Sextet Read Online Free Page B

Tomas Court’s new production company, and Tomas Court, white hope of American movies, is going to be at this party, Lindy, my dear. In person. Himself. Or so Lulu claims, Lulu not being one thousand per cent reliable, of course.’
    Lindsay digested this information. She had her pride.
    ‘Markov,’ she said firmly. ‘I have no intention of going to this party.’
    ‘You’re intrigued; admit you’re intrigued. Lulu’s hooked you. I knew she would.’
    ‘The hell she has. Lulu? That has to be the silliest name I’ve heard in years…’
    ‘She used to be called Pandora…’
    ‘That doesn’t make it better, it makes it worse. Markov, I don’t go to this kind of party on principle. Life’s too short.’
    This remark, as Lindsay instantly realized, was a mistake. A smile curled around Markov’s lips. He finished his post-lunch coffee, then made his conversational pounce.
    ‘Do you want to change your life, or not?’ he began. ‘Because I seem to remember, honeychild, that last month, or like the month before that , you said—’
    ‘I can remember what I said.’
    Lindsay hastily rose to her feet. She edged across to the window and looked down at her familiar London street. Leaves whirled in an autumnal wind; the sun shone; the weather had an optimistic look. Backing away from the window, she thumped a cushion or two into place, tidied up the already tidy pile of Sunday newspapers, surveyed the detritus of the lunch table, fetched the coffee pot, and poured herself another cup of coffee she would not drink.
    She had hoped that one of these aimless activities might deflect Markov; none did. With buzz-saw determination, he stuck to the point.
    ‘ Age was mentioned,’ he was continuing, still with that maddening smile on his face. ‘ Career was mentioned. Domicile was mentioned. I suspect the term “empty-nest syndrome” came up…’
    Lindsay gave a groan. One of Markov’s least pleasant traits was his perfect recall of past conversations. Could she actually have used that trite phrase ‘empty nest’? Surely she had not sunk as low as ‘syndrome’?
    ‘I was drunk,’ she said. ‘If said that, which I doubt, I must have been drunk. It doesn’t count.’
    ‘Bad news, sweetheart. You were stone cold sober…’ Markov paused. ‘Angry, though. Fierce. You positively trembled with resolution. I was moved, Lindy. I was impressed…’
    ‘Will you stop this?’
    ‘“I am sick of being a fashion editor”—that’s what you said. “I am sick of the fashion world.” You were going to talk to that editor of yours. Have you talked to that editor of yours?’
    ‘What, Max? No, not yet.’
    ‘Fresh woods and pastures new—you quoted that.’
    Markov gave a sigh that was very nearly as theatrical as his usual mode of speech. ‘Darling, you were having lunch with some publisher man. A contract was being dangled. This publisher man—a very big wheel—wanted a book on Coco Chanel. You, Lindy, were going to write that book. It was going to be definitive. It was going to make you poor, but never mind that. Has this lunch with the big cheese of British publishing actually happened?’
    ‘No, I postponed it. I need time to think.’
    ‘And then there was the real-estate agent…’ The buzz-saw hit a higher pitch. ‘This guy had two firm potential buyers for this apartment. He was promising a bidding war. He pointed out that this is now a highly desirable area of London, so if you sold, you’d make a profit. Not a large profit, I admit, but just enough to buy, or rent, a small hovel somewhere outside London, in the sticks. In this hovel, you, Lindy, were going to commune with nature. A dog was mentioned, and a cat. Ducks featured, as, I’m afraid, did chickens…’
    ‘I never mentioned chickens.’
    ‘Oh yes, you did—at length. Lindy, I can see this hovel now; it had a wood fire, patchwork quilts. In it, serene, scholarly and alone, you wrote your book…’
    ‘So? It was just an idea