Free Sweet Sorrow by David Roberts Page B

not seem to notice.
    ‘You dance beautifully. Your partner has very little to do except try not to trip over his feet,’ he said with a smile.
    ‘Where did you learn to dance so well?’
    ‘You’ll laugh, but when I was young and very short of money, I used to spend what little I had going to dance halls. I don’t suppose you think of poets as being social animals but I always liked company, particularly female. No starving in a garret if I could possibly avoid it.’
    ‘Presumably there isn’t a vast amount of money in poetry, or am I wrong?’
    ‘You are not wrong. I worked in a preparatory school for some time – oh dear, you can’t imagine how awful that was – and then I hit lucky with these detective stories. In fact, there’s talk of turning one of them into a film. My wife, Mary, is in Hollywood, as I think I told you, and she has a certain amount of influence with some of the producers over there.’
    ‘How exciting! I didn’t know you wrote detective stories as well. I’ll buy one of those too. I’ll dash round to Bumpus tomorrow straight after breakfast. I wonder if they’ll give me a discount if I say you are a friend?’
    ‘I doubt it,’ Byron said, not seeming to notice he was being teased.
    Verity thought he might offer to give her a copy but he didn’t. He sounded a little too pleased with himself and she wanted very much to prick his self-esteem but she could hardly blame him for bragging. She might be tempted to brag if she had had the same success with her writing as he had enjoyed.
    ‘And your wife doesn’t mind you dancing the night away with your charming friend?’ She hadn’t been able to stop herself. ‘Oh sorry, how rude of me!’
    ‘My wife doesn’t mind. We have a sort of understanding. What she does in Hollywood is her business and while she’s away . . . Well, she doesn’t expect me to be celibate. Are you shocked?’
    ‘No, of course not!’ Verity was shocked even if she couldn’t admit it. She wouldn’t want to think Edward was ‘dancing’ with other women when she was abroad. ‘I like detective stories,’ she said, trying to recover herself. ‘They’re an escape from the reality of death. Which do you think is your best?’
    ‘I really wouldn’t know. I always think my most recent book is my best.’
    ‘What’s it called?’
    ‘ The Unkindest Cut. ’
    ‘What’s it about?’
    ‘Oh, the usual thing – a man hears something he shouldn’t and gets murdered.’
    ‘ The Unkindest Cut – that’s a quotation, isn’t it? I’m sure I’ve heard Edward say it when he cuts himself shaving. You know, he maddens me by seeming to know the whole of Shakespeare off by heart. Is it Shakespeare, by the way?’
    ‘It is, as a matter of fact – Julius Caesar . “Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov’d him! This was the most unkindest cut of all . . .”’
    ‘Yes, it’s usually Shakespeare when the grammar’s wonky. Even I know not to write “most unkindest”. So, in your book the victim was stabbed?’
    ‘He had his head cut off, but in the play Brutus stabbed Caesar, as I expect you remember. I would have called it Cut off his Head but I’d already used it as a title. It’s from Henry VI , you know – all my titles come from Shakespeare.’
    ‘Not Byron?’
    ‘I’ll tell you a secret.’ He leant forward and whispered in her ear. ‘I prefer Shelley. In fact, my detective is called Shelley. “I met Murder on the way – he had a mask like Castlereagh – very smooth he looked, yet grim; seven bloodhounds followed him . . .”.’ he quoted.
    ‘Gosh! I’m quite confused,’ Verity said, trying not to sound sarcastic. ‘So you’re Shelley, not Byron after all!’
    When they returned to the table, Byron swept up Frieda for a foxtrot and Edward suggested Verity might like to dance with him.
    ‘I doubt I’m up to Byron’s standard but . . .’
    ‘Don’t fish for compliments. You know very well you are an excellent dancer.’
    After