuse to be satisfied with easy answers?”

  “Oh, undoubtedly!”

  “Very well then, I accept the challenge. I will place myself in your hands. Shall we say Sunday morning while the school is at church?” Lindsay nodded agreement. “And don’t feel guilty about dragging me away from old friends. The number of people here I actually want to see can be counted on the fingers of one thumb. And there are plenty of others I’ll be glad of an excuse to avoid. Such as our esteemed guest of honor.”

  “You’re not alone there,” said Paddy, struggling unsuccessfully to make her words sound lighthearted.

  “You another victim of hers, Paddy?” asked Cordelia, not waiting for a reply. “That Smith-Couper always had the charm and rapacity of a jackal. But, of course, she’d left before you arrived, hadn’t she? A fine piece of work she is. Beauty and the Beast rolled into one gift-wrapped package. Do you know what the bitch has done to me? And done it, I may say, in the full knowledge that we were both scheduled for this weekend in the Alma Mater?” There was a pregnant pause. Lindsay recalled that Cordelia had started her career in the theatre.

  “She’s suing me for libel. Only this week I got the writ. She claims that the cellist in Across A Crowded Room is a scurrilous portrait of her good self. Though why she should go out of her way to identify herself with a character whose morals would not have disgraced a piranha fish is quite beyond me. That aside, however, she is looking for substantial damages, taking into account the fact that the bloody thing made the Booker list and is about to come out in paperback. If she was going to get in a tizz, you’d think it would happen when the book came out, wouldn’t you? But not with our Lorna. Oh no, she waits till she’s sure there’s enough money in the kitty. Infuriating woman.” Having let off steam, Cordelia subsided into her chair, muttering, “There you are, Lindsay, there’s the peg to hang your feature on. The real-life confrontation between the Suer and the Sued. By the way, Paddy, I hope I’m not bedded down within a corridor’s length of our Lorna. The temptation to get up in the night and commit murder most foul might be altogether too much for me!”

  Through her infatuated daze, even Lindsay could detect the acrimony behind the self-mocking humor in Cordelia’s voice. “Luckily not,” Paddy replied quickly, “she’s in Pamela Overton’s flat.” She went on to explain that Cordelia was to occupy the guest room in Longnor, while Lindsay was to have the room next door, its occupant having volunteered to give up her room to the visitor in return for the privilege of sharing her best friend’s room for the two nights.

  “Fine by me,” yawned Cordelia. “Oh God, I must have a shower. I feel so grubby after that drive, and I need something to wake me up. Okay if I use yours, Paddy?” Paddy nodded. Cordelia opened her holdall and raked around till she found her sponge-bag, then headed for the bathroom, promising to be as quick as possible.

  “Another drink?” Paddy demanded. “You look as if you could use it. Quite a character, isn’t she?”

  “Wow,” said Lindsay. “Just, wow. How do you expect me to sleep knowing she’s only the thickness of a wall away?”

  “You’ll sleep all right, especially after another Brandy Alexander. And if you’re really lucky, maybe you’ll dream about her. Don’t fret, Lindsay. You’ve got all weekend to make an impression! Now, just relax, listen to the music, and don’t try too hard.”

  With those words of wisdom, Lindsay had to be content until Cordelia returned, pink and glowing from her shower. She apologized for her lack of manners in dashing off. “If I hadn’t taken drastic action, I’d have been sound asleep inside five minutes. Which would have been remarkably rude. Besides, I did want to talk,” she added with a disarming grin, as Paddy announced that, since it was ten o’clock, she was going on her evening rounds of the House to check that all was well and everyone was where they should be. Left alone with Cordelia, Lindsay found herself at a complete loss. But Cordelia was too generous and perceptive to let the younger woman flounder, and before long they were talking avidly about the theatre, a shared passion. By the time Paddy returned half an hour later, Lindsay’s nervousness had been subdued and the two were arguing with all the affectionate combativeness of old friends. Paddy was quickly absorbed into the conversation.

  In the small hours of the morning, she eventually saw her two friends to their respective rooms and made a last circuit of the house before she headed back to bed. Cocktails and conversation had driven away her earlier fears about Lorna. But as she prowled the dark corridors on her own, her thoughts returned to the cellist. Somehow Paddy would have to make sure that Lorna’s presence could not leave a trail of wreckage in its wake.

  4

  Lindsay was drifting in that pleasant limbo between sleep and wakefulness. A distant bell had aroused her from deep and dreamless slumber, but she was luxuriating in her dozy state and reluctant to let the dimly heard noises around her bring her up to full consciousness. Her drifting was abruptly brought to an end by a sharp knock on the door. Her nerves twitched with the hope that it might be Cordelia and she called softly, “Come in.”

  But the door opened to reveal a tall young woman carrying a tea-tray. She was wearing a well-cut tweed skirt and a fisherman’s sweater which engulfed the top half of her body. “Good morning, Miss Gordon,” she said brightly. “Miss Callaghan asked me to bring your tea up. I’m Caroline Barrington, by the way, second-year sixth. This is my room. I hope you’ve been comfortable in it. It’s not bad really, except that the window rattles when the wind’s in the east.” She dumped the tray on the bedside table and Lindsay struggled into a sitting position. Caroline poured out a cup of tea. “Milk? Sugar?” Lindsay shook her head as vigorously as an evening of Paddy’s cocktails would permit.

  Caroline walked toward the door, but before she reached it, she hesitated, turned, and spoke in a rush. “I read an article in the New Left last month about women in politics—that was by you, wasn’t it?” Lindsay nodded. “I didn’t think there could be two of you with the same name. I enjoyed it very much. I was especially interested, you see, because I might go into politics myself after university. It’s rather given me a boost to realize that there are other women out there with the same sort of worries.”

  Lindsay finally managed to get her brain into gear. “Thanks. Which party do you favor, by the way?”

  Caroline looked extremely embarrassed, shifting from one foot to the other. “Actually, I’m a socialist,” she said. “It’s something of a dirty word round here. I just think that things ought to be changed—to be fairer. You know?”

  Half an hour later, Lindsay felt she had been put through an intellectual mangle. Never at her best in the morning, she had had to struggle to keep one step ahead of Caroline’s endless stream of questions and dogmatic statements about everything from student politics to the position of women in Nicaragua. Trying to explain that things were never as simple as they seemed without bruising the girl’s idealism or patronizing her had not been easy, and Lindsay wished they’d been having the conversation over a cup of coffee after dinner, the time of day when she felt at her most alert. Finally, the buzz of a bell made Caroline start as she realized that this was neither the time nor place for such a discussion.

  “Oh help,” she exclaimed, leaping off the end of the bed where she had settled herself, “that’s the breakfast bell. I must run. You don’t have to worry—staff breakfast is pretty flexible, and Miss Callaghan’s waiting to take you across. Blame me if she moans on at you about being late—I’m always in trouble for talking too much. See you later.”

  “Thanks for the tea, and the chat. Oh, and the use of your room. Maybe we’ll have the chance to talk again. And if we don’t, enjoy the weekend anyway,” said Lindsay, wondering to her
self how quickly she could manage to wash and dress. She almost missed Caroline’s words as she dashed through the door.

  “Sure. But don’t ask me to join the fan club for our concert star.” And she was gone, her footsteps joining the general background clamor that the bell had released.

  Over a breakfast of scrambled eggs and mushrooms, Lindsay told Paddy about her early morning visitor. Paddy laughed and said, “She’s full of adolescent fervor about the joys of socialism at the moment. She was always an idealistic child, but now she’s found a focus, she’s unstoppable. Her parents’ marriage broke up last year, and I think we’re getting a bit of referred emotion in the politics.”

  Lindsay sighed. “But she’s not a child, Paddy, and her views are perfectly sound. Don’t be so patronizing.”

  “I’m not being patronizing. But in a closed world like ours, I don’t believe the opinions of one individual make a blind bit of difference.”

  Lindsay, who should have known better after six years’ friendship with Paddy, allowed this red herring to set her off into a familiar fight about politics. It was an argument neither would ever win, but it still had the power to absorb. In spite of that, Lindsay found herself continually glancing toward the door. Paddy finally caught her in the act, grinned broadly, and relented.

  “She’s not coming in for breakfast. She always does an hour’s work first thing in the morning, then goes for a run. She even did it when we went on holiday to Italy four years ago. You won’t see her much before ten-thirty, I’m afraid,” said Paddy.