The party continued as normal, but Sophia did not enjoy it as much as before. It was still astonishing, but she felt detached from it all, reduced to being an observer of the past rather than a participant. A new player sat before the piano and took up a ragtime tune, delighting the guests.
“It’s the latest fashion in New York,” she heard one young lady say. “No one will dance the polka any more.”
Hipsters, thought Sophia, laughing to herself. She remained seated in a corner of the room.
She stiffened: in the corner of her eye, she noticed Alexander approaching. She forced herself to look at him and smile.
“Let’s try this dance,” he said. “It’ll be wonderful!”
“I don’t know the steps,” she replied.
“No one does, it’s brand new. Come, come!”
She stood and danced with him, but she felt awkward and heavy, and found it difficult to move in her dress. At the end of the song, she moved back to her seat in the corner.
“Anything the matter?” he asked her.
She looked straight into his eyes: they were full of care. She desperately wanted to believe it was genuine.
“No,” she said. “I’m just a little tired. All of this, it’s overwhelming.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll make our escape soon enough.”
He leant forward and kissed her on the lips. She couldn’t help but smile afterwards, but the moment he walked away her smile fell.
She knew what he wanted. She knew that, earlier in the evening, she had wanted it too. Now? Sophia didn’t know.
As the clock struck one, a number of guests began to leave. With each who passed through the doors, she felt more and more nervous. With the room half empty, Alexander approached her. She drank the last of her champagne with difficulty: her hand was shaking.
“Shall we depart?” he said gently.
“Sure. Okay.”
She let him take her arm in his. They walked into the reception hall. Wilde stood nearby, talking amiably to the young man who had been playing the piano.
“You are leaving us, Mr. Hartigan, Miss Deveaux?” said the writer. “So soon?”
“Alas, yes,” said Alexander. “I make it a rule to leave parties early. Nothing else makes them quite so enjoyable.”
“Oh Alexander, you sound like me. I commend you. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness.”
“Until we meet again, Oscar,” said Alexander, smiling.
“Goodnight. And goodnight to you, Miss Deveaux.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Wilde.”
As Alexander led her to the door, she looked back. Wilde stared sombrely at her.
The fog outside was gone, but the wind was brisk. Sophia hugged her furs around her. They walked slowly along the pavement.
“Where to, then?” said Alexander. He was quiet, but Sophia could hear the excitement in his voice. “Shall we find a room for the night?”
Sophia shrugged her shoulders. “We could do.”
“How does the Savoy sound?”
“The Savoy? You are a high roller.”
He nodded. “Tonight, certainly. Any other night, I can be anything you wish. So – shall I hail a cab?”
Sophia wished that she had more time. A minute, ten seconds, anything.
“Okay,” she heard herself say. She shivered.
“Wonderful! But you are cold. I must get you inside.”
He hailed the first cab they saw. He helped her in. He held her hand so softly, sat so closely, looked at her so kindly, but with such excitement in his eyes. As they rolled through the streets of the metropolis, the sound of rattling hooves and wheels filling the cab, Sophia sat as still as a stone. Just go with it, said a part of her; enjoy it, enjoy him. The other part didn’t speak with words, but with doubt.
They arrived at the grand entrance to the hotel on the Strand. She hardly noticed the opulence of the foyer, only vaguely remembering a haze of crystal and greenery. Alexander said something to the concierge, and then they were being whisked up in a wood-panelled lift. They were shown into a suite; the instant the door was closed behind them, a total silence descended.
It was a full minute before Alexander spoke.
“What do you think?”
“It’s gorgeous,” said Sophia, without feeling. The room was immaculately furnished in the most expensive taste; all silver, silk and cashmere. The lamps were turned down low.
He stood beside her. “It only opened six years ago. Electricity, hot water, no expense spared. The first word in luxury. It is beautiful. But it is the beauty of treasure, plunder, gold.”
Sophia stood rigid as he turned to face her, taking her hand in both of his, gently massaging it.
“Wealth, money, it can only go so far. Real beauty, true beauty, is so much harder to find.”
She turned to him. Enjoy this. Enjoy it.
“But I’ve found it. I’ve found it with you, Sophia. Never before, never have I...I’ve found you. I’ve found you.”
He kissed her. She kissed him. He wrapped her arms around her, she followed suit, and they held one another for an age, kissing slowly, kissing forever. Alexander...
He is selfish.
She fell back onto the soft bed, the softest she had ever known, and all the air fled from her lungs in a gasp as he lay on top of her, holding her, kissing her. His hands ran up her arms to her neck, to her waist, and she let them run, let them rove and cross her body wherever they would. Alexander...
He does not love you.
“Alex...”
His touch, his warm touch, passed beneath her dress, caressing her thigh, travelling upward, resting on her breast.
He cannot love you.
“Alex...oh God, Alex...stop.”
He did; everything did. They sprawled on the bed, a still life of lust, begging for motion.
“Please stop.” She heard her voice as if from a distance. “I’m sorry. Stop. I can’t...”
He didn’t move. His face, an inch from hers, was wounded. It was so heartfelt. He’s not acting. Enjoy it. Enjoy it...
Slowly, he extricated himself from around her. He stood up. His half-unbuttoned shirt hung loosely around his shoulders, his chest bare beneath.
He took a sudden step forward. “What did I...”
“No,” Sophia held out a hand, and held back tears. “Stay there. Stay there, please.”
She raised herself from the pillow and sat looking away from him. Hastily she smoothed her dress, pulling the sleeves back onto her shoulders as she gasped for air. Then she sat, two hands over her mouth, staring at the curtains.
Silence. Somewhere, very distant, Sophia could hear the singing in the pub at home; Auld Lang Syne. She thought of her family and friends crossing arms, 119 years from now. No – it was this very moment. All time, all at once, all just through the door.
“How have I...” began Alexander. “How have I disappointed you?”
“You haven’t,” whispered Sophia, laughing silently. “You haven’t, you really haven’t. It’s been amazing. How could it have been anything else?”
“I have been too hasty, then.”
“No.” She turned a little, enough to see him in the corner of her eye. “Before the party, I wanted this. I did. I still do a bit. God, this is bad, this...”
She took a great breath and dried her eyes.
“What changed?” he said. “What changed?”
Sophia’s lip trembled; but then he was at her side, a handkerchief in hand. She took it, dabbing at her eyes, and looked at him at last. He looked so careworn, so earnest. He took a step back.
She summoned up her courage.
“I know you search for beauty, art, all that,” she said haltingly. “Christ, ‘all that’. What kind of phrase is that? Oh god, fucking god.”
“Go on.”
“Do you...right. You live for beauty. Okay. Then what’s love to you?”
“I’m not sure if I understand you.”
“What’s love to you? This, us, our relationship? Is it just something for you to experience and write about in your book? Is it just, I don’t know, a night at the opera? I don’t know, I don’t know anything about you.”
“You do,” he whispered. “Not all. But you do, you will. I explained this to you.”
“But love. What is it to you? Is it a part of your study? Am I ‘research’? Is this just an act?”
Alexander’s face convulsed. His jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. He looked grief-stricken. “No. No! What’s brought this on?”
Sophia cleared her throat. “At the party. I spoke with Oscar. Oscar Wilde. I can’t just call him Oscar, that sounds stupid.”
“Oh.” Alexander turned away. “And what did he say?”
“He told me to be careful around you. How you treat love. He said...he said you were selfish, visiting other people’s lives just to draw some sort of feeling from them.”
“And do you believe him?”
“No! But I can’t leave it. I thought I might be able to, I thought tonight might be wonderful, but I guess that’s not going to happen now, is it?”
“No. No.”
Alexander sat heavily in a chair.
“Wilde,” he said after some time. “What a man.”
“Do you know him well?”
“Yes. He is a dear friend.”
“Not any more, right?”
“Oh, he still is. ‘True friends stab you in the front.’ That’s one of his. At least he’s holding to it.”
They were silent again for a few minutes. Sophia tried to resist asking more. She wanted to go home, but she couldn’t yet, not without an answer.
“So?” she said.
“What?”
“You didn’t give me an answer.”
He toyed with his fingers. “No. I don’t suppose I did.”
She waited. He wriggled uncomfortably in his chair, and for every second that passed her heart came closer to breaking.
“Sophia, when I first met you, in that instant, that first moment, I...yes. I did want to do this with you merely to learn something. That was it, that was all I ever thought it was going to be.”
Her heart did break; the pieces that were left turned to stone.
“Take me home.”
“Please! That changed so quickly! This has been more than I...”
“Take me home, Alex.”
“But...I...”
He struggled and gasped, but then he deflated.
“The door is there,” he said.
Sophia stood, held her breath, and left the suite. On the other side of the door was her bedroom at home. She stepped through.
“I’m sorry,” said a voice, a century old. She closed the door behind her.
*
Ouch. This was a very tricky chapter to write, lust and heartbreak all at once. What do you think of Alexander's admission, and his actions? Has he done all this just to get Sophia into bed, and where can they go from here? I'd like to know what you thought of this chapter.
The image is the sort of room I imagine they were staying in. It's mighty difficult to find an image of a genuine Victorian room, or even something from a film set, so if you spot a mobile phone lurking in a corner of the photograph, pretend it's not there ;) The music is the Sarabande from Debussy's Pour Le Piano, which he began composing in late 1894. It's one of my all time favourites, and I think it has just the right mix of agony and ecstasy for this chapter.