‘Come on, you two,’ said Deforest, ‘tea-time.’ He stepped into the road and turned to face the four of us grouped uncertainly on the pavement. Then, Deforest opened and got into a huge red Jaguar. Doors were unlocked for our benefit.
‘Jesus,’ I whispered.
Rachel turned to me as she stepped forward. I smiled in schoolboy wonder and closed the door after her. The others piled into the back and I wanted to close the door after, or on, them too. I got in, causing them both to shove up as if I were a suitcase.
‘All aboard?’ said Deforest, pulling away down the hill and round, going way too many places way too fast to do a three-point turn and go up it like everyone else.
How had I let myself get into this situation? Rachel sat erectly in front of me, her hair bright and aromatic to my peeled senses.
‘No, I just love these English cars,’ Deforest was telling Rachel, who nodded. She clearly loved them too.
Had Rachel planned the whole thing ? Perhaps I should have given her more time on the telephone. Was DeForest in on it? Christ. ‘DeForest, darling, there’s this tiresome little shit who keeps on ringing me up and has finally bullied me into having tea with him; I thought the only half-way civilized thing to do was to jolly well take the hopeless little bugger—’
The Tea Centre was a sort of genteel workman’s caff, done up in ‘thirties, U.S. coffee-shop style; there were several circular tables surrounded by knee-high mushroom chairs and some booths at the back. With me in the rear we headed for the far corner. The girls got in first, followed by their beaux. The booth sat four. I looked round: the queer pixie’s poofs were tacked to the ground; there were no movable chairs.
And there wasn’t any room for me. Rachel and DeForest were talking scones, the other couple were writhing about still, now seemingly poised for a session of fully robed soixante-neuf. My head was like an electric blanket. I couldn’t see Rachel because fucking DeForest’s spiky insect head was between us. In a voice that didn’t carry I said, ‘Going out now, to make a call.’
No one reacted. They had the wide world spinning round within their heads. They hadn’t heard.
Outside, I walked reflexively across the road to the line of telephone boxes opposite the tube entrance. I stopped to look in a shop window. Why hadn’t I just flashed in, told them to move up? It was my hesitation that had done it. They had all wanted me to stay. No, there wasn’t any room, nothing I could have done but get out. Get out. I started home.
‘Charles. Hang on.’
I turned. Rachel had come to a halt on the island half-way across the road. She waited, still looking at me, while a stream of traffic passed between us.
How hackneyed of her, I thought emptily.
The lights changed. She paused; she walked towards me, hands in pockets, head tilted slightly. She reached the pavement and stopped a few feet away.
‘Charles, come back.’
‘I’m not coming back.’
She came forward two steps and stood with her feet together.
‘I’m sorry. Are you all right?’
Tm fine.’
‘I’ve got to go back.’
‘Suppose so.’
‘Are you cold?’ she asked.
I was. I had been feeling far too vain to wear an overcoat. I was shivering.
‘A little.’
She bit her lip. She came closer and held my hand for a few seconds.
‘Will you ring me?’
‘You bet.’
‘Goodbye then.’
‘Goodbye.’
At Campden Hill Square another tea-party was in progress. It consisted of Geoffrey, two strangely dressed girls – a small one, swathed in a floral curtain, and a big one, got up as a cowboy, complete with holsters – and Jenny. No Norm. A scene of almost pastoral spontaneity followed. I felt rather light-headed and, steamy though the kitchen was, I didn’t appear to be getting any warmer. Furthermore, I was still vibrant from an intense Consciousness-of-Being attack, having had a highly soulful walk from the Gate.
When the tea was made I popped upstairs for a hawk. On the way back Geoffrey intercepted me; we stole into the sitting-room.