Follies. Rosie Thomas

Tom said quietly.

      ‘You are a darling. And don’t worry, I’ve got enough native wit to handle Rosalind. Inherited from Daddy, no doubt. Oh Lord, he’ll be furious if I don’t even get to my first lesson. I don’t even know where the place is.’

      Pansy fumbled in the soft Italian leather pouch bag that was slung over the back of her chair and brought out a list. ‘Ashmolean Museum?’

      Oliver, who had been watching her with fascination, suddenly stood up. ‘I’m going over there. I’ll take you.’

      Solicitously, just as he had done yesterday for Helen, he drew back her chair and helped her to her feet. Pansy put her hand on his arm, thoughtlessly accepting it as her right to be escorted and protected.

      ‘’Bye, then.’

      ‘Oliver …’ Helen had no idea what she wanted to ask him, but he half turned in response and she thought his face softened.

      ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said. ‘At Follies.’

      He was gone so quickly with Pansy that Helen found herself staring at the empty space where they had been.

      I’ll see you soon. She would have to be content with that.

      Opposite her Tom was staring blankly too. It was a moment before they faced each other and realised that they were alone.

      ‘Well.’ Tom was smiling crookedly. ‘Shall we finish the wine?’

      Helen pushed her glass across to him. Instinctively, she liked Tom Hart and – more than that – he was Oliver’s friend. She could at least talk about him.

      ‘I’ve never met anyone like him before,’ she said softly.

      ‘Oliver? Neither have I. He’s got a lot of style, and I admire that. He doesn’t give a damn about anything either, and I don’t think that’s just because of who he is. Although that helps. Think of living in a place like Montcalm. Of coming from a family like that … holders of the highest offices in the realm for hundreds and hundreds of years.’

      You’re impressed by that, Helen thought. Am I? Am I? Perhaps.

      Tom was still talking. His dark eyebrows were drawn together over his high, beaked nose and his mouth, usually compressed in a sardonic line, curved wider as he looked into the distance.

      ‘That’s quite something, you know, to a Jewish boy like me. My family tree goes back no further than my great-grandfather. He was called Hartstein, and he arrived in New York with no more than the clothes he stood in. He scraped a kind of living for his wife and kids by doing piecework in the garment trade. The business he slaved for happened to have a sideline in theatrical costuming. My grandfather had a flair for that, took it over at the age of twenty, and ended up a celebrated costumier. And my father – well, my old man has a flair for everything. Greg Hart owns five Broadway theatres now, and a string more across the country.’

      ‘I think that’s more impressive than just being born a Mortimore,’ Helen told him gently.

      Tom smiled at her in response, and she saw that although his face was stern and his mouth ungiving, there was real kindness behind his dark, hooded eyes.

      ‘Perhaps.’

      ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘What are you really doing in Oxford, if you’ve got all that waiting for you in America?’

      Tom picked up a fragment of bread from the tablecloth and rolled it between his fingers into a grey, doughy ball.

      ‘I’m in disgrace, as it happens. Serving out a year’s exile in the guise of doing my apprenticeship in the British theatre. By the time I get back, my old man reckons all the fuss will be forgotten.’

      Helen stared at him, intrigued. She had forgotten herself enough not to worry about being tactful. ‘What fuss?’

      ‘D’you really want to know?’

      ‘Of course. What could be bad enough to deserve being banished from home for a whole year?’

      Tom laughed shortly. ‘It’s not so bad. I miss New York, that’s all. Do you remember that production of The Tempest that was so successful in the West End last year? With Sir Edward Groves and Maria Vaughn?’

      Helen nodded, dimly recollecting having read about it.

      ‘My father brought the production over for his summer season. With the original cast, starring the theatrical knight and his new wife Miss Vaughn.’

      Helen remembered that, too.

      ‘Well, whatever Maria had married her knight for, it had nothing to do with bed. In spite of the fact that she’s very interested in that side of things herself. Most of us are, after all. When I was offered the choice, before the run had even started, I was hardly likely to turn her down. She’s very beautiful, and disturbingly sexy. Before long we were screwing each other at every possible opportunity. At my apartment, in her hotel room, in her dressing room. And that’s where Sir Edward caught us at it. Careless of me, really. The scene that followed was high drama – threats, screams, hysterical weeping, the whole works. It culminated with Sir Edward stamping down to my father’s office and announcing that the Hart family was not to be trusted, so he and Maria were back off to London and fuck the opening night. Greg flung himself into the scene like the old trouper he is. There were more accusations of filial disloyalty, immorality, perfidy and general filthiness. Of course, Edward really had no intention of missing out on the chance to bestow his Prospero on Manhattan. They compromised by despatching me to England instead. This job was fixed up for me in about forty seconds, and here I am.’

      Helen thought for a moment. ‘Isn’t that rather hard on you? Surely your father must have seen your side, just a little?’

      Tom laughed again.

      ‘Oh, it’s much more complicated than that. You see, Greg certainly had Maria carved out for himself. He does quite a good line in leading ladies – he’s always been very successful with women. And he’s used to thinking of himself as the young phenomenon. Suddenly, there he was, seeing that his own son had cut him out. What would it be next, he must have asked himself. His theatres. His whole empire, perhaps. So, get rid of the little bastard for a convenient space of time by packing him off to Oxford, England, to produce piddling student productions of the classics.’

      ‘Did you have to come?’

      The answer came without a trace of hesitation. ‘Oh yes. If I want to get the business in the end, I do. And I want it very much. I love the theatre.’

      ‘Except for piddling little productions in Oxford.’

      Tom shot her a quick glance, his eyebrows raised. ‘Yes. I asked for that. I didn’t mean it, except as a comparison with what I could be doing if I was back home. Of course this show is just as important in its way as the biggest musical spectacular on Broadway. That’s why I’ve taken so much care to get the casting right. And it’s why I’m so pleased with Oliver and Pansy. Particularly Pansy. I knew as soon as she walked into the theatre that she was the one I was looking for. She’s amazing, isn’t she?’

      Tom’s habitual cynical expression had melted, replaced by an enthusiasm that was almost boyish.

      ‘Yes.’ Helen didn’t want to talk about Pansy Warren. She switched the subject again. ‘And you? Will you make a wild success of being here? It’s what happens in all the books.’

      ‘Not wild. There’s hardly scope. But I’ll do well enough.’

      Helen knew that he would, from the determined lines etched in his dark face. Tom Hart was bound to succeed in whatever he did. It was in his blood. You’re probably quite ruthless, Helen thought. You can be kind too, but you wouldn’t let that impede you where it matters. Probably you just feel genuinely sorry as you plunge the hatchet in. I know I wouldn’t like to cross you.

      Tom was looking at her now, his gaze level. ‘Why am I treating you to this