The Night by Terence Stamp

Author:Terence Stamp [Stamp, Terence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Escargot Books Online LLC
Published: 2013-10-16T00:00:00+00:00

Fleur could not always trust the men she fancied to do what she asked. Most of them gave her a bad time and, as it had been happening most of her life, she made allowances for it. Being a devoted hostess, she knew that nobody liked to be the first to arrive, so she had tried getting her dates to arrive early. All promised, few complied. Captain Toby, her latest, she knew would let her down, so she asked the Rose to come early and help. He seemed like a gentleman and, if she guessed correctly, also liked to trade a little on the rough side—and knew the price.

The surgeon arrived early as promised, at 7:30. Fleur, on the advice of her wine merchant, had decided to serve Château Giscours ‘64 with the main course.

“It won’t get any better,” he’d told her; and she had a great deal.

The Rose admired the ground-floor proportions of Stanley Crescent. He found Fleur’s interiors a bit garish, but the way the drawing rooms opened onto the garden via floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors—allowing the eye full vantage to the end of the plot—never failed to impress him.

“Who helped you design the exterior, Fleur?” he asked.

“Oh, a wonderful man did everything—even bought the statues for me.”

“It works perfectly.”

“Would you be a dear and help me get the vino from the cellar? I’ve left it a bit late—should have been uncorked by now.”

And so the first task of the evening for the reformed alcoholic was to fetch the wine from the basement and let it breathe. He uncorked three and decanted two. Fleur planned to greet her guests with a bottle or two of bubbly, which she preferred quite old, when it was a comfortable papery colour. The Yquem ‘67—with dessert—was spending its final hours in the freezer, and the Rose, who had dined with Philippe de Rothschild at the château in Bordeaux, suggested that she freeze the glasses as well. He washed his hands in her double butler sink, selected a bottle of Badoit from the refrigerator, and joined Fleur, who was having a cigarette and fussing with the table setting in the garden; she hoped to have her guests all seated by the time the sun went down.

He poured himself a glass of water and studied his handiwork: she was looking remarkably well, and bore witness to her own theory that plastic surgery worked best for women who started early—the younger the better.

Inhaling the fragrance of an old-fashioned powder-puff rose, he said, “They’re wonderful this year.”

“I take a gardener once a week, and try to do a bit myself. Do you like being called the Rose?”

“I do.”

“Why is that?”

“I was always a great believer in the mystery of flowers. You grow beautiful flowers, Fleur—you must have a rose somewhere in your heart.”

Fleur came over all unnecessary and fiddled with a napkin. They were her best, inherited from her mother—old heavy linen, cut as large as tea towels. The Rose leaned across the refectory table and squeezed Fleur’s hand.

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