Free Dancing in the Dark by Susan Moody Page A

exactly a high-powered motor boat, but there’s still a sense of impermanence about it.
    â€˜I suppose even my home reflects my restlessness,’ Fergus says, as though reading my mind.
    â€˜Always ready for a quick getaway, right?’
    â€˜Right.’ He lifts his glass to the light and looks through it. ‘How would you describe that gorgeous colour?’
    â€˜Crimson? Ruby?’
    â€˜Vermilion. Garnet. I never understand why they talk about the blood-red wine.
The King sits in Dumfernline toun, drinking the bluid-red wine
. . . even in Scotland, one of the great non-wine-growing regions of the world, it can’t have been anything like the colour of blood.’
    â€˜Mulberry,’ I said.
    â€˜Mulberry is good.’ He smiles at me. ‘Yes, I’m still single because, in my experience, women don’t like being on the move all the time, they prefer to settle down in one place.’
    â€˜I’m like that.’
    â€˜How did I guess?’
    I ignore that. ‘Are you working on a book at the moment?’
    â€˜Naturally. That’s what I do. At least . . .’ He rubs at his cheek. ‘I’m
trying
to work on a book. This one’s proving difficult to get down to.’
    â€˜What’s it about?’
    â€˜Everything. Nothing. Life.’ He hesitates. ‘I just got back from Mexico. I’m interested in a painter called Lennart Wells. Ever heard of him?’
    I shake my head.
    â€˜Some years ago Wells walked out of his house and vanished into the Mexican jungle. Every now and then one of his paintings appears on the market but nobody ever sees him. I thought it might be fun to try and track him down, see if he would talk to me, tell me why he literally got away from it all. It sounds like a story I could work with.’
    â€˜Didn’t Somerset Maugham already write that one?’
    â€˜
The Moon and Sixpence,
yeah. But I’d be approaching it from a different perspective. It could be good. But it’s still very nebulous.’
    â€˜Is it difficult, being a writer?’
    â€˜A lot of the time. But when it works, it’s the biggest buzz in the world.’
    â€˜It must be hard to think of new plots.’
    â€˜They say there are no new stories, only new ways of telling them. That’s what I like about the job. Putting words together and ending up with a story.’ A sudden glow of enthusiasm shines in his eyes. ‘Ever appreciated how fortunate we are to live in a world so crammed with words, where everything,
everything
, has a name? Everything. And not just one name but many, alternate names, names in every language, hundreds and thousands of them, millions?’
    â€˜Once you’ve named something, I guess that kind of ties it down.’
    â€˜That’s exactly right.’ He moves closer. ‘Did you know that the English language, as spoken in the British Isles, contains more than half a million words?’
    â€˜I didn’t.’
    â€˜But you know about writing yourself,’ he says. ‘I’ve got copies of your books. I especially liked the one about container gardens. That’s the sort of gardening I’d enjoy.’
    A woman who’s been eyeing us for some time now comes over. ‘You’re Theo Cairns, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Yes. And this is Fergus Costello.’
    â€˜Ah.’ She tries to remember why she knows the name and then gives up on it. ‘Forgive me interrupting, but I saw one of your miniature gardens recently and thought it was absolutely exquisite. I loved the little pagoda. And the musicians –
so
adorable!’
    â€˜They’re great, aren’t they?’
    â€˜I was at a banquet at the Guildhall recently,’ she goes on. ‘The tabletops you did there were absolutely stunning.’
    â€˜Well . . .’ I spread my hands deprecatingly. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
    She leaves and Fergus