to be a painter, he had grudgingly accepted his destiny as a capitalist. Like many converts to a faith, he had become assiduous in the practice of it. Perhaps out of revenge, some thought, he made his father’s success look like the work of a dilettante. One mill became many.
But Andrew was convinced that those who thought he was merely extending his father’s achievement were mistaken. The intensity of his new religion had an almost mystical dimension to it. Witherspoon had some basis for seeing him as a visionary. The more money he made, the more likely he was to be able to transubstantiate it into his vision, which was Willowvale.
‘So where is Willowvale?’ Jacqui said.
She saw Kate’s face become more animated, presumably because the question suggested serious interest and therefore the prospect of going.
‘On Cannamore,’ Kate said.
‘But that’s an island.’
‘They have things called ferries,’ Alison said.
‘I don’t like the sea. I get seasick easily.’
‘Maybe you should wait till they build an airport,’ Alison said.
Alison’s superciliousness was beginning to annoy Jacqui again. Because she had worked as personal assistant to a lawyer for a few years before coming to university, she had these moods when she seemed to treat younger people as if they were still in kindergarten. She was like someone who visits London for a weekend and decides she’s cosmopolitan and very, very grown-up. She even dressed for the part. For her, casual was formality with a button undone. She was being particularly condescending tonight.
‘What’s it all in aid of anyway?’ Jacqui said, brooding on Alison.
‘See it as part of the course,’ Kate said. ‘We have informal lectures. And discussion afterwards. Andrew Lawson’s doing one on Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. David Cudlipp’s talking about Farewell, Miss Julie Logan. And Harry Beck’s supposed to be tying it all up in some way.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ Jacqui said. ‘I’m surprised there’s still free places.’
‘I wonder what Harry Beck’ll be talking about,’ Kate said, as if it were a matter of great fascination.
‘He’s probably wondering himself,’ Alison said.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Jacqui said.
‘I just think he looks like someone with a very dishevelled life,’ Alison said. ‘Sometimes when he comes into class, he looks as if he’s not sure what he’s doing there. It can take him ten minutes to focus on the work.’
‘You seem to focus on him quickly enough,’ Jacqui said.
‘What?’
‘I’ve seen you looking at him,’ Jacqui said.
‘I always do that when I want to see somebody.’
‘Staring? With your lips parted?’
‘I’m a mouth-breather.’
Jacqui couldn’t understand why Alison was being so offhand about Harry Beck. She had often said he was attractive. The sudden shift of attitude was annoying.
‘There’s something about him,’ Jacqui said. ‘I like the darkness in him.’
‘He’s really got a past him, hasn’t he?’ Kate said.
‘Doesn’t everybody?’ Alison said.
‘Something definitely happened to him,’ Kate said. ‘And he’s having to live with it.’
‘You’ve been reading Wuthering Heights again,’ Alison said.
‘I know what you mean,’ Jacqui said to Kate. ‘He was married, wasn’t he? But he doesn’t seem to have any children. Maybe he couldn’t have any. Maybe it’s that. Or maybe he loved somebody he could never get.’
‘There’s something troubled about him,’ Kate said.
‘It’s probably a bad back,’ Alison said. ‘Anyway, now’s your chance to find out.’
She looked at Jacqui. Jacqui wondered how she had come to be in the position of having an interest in Harry Beck. It was as if she was being deputised to stand in for Alison.
‘They have a free-for-all session on Saturday night,’ Alison said. ‘The students can do their own thing. Talks. Poetry. Anything goes. The barriers come down. It was great fun last year when I was there.’
‘So why aren’t you going again?’ Jacqui said.
‘I’ve got that history essay to write. It’ll take me all weekend.’
‘You just want the flat to yourself. With Kate and me away. Peace and quiet.’
‘I wish I could go.’
‘You can,’ Kate said to Jacqui.
‘I don’t know,’ Jacqui said. ‘I could’ve pulled Harry Beck here if I wanted to. Without going to the ends of the earth. Anyway, I’ve heard he’s so unreliable, you never know whether he’s going to turn up or not. Harry Beck?’
‘Harry Beck,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been under the covers with you a few times.’
The accent was American.
He recognised an innocent remark wearing garters. He had heard it before and he knew that she meant reading him in bed. He assumed she must mean the column since, as far as he knew, the books were out of print. Dan Galbraith had just introduced them to each other and now he fetched her the gin and tonic she had asked for and left them. As they spoke, he noticed that the man she had come to the party with seemed to have decided to start a drinking competition. He was apparently trying to see if he could drink himself under the table. He looked like succeeding.
He liked how she had met him on a level of immediate flirtation. That way the trivia could at least amplify into a pleasant game.
‘I hope I didn’t give you a false impression,’ he said. ‘I’m usually more animated in bed than my photo is.’
‘But your photo does look younger,’ she said.
‘I was a child prodigy,’ he said.
He couldn’t quite see how that remark related to what she had been saying but he managed to say it as if it were a witty rejoinder. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.
‘I liked your last one. About the dogs,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
‘But it wasn’t true about that dog you called Snarl, was it?’
‘I’m afraid so. Could make you give up on the species, couldn’t it? The human one, I mean.’
‘And I can’t believe what you
