Greyglass, Tanith Lee [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

They met in London, at Anne’s small, plush hotel by Regents Park. Susan was nervous. She had put on a loose black summer dress which made her look slim, and showed off her white skin that never browned, try as she sometimes had, and pale gold sandals, and earrings, to be festive.

Anne came straight down to the foyer. Once Wizz had looked like a film star. Now Anne did.

Her hair was very short and sleek and ice-blonde, shining and expensive. The cream linen dress was expensive too, entirely plain. On her left hand, but not on the wedding finger, was a square-cut and brilliantly faceted emerald, as big as a five pence piece. Her golden hands had pearl-white nails.

She was immensely, and seemingly totally, tanned. She looked as if she had been dipped in liquid amber, and brought out evenly coated. But as they drew closer, Susan noticed the sun had also cracked Anne’s surface here and there. They were couth, fine cracks, but they were cracks.

“Honey!”

Heads had turned already anyway. How Anne looked, walked, her clothes and ring, her costly scent. Though the hotel was a place for the moneyed, not many of them, for all their dollars, had managed to look like Anne.

Susan hugged Anne carefully, afraid to spoil her immaculate veneer. Anne had no such reservations it seemed. Her embrace was warm and strong – hard. Her body felt hard. Susan wondered why, for Anne had never carried any superfluous flesh.

“How are you? My God, you do look sweet. Look at you. Your face is so pretty, Susan. And your lovely eyes. Why didn’t you ever send me a photograph like I asked you?”

“There were never any really nice ones. I kept waiting for a really nice one –” (Actually, waiting for Anne to stop asking. How could Susan send a photo of herself that Wizz might, even for a split second, look at?)

“But now here you are. Susan Wilde.”

Anne’s eyes were alight. Not moist, but vivacious and full of excitement.

She’s more excited than I am.

“You’re not feeling tired?”

“Oh I never have this jet-lag stuff. I sleep on the plane. I feel fantastic. Let’s get some lunch, I am starving.”

Anne drank a vodka tonic (no longer gin) and Susan a glass of cold white wine, as they leafed through the pink and fawn menus. It was nearly two o’clock, the restaurant half empty, but no one hurried them of course.

“I can’t believe you. My God, Susan. Look at you. It’s been almost four years. Why wouldn’t you ever come over and see us?”

“I wanted – it’s just – the college, and the holidays are so short to get anything arranged. And they give you holiday projects to do –”

“Yes, yes. Well you’re nearly through with that. Come in the fall, yes? We’ll lay on the red carpet treatment.”

“Mmm. Thank you. Only I may have to do an extra course then. One of the tutors, Rod Ayres, he wants me to do a specialist course on design, book jackets, that sort of thing. He knows some people in publishing.” She added the mysterious proviso, the Masonic code everyone seemed to grasp but herself. “It could mean real work, a job.”

But, “Rod Ayres?” said Anne. “What an English name.”

“I think he’s Irish.”

“Well, but what happened to your Patrick?”

“Rod’s a tutor. I still see Patrick,” Susan lied.

“He sounded very fuckable,” said Anne, jolting Susan. “Now I’ve embarrassed you. I get used to the States. Our crowd is pretty open in what we say.”

“We – yes, we have sex together.”

“And you’re on the Pill. Good. Thank God for intelligence.”

They ordered. Susan grapefruit and then grilled chicken, Anne smoked salmon and steak with mashed potato.

“So what is Patrick going to do after college?”

“He’s already got into the Royal College of Art. He’s actually there this year. They raved about him, so he started early.”

“Impressive.”

But Anne had lost interest in Patrick’s prowess as an artist. Would she have been more inclined to hear details of his sexual abilities?

Susan thought, I don’t know what to say to her. All this is so stilted.

Perhaps extra alcohol might have helped – but after her vodka Anne only drank water with the meal, so Susan did that too.

In any case, Anne then took over the conversation, effortlessly at last. She spoke about America, and about Wizz, about cities and landscapes, about going to Canada last fall, (the spectacular leaves) about their friends, and their friends’ houses and apartments, that all seemed to be in areas named things like this or that Heights.

The last time Susan had been in London was with Patrick, after the Royal College had accepted him. They had gone out (splitting the bill) for a meal at a steak-house, and afterwards he hadn’t invited her back to his new flat, they had just walked along the Embankment, and parted at Charing Cross, presumably for ever.

“Let’s go shopping this afternoon,” said Anne. “But first come up to my room. I want to give you all the things I’ve brought you.”

Up in the room, drink became available again, a bottle of Smirnoff, ice, glasses, tonic and limes. A waiter conveyed this, and on his way out Anne tipped him two pounds.

“Try this on.” Anne didn’t work now. Like everything else, including the lunch, Wizz had in fact bought all this, everything.

The dress was red, with a halter neck, low in the back and very short. The vaunted price must be in the silk, not in the amount of silk.

Susan got into it, feeling uneasy, not taking off her bra, which then looked tacky and ridiculous. But the dress did anyway. It was too red, too showy. However, it did fit.

“It’s great, Anne. I’ll wear it to the next party.”

“Wait till you see the blue one. Yes, now your eyes are blue. But I like it when they look grey. Mine have got greener. But yours are like mine used to be.”

There was also a make-up kit, a miraculous object, like a child’s