The Finishing School by Muriel Spark Page A

not.”
    “Go to hell.”
    “Can I quote you, Rowland?”
    “Whatever you please. It’s hell you’re going to, anyway.”
    “I’m sorry to hear,” said Chris, “that Célestine gave you the brush-off.”
    “Did she?”
    “I believe so, Rowland.”
    “There may be another time,” Rowland said. “Another occasion. Girls change their minds.”
    “You’ll come and meet my future publisher?”
    “Do you have a contract already?”
    “No. He’s expressed an interest. That’s sufficient.”
    “All right. I’ll come.”
    Chris and Rowland were seated in one of the hotel’s series of sitting rooms, one leading into another, each upholstered in a different floral pattern. Nina had offered the hospitality of the school but Chris had said he preferred to be independent.
    It was four thirty in the afternoon, the time of their appointment with Monty Fergusson the London publisher who had checked into the hotel at about two o’clock. Rowland left a message at the desk for the publisher, telling him where to find them.
    A clerk from the desk approached them: “Mr. Wiley?”
    “That’s me,” said Chris.
    “A message from Mr. Fergusson. He sent down a message to say he’s detained with some business on the phone to London and will be half an hour late. Can he offer you something to drink while waiting or would you prefer to return later?”
    Rowland said, “Well, I—”
    “We’ll wait,” said Chris.
    Rowland ordered a single malt, Chris, a Coca-Cola.
    “Has he read your book, so far as it goes?” Rowland said.
    “I expect so.”
    “Perhaps he’s actually looking at it now. Those big firms employ readers. The publishers don’t read everything themselves.”
    “Mine is a special case.”
    “Yes,” said Rowland.
    “Can you ever get me out of your mind?”
    “You’re not on my mind. In fact, all the time I was in Yorkshire I didn’t give you a thought.”
    Their drinks arrived.
    “Perhaps we should pay,” said Chris.
    “Certainly not. Why have you suddenly lost your confidence?”
    “Oh, fame’s a new experience for me. I’ll get used to it. Your father’s death made you forget me.”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “Maybe you need another death to get over your obsession. A more important one.”
    “Let’s hope not,” said Rowland.
    The windows of the room looked over the steel-gray lake. The surface was rough, the sky overclouded. Nonetheless, it was a handsome scene. Rowland was impatient for the publisher to arrive and enjoy the fine scene while it was still daylight. He said, “Once the school breaks up and you go away, you know I’m going to reorganize my life. I want you to leave me alone, though.” It was evident that he spoke as if he had a choking sensation, which in fact he had.
    “You will not murder me,” said Chris.
    Rowland sipped his drink and gazed out of the window. Chris said, “You will murder Nina.”
    “What?”
    “Nina. The papers will say you found her in bed with her lover. Crime passionnel. Something you’d have to live with, and forget me. A death.”
    “You’re mad, more mad than me,” said Rowland.
    “And it will be bad for the school,” Chris said.
    A very tall figure was approaching their table. Monty Fergusson, about fifty, with a shock of white hair surrounding a smooth, youngish face.
    “Nice place,” he said, meaning who knows what?
    “I’m Rowland Mahler,” said Rowland. “This is Chris.”
    Monty Fergusson took Rowland’s hand, and nodded to Chris. He had been put on the plane for Geneva that morning with a bulky piece of manuscript to read: The famous novel or rather, book, by the sort of famous youngster of seventeen. The boy had been well photographed and talked about. There would probably be a film. Monty was given to understand that the book involved “a new theory of the murder of Mary Queen of Scots’ husband.” A good commercial proposition while it lasted. Monty had started to look through it on the plane, flicking over the pages so as