of capitalism and the restructuring of life along rigidly Soviet lines. She was too caught up in her new-found satisfaction, and the way of life that she knew and understood was too deeply and unconsciously ingrained in her for that. But the things she saw and heard every day on the wards made her ever more sharply aware of the separation between herself and her family and friends on one side, and the patients of the Royal Lambeth and all those who were like them on the other. It must, Amy thought, be possible to devise some system by which all the wealth and comfort and privilege need not be bestowed just on a handful of people who happened to be born to it. The Appleyard Street doctrines were much harsher than Amy’s own tentative ideas, but still something drew her back there yet again and compelled her to sit listening quietly as she struggled to understand what their revolution might mean.
‘Grazie, bella mia.’ The waiter with the most luxuriant moustache put Amy’s plate in front of her with a flourish. She was ravenously hungry and the glistening heaped-up spaghetti alla vongole smelled exquisite. She sighed again at the sheer pleasure of being waited on, and there was silence as she attacked the first mouthfuls. When she looked up again Tony was watching her.
‘You’re rather a sensual person, aren’t you?’
‘Whatever do you mean? I’ve never had a chance to find out.’
Tony laughed. ‘Not necessarily in the sexual sense. Although I’m sure you’ll enjoy that too.’
Amy hadn’t drunk quite enough Chianti to have the courage to say Why don’t we try it then? although she was longing to. She was thinking how attractive he was as she sat across the table from him trying to twirl her spaghetti like an expert. She liked the downward curl of his mouth. It would have been nice to lean across and kiss it, tasting the wine on his lips as well as her own.
But whenever Tony kissed her he did it ironically, as if kissing at all was faintly ridiculous.
‘No,’ he was saying. ‘I was thinking of the way you enjoy everything. You like tasting and touching and smelling things. Ve-ery uninhibited. Almost pagan. You were the same even when you were quite a little girl. I remember the summer I was tutoring Richard, seeing you at Chance kneeling by the lavender border with your face buried among the flower spikes. And then at Biarritz, standing with your eyes closed taking tiny cat-licks at a pistachio ice-cream from that place on the promenade.’
‘Fendi’s.’
‘Isabel was quite different. She thought more, and enjoyed things less.’ Seeing Amy’s face, Tony asked, ‘How is she?’
‘I don’t know, exactly.’
As soon as she had arrived home the day before, Amy had telephoned Ebury Street. A maid had told her that Mr and Mrs Jaspert had just left for the country. It was perfectly natural and a good thing, Amy thought, that Peter should have taken Isabel away from the lifeless heat of London in August. It would be quiet at the Jasperts’ family home in Wiltshire, and Isabel would be able to rest. Peter would be with her too, instead of pursuing his complicated business and political affairs and leaving her alone at Ebury Street. But when she had tried to telephone her sister at West Talbot, Amy’s uneasiness stirred again. Although she told the butler quite clearly that she wished to speak to Mrs Jaspert, after a long wait it was Peter who came to the telephone.
‘How is she?’ Amy asked, anxiety sharpening her voice.
‘Perfectly well,’ Peter said smoothly. ‘Tired, of course, but quite in order physically.’
‘I wanted to speak to her, particularly.’
‘I rather think that she’s asleep. Shall I give her a message for you? Or you could speak to Mama, perhaps?’
Amy had the sudden sense that Isabel had been captured by Jasperts. ‘I’d like to speak to Isabel,’ she said distinctly. ‘When will she be awake, do you think?’
At last, after two more calls, Amy was successful. Isabel’s voice sounded thin and distant, as if she was only half-attending to Amy’s questions.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m supposed to be resting.’
‘Did Mr Hardwicke say so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Bethan with you?’
‘Yes.’
At least that was something. Bethan would take care of her, however cut off they were by Jasperts.
‘Can I talk to her?’ Bethan could also be relied upon to tell the plain truth about Isabel. The response Amy heard might have been a laugh, but it wasn’t like Isabel’s old laughter.
‘Of course not. Do you remember when the King and Queen came to Chance?’
Amy remembered. There had been a retinue of thirty-seven attendants, and a rigid formality had descended on the house that made the sisters wonder how anyone managed to breathe at Court, let alone to live.
‘Well, it’s like that here. Except that there’s only family in the house. One spends one’s whole life changing.’
And so Bethan would be firmly placed below stairs, and definitely not available for talk on the telephone.
Isabel had stayed at West Talbot before her marriage, and she and Amy had laughed gently at the pomposities of Lady Jaspert’s household. But now the whole pitch of Isabel’s voice had changed. Amy was frightened for her.
‘Bel? I wish I could come down and be with you. But I can’t. If I hadn’t enrolled until after the baby …’
Isabel cut her short. ‘There’s nothing you could do. I’m well looked after. In any case we may be back in town soon. I don’t know what’s going on, Peter doesn’t tell me much, but he spends half his day on the telephone here and the rest sitting over papers in the library. It’s some crisis. Something to do with lending money to Germany, and the run on the pound. Do you understand that? Peter says the Government may collapse.’ Amy had been thinking how vague and remote her sister sounded, but now Isabel added with sudden vehemence, ‘It looks as if he’s waiting to pounce. You can almost see him licking his lips.’
Amy frowned into the black bakelite mouthpiece, trying to conjure up Isabel’s face. She sounded, suddenly, as if she hated Peter.
‘Will you come back with him?’
‘I suppose so. Nothing could be worse than staying here alone.’
‘Come back. Then I can see you and make sure that you’re all right. West Talbot is too far away. Isabel?’
‘Yes?’ The thin, listless voice was back again.
‘If there was anything, anything wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’
‘There’s nothing wrong.’
At a loss for anything more to say, Amy had hung up after repeating her warnings that Isabel was to rest, to take care of herself and not to worry. When her sister was back in London, perhaps she would be able to probe deeper. But if it was Peter who was the trouble, and she was increasingly afraid that it was indeed Peter, then what could she possibly do?
Amy looked back at Tony across the restaurant table.
