Movement on the terrace caught Gore’s eye. Two men, walking towards the breakfast table.
‘They’re up,’ said Gore. ‘Should we go back?’
‘I suppose so.’
They rose and started to walk towards the villa.
‘Did you ever wish you had a wife?’ asked Dash. ‘Did you ever wish that you could just have lived a normal life instead of suffering the endless pain that men like us undergo, falling for beautiful boys who will never stay with us, no matter what we do for them?’
‘No,’ said Gore, shaking his head. ‘No, I’ve never wished that for a moment. The very idea seems hellish to me.’
Ahead, Maurice was leaning over the railing, watching them approach, and, Gore thought, enjoying how Howard was staring at him from behind. He was shirtless, his muscles glistening in the sunlight, the definition of his abdomen startling and his hair, still wet from the shower, brushed away from his forehead.
‘That line from Villette,’ said Dash quietly. ‘How does it go? Where is the use of caring for him so very much? He is full of faults.’
‘Funny,’ said Gore, laughing a little. ‘I was thinking about Wuthering Heights earlier, just before we met. You know you’ve gone off the deep end when you start obsessing about the Bront?s.’
The bedroom door was ajar and he pushed it open wordlessly, watching as the boy lifted the shirt he’d worn the night before from a chair and folded it carefully before placing it in his suitcase.
‘Gore,’ said Maurice, looking up and smiling. ‘How long have you been standing there?’
‘Not long,’ replied Gore, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. ‘You don’t mind if I come in, do you?’ he added, his tone making it clear that he didn’t much care whether the boy minded or not.
‘Not at all. I was just finishing packing.’
‘You slept well?’ he asked, sitting down heavily in a wicker armchair by the window and crossing his legs.
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Greta Garbo slept in that bed once, back when we lived in Rome,’ said Gore, glancing around the room as if he were checking the inventory. The paintings were still hanging on the walls. The objets d’art seemed to be still in place. ‘So did Bettino Craxi. Nelson Rockefeller. Princess Margaret. Here in Ravello, it’s played host to Paul Simon, Edmund White. Paul and Joanne. The list goes on. It makes one wonder, doesn’t it?’
‘Makes one wonder what?’ asked Maurice.
‘How you,’ said Gore, pointing a finger at the boy, ‘ended up sleeping in it. A Yorkshire lad, barely in his twenties, with not much to show for his life so far.’
‘Well, except a fairly successful novel.’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure that means very much any more.’
Maurice rolled his eyes and Gore felt a stab of irritation. He was a giant and would not be dismissed by a boy who had barely started to shave. ‘You’re not going to tell me that literature is over, are you?’ Maurice said. ‘We’ve argued that point already.’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,’ replied Gore, trying to control his annoyance. ‘You must remember that I published Williwaw when I was nineteen. And I was only your age when The City and the Pillar appeared, provoking a scandal. E. P. Dutton told me that I’d never be forgiven for it and for years the New York Times blacklisted me and wouldn’t review any of my books. I had to go to work in Hollywood to earn my living on account of their puritanism. And believe me, you don’t know what it’s like to roll around in the shit until you find yourself driving in and out of a studio gate every day.’
‘I have no interest in film,’ said Maurice carelessly. ‘I only want to write novels.’
‘So, no, literature is far from over,’ continued Gore, ignoring the interruption. ‘What you’re doing to Dash, you know. It’s deeply unkind.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Of course you do. Don’t play the fool.’
‘And have you always been kind, Gore? Because from what I’ve read about you, I suspect that you’ve hurt many people along the way.’
‘That’s probably true. But I don’t believe I’ve ever deliberately set out to ruin a man. No, I don’t believe I’ve ever done that.’
Maurice said nothing, but returned to his packing.
‘But you haven’t answered my question,’ said Gore.
‘What question was that?’
‘How a young man like you ended up sleeping in a bed like that.’
‘Howard told me to use it. He said it was more comfortable than the one he was giving Dash.’
Gore smiled. ‘Some might say that your mentor should have been assigned the better room.’
Maurice frowned. ‘I’m not sure I’d describe Dash as my mentor.’
‘No? How would you describe him then?’
‘I told you last night. A friend. Someone I admire. He’s a good writer, is Dash.’
‘He’s a good writer, is Dash,’ repeated Gore, mimicking the sudden appearance of the boy’s accent. ‘Be careful, Maurice. Your roots are showing.’
‘Yes, and that’s all he’ll ever be. Let’s not pretend he’s Proust.’
‘No, he’s not Proust,’ admitted Gore. ‘But he’s shown a generosity of spirit towards you for which you should feel grateful.’
‘And I do,’ said Maurice. ‘Have I done something to make you think otherwise?’
‘The way you look at him. The contempt with which you treat him. How you keep him dangling on a string, desperate for some affectionate word from you. I assume you’re finished with him now and are ready to move on to pastures new?’
Maurice shrugged. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘My life has become rather busy of late. And Dash can be … How shall I put this? Very needy. It becomes exhausting after a while.’
‘I can only imagine. I have to hand it to you: you know what you want out of life and you’re determined to get it. Perhaps I wasn’t so very different to you when I was your age. Although I was better-looking, of course.’
Maurice smiled. ‘I’ve seen the pictures,’ he said. ‘And yes, you were.’
‘So, is this it?’ asked Gore. ‘Being a writer. This is all you’ve ever wanted? There’s nothing else?’ Maurice hesitated, and Gore noticed him biting his lip. Was there a weakness in there somewhere, a chink in the boy’s armour? ‘There is something, isn’t there?’ he said. ‘There’s something more that you want? I took you for utterly single-minded, but no. Tell me, I’m intrigued.’
‘You’ll laugh,’ said Maurice.
‘I won’t.’
‘It will seem ridiculous.’
‘Probably. But everything seems ridiculous to me these days.’
‘I’d like a child,’ said Maurice.
‘A child?’
‘Yes, a child.’
Gore sat back in his chair, his eyes opening wide. ‘A child?’ he repeated.
‘God, is it so unusual?’