Going Wrong by Ruth Rendell Page A

entertaining us then,” Newton said and he immediately got up and went off to the men’s.
    Had that been a dig at him for using a phrase which a clever bastard like Newton might think was incorrect or out of date or silly or whatever people like him did think? He was instantly sure that Newton was double-crossing him and meant to sneak up to the waiter and pay his share before the bill came to Guy. That this had not happened, that the bill when it came was for the four of them, surprised him very much. What was the man up to? What was his game?
    A taxi now had to be secured. Leonora looked tired, she looked as if she hadn’t enjoyed the evening, had found it for some reason a strain and was now worn out. She had seen Newton and him together of course for the first time. Was she, after what she had seen, having—glorious idea!—second thoughts about Newton? Had she compared them and Newton, as he must, had come out wanting?
    “If you’re going north,” he said to Newton, “why don’t you take the first taxi? Leonora can come with us and we’ll drop her on our way.”
    “I can’t do that, Guy, I’m staying at William’s till Friday. And we won’t take a taxi, we’ll go by tube.”
    “Green Park to Warren Street and then up the Northern Line,” said Newton, smug and cool. “Nothing easier. Good night. Good night, Celeste, it’s been nice meeting you.”
    In the taxi Guy said, “I should have asked her for his phone number. If she’s at his place, I won’t be able to talk to her tomorrow.”
    “Try the phone book,” said Celeste.
    “Yes, he’ll be in the book. What did she say to you all that long time you were in the Ladies’?”
    “This and that. She talked about us and about William.”
    “He’s a bit of a shit,” he said.
    “I liked him, I thought he was very nice.”
    “But you can’t imagine a woman falling in love with him, can you? The idea’s grotesque.”
    “I’ll tell you what she said if you like. She said she was really happy to see you so happy with me. She said I was beautiful and you were lucky to have me and she was sure you knew your luck and she hoped we’d be very very happy. D’you want to know what else she said?”
    “Not really,” said Guy. “It doesn’t sound very inspired. I don’t suppose you want to come back with me, do you? Not if you have to get up early for that L’Oréal job. I’ll tell the driver to go along the Old Brompton Road, shall I? Celeste, you’re not crying, are you? For God’s sake, what is there to cry about?”
    Guy fell asleep very quickly and dreamt he was fighting William Newton with swords. They were in Kensington Gardens, on the lawn by the Albert Memorial below the Flower Walk. It was very early in the morning, dawn, the sun not yet risen, and there was no one about but they themselves and their seconds. His second was Linus Pinedo and Newton’s was a man whose face Guy couldn’t see because it was covered by a fencer’s mask. Guy had done a certain amount of fencing some four or five years before, had taken lessons and belonged to a club, but had given it up in favour of squash, which was so fast and better exercise. But in the dream he was very good, he was like some thirties’ film star in The Prisoner of Zenda.
    His aim was only to wound Newton, though perhaps severely, but the man was clearly terrified and scarcely able to put up a defence. Guy, intending a thrust to his left arm—Newton, at any rate in the dream, was left-handed—jumped forward, executing the move called the balestra, followed it by a flèche at great speed, which passed in a single swift lunge through Newton’s heart.
    Newton made no sound but sank on to his knees, his foil dropped, his hands clasped together on the forte of Guy’s sword. He fell over onto his side onto the green, now blood-splashed, grass. The death rattle issued from his pale lips and he gave up the ghost in the masked man’s arms. Guy withdrew his sword, which came out clean