cover, darting covertly like some melodrama villain); St. John’s Street became Trinity, which in turn became King’s Parade, the center of town. There she crossed Market Square to Miss Anabel’s Tea House, where—to James’s great surprise and chagrin—a young man was waiting for her.
He was tall and thin, dark-haired, a good-looking fellow in his twenties, James would guess, very well dressed. He greeted her with enthusiasm, embracing her, kissing her cheek, pulling her to his chest. James felt strange emotions skip across his heart, like pebbles across a dark pool into which he wasn’t certain he wished to dive.
She felt about the young man differently from the way she felt, for instance, about Levanthal. James knew a fearful yet near-rabid curiosity. Who was he, this young man? What was he to her? Who was the puzzling woman who called James himself too young, then went gaily off to meet a man who appeared even younger? Yet James’s questions and observations floated over murkier motives in himself as he stared at the two of them: envy, an obscure neediness, a longing that was unplumbed.
James heard the wisps of her laughter. She stroked her hand up the fellow’s arm once. Her young man made her laugh in a different way from that which James did. The sound was more intimate. More relaxed, James fancied, than when she greeted him.
He couldn’t help himself. He bristled. He stepped back beneath an archway, looking at them across the distance of the Senate House Yard. How easily and forcefully jealousy came upon him with regard to Coco Wild. He had to stem it consciously, tell himself, No, no, you hated yourself for drawing poorly informed conclusions once before now. You will not do it again, James, old boy.
Don’t be a raving lunatic in the face of any person—all right, any man— who happens to know her more than in passing. She is entitled to closeaquaintances, warm associations, confidants.
Coco and her young man took tea outside at a little umbrellaed table on the edge of the square. They never stopped talking. She patted the infant’s shoulder; she patted his hand. At one point, the young man brought forth something from his pocket, showing it to her. She was thrilled with it. As if she were his mother.
His mother. James frowned, letting his shoulder, his weight fall against the stone wall of the Senate front gate as he tried out his hypothesis: The young man was her son. No, there was not a shred of gossip regarding any offspring; and gossip was the byword, the middle name, of Coco Wild. Besides, she would have to have conceived him when she was a child herself. Perhaps she sponsored the lad or was friends with his mother. Or his father.
Or—ugly thought—perhaps the fellow was another prince whose cronies had arranged an assignation. He dressed richly. He had a confident way about him, self-assured.
James tortured himself for a time with the sight of them and such ruminations. Ultimately, though, he left with no answer: only the abiding image of Coco Wild and her young man, the two of them sitting there, chatting, animated, familiar, easy in each other’s company.
Chapter 8
T olly’s was a hole-in-the-wall basement establishment down a set of narrow steps just off King’s Parade. As Coco descended into its small whitewashed brick room, she was immediately immersed in a congestion of undergraduates. They jostled her as they came up the steps, taking away tea and ploughboys—bread baked around hard-boiled eggs. They blocked her way in a bottleneck at the front counter where they placed orders for full English breakfasts—aside from an older man and woman eating at a far table, the rest all appeared to be young men escaping the morning’s plain bread-and-butter commons found at most colleges.
Beyond the competitive front counter, the tiny dining common had a leisurely if slightly crowded milieu: half a dozen tables, most with students clustered around them, young men reading newspapers
He was tall and thin, dark-haired, a good-looking fellow in his twenties, James would guess, very well dressed. He greeted her with enthusiasm, embracing her, kissing her cheek, pulling her to his chest. James felt strange emotions skip across his heart, like pebbles across a dark pool into which he wasn’t certain he wished to dive.
She felt about the young man differently from the way she felt, for instance, about Levanthal. James knew a fearful yet near-rabid curiosity. Who was he, this young man? What was he to her? Who was the puzzling woman who called James himself too young, then went gaily off to meet a man who appeared even younger? Yet James’s questions and observations floated over murkier motives in himself as he stared at the two of them: envy, an obscure neediness, a longing that was unplumbed.
James heard the wisps of her laughter. She stroked her hand up the fellow’s arm once. Her young man made her laugh in a different way from that which James did. The sound was more intimate. More relaxed, James fancied, than when she greeted him.
He couldn’t help himself. He bristled. He stepped back beneath an archway, looking at them across the distance of the Senate House Yard. How easily and forcefully jealousy came upon him with regard to Coco Wild. He had to stem it consciously, tell himself, No, no, you hated yourself for drawing poorly informed conclusions once before now. You will not do it again, James, old boy.
Don’t be a raving lunatic in the face of any person—all right, any man— who happens to know her more than in passing. She is entitled to closeaquaintances, warm associations, confidants.
Coco and her young man took tea outside at a little umbrellaed table on the edge of the square. They never stopped talking. She patted the infant’s shoulder; she patted his hand. At one point, the young man brought forth something from his pocket, showing it to her. She was thrilled with it. As if she were his mother.
His mother. James frowned, letting his shoulder, his weight fall against the stone wall of the Senate front gate as he tried out his hypothesis: The young man was her son. No, there was not a shred of gossip regarding any offspring; and gossip was the byword, the middle name, of Coco Wild. Besides, she would have to have conceived him when she was a child herself. Perhaps she sponsored the lad or was friends with his mother. Or his father.
Or—ugly thought—perhaps the fellow was another prince whose cronies had arranged an assignation. He dressed richly. He had a confident way about him, self-assured.
James tortured himself for a time with the sight of them and such ruminations. Ultimately, though, he left with no answer: only the abiding image of Coco Wild and her young man, the two of them sitting there, chatting, animated, familiar, easy in each other’s company.
Chapter 8
T olly’s was a hole-in-the-wall basement establishment down a set of narrow steps just off King’s Parade. As Coco descended into its small whitewashed brick room, she was immediately immersed in a congestion of undergraduates. They jostled her as they came up the steps, taking away tea and ploughboys—bread baked around hard-boiled eggs. They blocked her way in a bottleneck at the front counter where they placed orders for full English breakfasts—aside from an older man and woman eating at a far table, the rest all appeared to be young men escaping the morning’s plain bread-and-butter commons found at most colleges.
Beyond the competitive front counter, the tiny dining common had a leisurely if slightly crowded milieu: half a dozen tables, most with students clustered around them, young men reading newspapers
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