Sextet Read Online Free Page A

the acting process, liked this transformation, this switch into character. Occasionally, boasting to his friends of the insights his work afforded him, he would also boast of this. He waited; he sniffed; faintly, through the humid air, he thought he could smell burning, an acrid scent.
    ‘Some water. A little honey. My throat’s tight,’ the actress replied, in her usual voice.
    The young man, surprised, fetched them with alacrity. He felt uneasy at this departure from tradition, but his unease proved unfounded. It was agreed by the entire cast, and all the stagehands, that for some reason, Natasha Lawrence’s performance was especially electrifying that night.

HALLOWE’EN

II
    T HE PARTY WAS BEING held on Hallowe’en to celebrate a film; possibly the completion of a film, or its launch, possibly the clinching of some deal in connection with a film. The photographer, Steve Markov, who wangled the invitation for Lindsay Drummond, inclined to the latter view. ‘Money,’ he said, holding up the somewhat peculiar invitation card hand-delivered to Lindsay’s London apartment. He sniffed it in a theatrical manner. ‘I smell money. A co-production deal? Subsidiary rights? Video release in Venezuela?’
    He smiled one of his fugitive mocking smiles. Lindsay regarded him warily. Markov was one of her oldest friends, but his superabundant energy tended at times to swamp her. In the past, other friends, in particular Gini Hunter, had mitigated Markov’s influence. But Gini’s departure to Washington DC had left her unprotected, fighting some lonely rearguard action. Markov was currently conducting an energetic campaign to alter her life—he described it as sad ; she suspected the manoeuvrings. Having smiled, adjusted the dark glasses he permanently wore, and stretched back against the cushions of her sofa, he confirmed this.
    ‘You have to go, Lindy,’ he went on, more firmly. ‘I’m going. Jippy’s going. You should go. “ Nel mezzo del cammin, ” my best beloved. Get a life.’
    ‘I detest that phrase,’ Lindsay replied, turning the invitation card this way and that. ‘That phrase is glib. That phrase is cant.’
    ‘Which? The Dante?’
    ‘ Not the Dante, and stop showing off. Stop calling me Lindy. How do you read this damn thing anyway?’
    ‘You hold it up to a mirror, I think.’
    Lindsay did so. The invitation card, which was shocking pink and had appeared to be printed in Arabic, Sanskrit, or hieroglyphs, at once became readable, if less than informative.
    Diablo!!! , it read. Beneath that, in a smaller typeface, was a brief command: ‘Lulu says Come to Celebrate All Night on All Souls’ Night’. Appended, in a very small typeface indeed, was an address in London’s Docklands, three fax numbers and the Hallowe’en date.
    ‘Who’s Lulu?’ Lindsay asked, inspecting this.
    ‘Lulu Sabatier. You must know her; she’s a legend. Everyone does.’
    ‘Do you know her, Markov?’
    ‘Not exactly.’ His tone became evasive. ‘I know of her; she knows of me. Now she knows of you, so she’s invited you to her party. Except it won’t be her party, not really. Her place, but she’ll just be fronting it. Welcome to Wonderland, Lindy. You know movie people. You know how they operate, yes?’
    ‘She’s in PR, in other words.’ Lindsay gave him a cold look. ‘This is a PR party. Give me strength.’
    ‘PR? PR? I’m seriously wounded by that accusation…’
    ‘It has all the hallmarks: frantic ingenuity, mirror-writing, for God’s sake. A way of attracting attention in a world with a ten-second attention span. How does she cap this, Markov? Send out the next invitations in Morse?’
    ‘It’s an idea. I’ll mention it…’
    ‘And Diablo ? Who’s Diablo? What’s Diablo? Where’s Diablo?’
    ‘You mean you don’t know ?’ Markov removed the dark glasses, the better to give her a pitying look. ‘Lindy, where have you been this last month? Pluto , perhaps? Diablo, sweetheart, is the name of