Free She Died Young by Elizabeth Wilson Page B

religions.’
    ‘Religion? That might be interesting. And you know Drownes’ isn’t as fuddy-duddy as it used to be. I’m making sure of that.’ To the horror of that dreadful old gorgon, Edith Blake, once the power behind the throne, now reduced to fuming impotence on the sidelines. If only she’d leave … she was dangerous. A frustrated lesbian, what else could you expect? Regine was sure Edith guessed something was going on – and if she found out, if anyone found out – but it was better not to think about that.
    They turned through the gate of the Botanical Gardens and walked along the gravel paths between neat box-edged beds. ‘We might be in another century,’ she said.
    ‘Actually, we are. That’s part of the problem.’
    ‘Let’s sit down, shall we?’ She gestured to a convenient bench. ‘It’s a little chilly, but … a short rest.’
    She settled herself, her legs crossed, the coat pulled richly round her. She turned towards him, pale, thin face and great green eyes so closely focused on him that he could not help, she was sure, being flattered. He might not desire her; there might be that dead space between them where erotic attraction should have pulsed, but young men like him always lapped up the attention of an older woman, a woman of the world. She was, after all, in her own small way a figure of sorts on the literary scene, with her parties and dinners for her husband’s distinguished authors and the gallery owners and artists and critics who were also of their world. Lately, however, had come a new turn, so that now she understood that her world could stretch wider still and that she could gain a foothold in thrilling regions of real power: the murky world of politics.
    ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’ He took a packet of Sobranie Turkish from his pocket. She couldn’t help smiling at the affectation. He was still so young, after all, half her age. He lit the oval, untipped cigarette and blew out scented smoke. ‘My social life’s taken the most tremendous dive.’
    There was a purpose to her visit. The cloudy afternoon wrapped them in a kind of companionable melancholy, but she must break the comfortable silence to introduce the vital subject. It was stupid to be so nervous. ‘I met your supervisor the other day. Hegley Quinault, isn’t it? He thinks very highly of you.’
    ‘You met Professor Quinault?’
    ‘He published a book with Drownes’, you know. He’s supposed to be tremendously clever. You’re lucky to have him, I imagine.’
    Charles looked at the tip of his cigarette. ‘He said he thought highly of me? He was just being polite. I don’t think I interest him at all, actually. He has bigger fish to fry.’
    ‘He came to one of our parties … a funny little man … He was in intelligence during the war, wasn’t he? His book for us was about Julius Caesar, but it’s his adventures in Eastern Europe that really interest William. Since the spring, when Burgess and Maclean reappeared in Moscow, everyone’s so interested in all that again.’
    ‘Really?’ He murmured the word between almost closed lips, too blasé to speak aloud.
    ‘But I daresay he’s rather out of touch now. Isn’t he very old? He looked old. Is he interested in politics at all?’
    ‘I hardly ever see him. Don’t be taken in by him, though. He pretends to be a moth-eaten old don, slowly turning to dust in the library, and doddering around College, but that’s just a smokescreen. The other day, when I was having a supervision with him, some Tory MP turned up.’
    Her heart jumped against her ribs beneath the violet coat and she squeezed and kneaded the dark blue gloves she’d taken off when they sat down. Tory MP? It must be! What amazing luck he’d raised the subject himself! She played with the empty glove fingers, pulling and smoothing them flat. That made it easier to say what she had to say, what she was dying to say, even though it was so difficult.
    ‘Rodney Turbeville.’
    A faint