The Twyborn Affair Read Free

while his skeletal, veined hands took possession of the sinuous arms, which the grey trailers of sleeve surrendered, the skin deepened by restrained lighting almost to the tone of terracotta. So they sat and clung in what was prevented from becoming perfect union.
    The young woman appeared to remember, or realise, or know by instinct. She rejected her elderly lover, left the stool, and practically striding, one would have said, reached the window, where she stood looking out, it might have been in anger, though the watcher doubted she was visible through the dusk. Yet the young woman leaned out, gathered in the shutters, and slammed them shut. Only a crack of light was left to commemorate all that had been desirable.
    By the time Mrs Golson reached her car darkness almost prevailed beneath the pines. Teakle must have long since finished changing the wheel. He was sitting in the driver’s seat. Unusual for him, he was sulking, or so it appeared. He allowed her to climb up unassisted.
    Now it was her turn to sulk. ‘I walked farther than I expected. Mr Golson will be wondering.’ Whether she had put things right ornot she would leave it at that; while Teakle silently changed gears and remained as anonymous as possible.
    Unlike yesterday, Curly Golson had shaken off his luncheon, and was standing looking anxious beneath the stucco archway which framed the entrance to the hotel.
    â€˜Anything happen, sweetheart?’ he asked somewhat angrily.
    His wife sounded equally peeved. ‘We had a—puncture.’
    â€˜What’s the cove been up to? Doesn’t take all that time to change a wheel.’
    â€˜It was something technical—some difficulty over tools.’
    Foolish of her not to have been less precise, but she could not care as she led the way to the little gilt cage in which the hunchback liftman hoisted them by a greasy rope to the second floor.
    When she had got herself out of her frock, Curly became affectionate: he would have liked to stroke, to kiss her shoulders, till she took refuge in a négligée.
    â€˜Aren’t we changing for dinner?’ he asked with a sudden show of gloom.
    â€˜No,’ she said. ‘I have a headache. I’ll get them to bring me something on a tray. Perhaps write a letter or two. Ought to write to Eadie Twyborn.’ For the second time this evening Mrs Golson felt she had been unnecessarily precise.
    Curly’s eyes bulged when he was thwarted. ‘Long time since you mentioned Eadie.’
    â€˜Yes. I’ve been neglecting her. For that matter, she’s neglected me. Eadie’s aged since their tragedy.’
    Curly Golson’s eyes resumed their milder china glaze as opposed to their accusing blaze of blue. He had resigned himself.
    â€˜I’ll go down alone then,’ he said.
    It would be no hardship for him, she knew, and presently he did, to eat his way from caviare to peaches in champagne.
    When she had finished her œufs sur le plat , she took out her writing-case and rummaged for one of the larger sheets of her own monogrammed letter-paper, then wondered whether she could fill it. She felt too languid, even in a strange sense, fulfilled. She sat lumped inwhat she believed was called a bergère , in the same style as the rest of their Louis Whichever suite (the Golsons never did things by halves) at the Grand Hôtel Splendide des Ligures. However sincere her intention of writing, for the moment she preferred thinking about her dearest friend Eadie Twyborn: Eadie down on her knees pulling the tops off onion-grass in her Edgecliff garden, Eadie in that grubby old coat and skirt which was lasting for ever, soil clinging to her fingers, her rings, her father’s signet, while the little red Australian terriers sat or lay around, blinking, sniffing, licking their privates, barking when they had cause, or more often when they hadn’t. In his study Edward, home from circuit, sat looking through a fresh batch