Moon Tiger Read Online Free Page B

Sylvia. Laszlo. Egypt. India. Strata as yet unformed.
    We talked about what we wanted to do, in the war and after, if there was an after. Gordon was trying to wangle himself into the Intelligence (everyone wangled in those days – wangled and pulled strings). I knew what I intended. I was going to be a war correspondent. Gordon laughed. He said he didn’t give much for my chances. Have a go, he said, and good luck to you, but frankly… And I strode on ahead. You’ll see, I said. You’ll see. And he had to catch up with me and propitiate. We were still rivals. Among other things. Alongside other things. Then, and later.
    The doctor pauses and glances through the glass port-hole in the door. ‘Who’s she talking to? Has she got a visitor?’ The nurse shakes her head; for a moment they watch the patient, whose lips move, whose expression is… intent. There does not appear to be anything clinically amiss; they scrunch and squeak away on down the corridor.
    Claudia confronts Gordon, not on the sea-blown Lindisfarne shore but in the pink alcoholic atmosphere of The Gargoyle in 1946. She feels incandescent, aflame with private triumphs.
    Gordon is scowling. ‘He’s a creep,’ he says.
    ‘Shut up.’
    ‘He can’t hear. He’s busy furthering his career.’
    Jasper, a couple of yards away, stands at another table, talking to its occupants. His tanned face is lit by the candlebelow it: expressive, handsome. He gestures, delivers a punch-line, laughter rings out.
    ‘You always did have dubious taste in men,’ Gordon continues.
    ‘Really?’ says Claudia. ‘Now that’s an interesting remark.’
    They stare at one another.
    ‘Oh, stop it, you two,’ says Sylvia. ‘This is supposed to be a celebration.’
    ‘So it is,’ says Gordon. ‘So it is. Come on, Claudia, celebrate.’ He upends the bottle into her glass.
    ‘It really is terrific,’ says Sylvia. ‘An Oxford fellowship! I still can’t quite believe it.’ Her eyes never leave Gordon, who does not look at her. She twitches a thread from the sleeve of his jacket, touches his hand, gets out a packet of cigarettes, drops them, retrieves them from the floor.
    Claudia continues to observe Gordon. Out of the corner of an eye, from time to time, she takes stock of Jasper. Others also note Jasper; he is a person people see. She raises her glass: ‘Congrats! Again. Remind me to come and dine at your High Table.’
    ‘You can’t,’ says Gordon. ‘No ladies.’
    ‘Oh, what a shame,’ says Claudia.
    ‘Where did you find him?’
    ‘Find who?’
    ‘You know damn well who I mean.’
    ‘Oh – Jasper. Um, now… where was it? I went to interview him for a book.’
    ‘Ah,’ says Sylvia brightly. ‘How’s the book going?’
    They ignore her. And Jasper returns to the table. He sits down, puts his hand on Claudia’s. ‘I’ve told them to bring a bottle of champers. So drink up.’
    Sylvia tries to get out a cigarette, drops the packet, grovels for it on the floor and feels her expensive hairdo falling to pieces. And the dress is not a success, too pink and pretty and girlish. Claudia is in black, very low-cut, with a turquoise belt.
    ‘How is the book going?’ she asks. And Claudia does notanswer, so Sylvia must fill the gap lighting her cigarette, puffing, looking round the room as though she hadn’t expected a reply anyway.
    It has been like that all evening. Like it always is when Claudia is there. That electric feeling, whether they are fighting or not (and goodness knows she never fought with her brother like that), as though no one else existed. Making you feel intrusive, as though you should leave the room. And Gordon hasn’t touched her once.
    Jasper returns and she exclaims in relief, ‘Where did you get that marvellous tan?’
    ‘Swanning around the South of France?’ says Gordon. ‘I thought you people were kept so busy?’ I know your type, he thinks: cavalry twill trousers and an eye to the main chance.
    The champagne arrives. Explodes.