The Patrick Melrose Novels by Edward St. Aubyn Page A

Vijay,’ said Eleanor. ‘Victor brought him over.’
    â€˜That’s the one,’ Nicholas nodded. ‘He seemed to know that I was coming here. Perfectly extraordinary as I’d never set eyes on him before.’
    â€˜He’s desperately fashionable,’ explained David, ‘and consequently knows more about people he has never met than he does about anything else.’
    Eleanor perched on a frail white chair with a faded blue cushion on its circular seat. She rose again immediately and dragged the chair further towards the shade of the fig tree.
    â€˜Watch out,’ said Bridget, ‘you might squash some of the figs.’
    Eleanor made no reply.
    â€˜It seems a pity to waste them,’ said Bridget innocently, leaning over to pick a fig off the ground. ‘This one is perfect.’ She brought it close to her mouth. ‘Isn’t it weird the way their skin is purple and white at the same time.’
    â€˜Like a drunk with emphysema,’ said David, smiling at Eleanor.
    Bridget opened her mouth, rounded her lips and pushed the fig inside. She suddenly felt what she later described to Barry as a ‘very heavy vibe’ from David, ‘as if he was pushing his fist into my womb’. Bridget swallowed the fig, but she felt a physical need to get out of the deckchair and move further away from David.
    She walked beside the edge of the wall above the garden terrace and, wanting to explain her sudden action, she stretched out her arms, embraced the view, and said, ‘What a perfect day.’ Nobody replied. Scanning the landscape for something else to say, she glimpsed a slight movement at the far end of the garden. At first she thought it was an animal crouched under the pear tree, but when it got up she saw that it was a child. ‘Is that your son?’ she asked. ‘In the red trousers.’
    Eleanor walked over to her side. ‘Yes, it’s Patrick. Patrick!’ she shouted. ‘Do you want some tea, darling?’
    There was no answer. ‘Maybe he can’t hear you,’ said Bridget.
    â€˜Of course he can,’ said David. ‘He’s just being tiresome.’
    â€˜Maybe we can’t hear him,’ said Eleanor. ‘Patrick!’ she shouted again. ‘Why don’t you come and have some tea with us?’
    â€˜He’s shaking his head,’ said Bridget.
    â€˜He’s probably had tea two or three times already,’ said Nicholas; ‘you know what they’re like at that age.’
    â€˜God, children are so sweet ,’ said Bridget, smiling at Eleanor. ‘Eleanor,’ she said in the same tone, as if her request should be granted as a reward for finding children sweet, ‘could you tell me which room I’m in because I’d quite like to go up and have a bath and unpack.’
    â€˜Of course. Let me show you,’ said Eleanor.
    Eleanor led Bridget into the house.
    â€˜Your girlfriend is very, I believe the word is “vivacious”,’ said David.
    â€˜Oh, she’ll do for now,’ said Nicholas.
    â€˜No need to apologize, she’s absolutely charming. Shall we have a real drink?’
    â€˜Good idea.’
    â€˜Champagne?’
    â€˜Perfect.’
    David fetched the champagne and reappeared tearing the golden lead from the neck of a clear bottle.
    â€˜Cristal,’ said Nicholas dutifully.
    â€˜Nothing but the best, or go without,’ said David.
    â€˜It reminds me of Charles Pewsey,’ said Nicholas. ‘We were drinking a bottle of that stuff at Wilton’s last week and I asked him if he remembered Gunter, Jonathan Croyden’s unspeakable amanuensis. And Charles roared – you know how deaf he is – “Amanuensis? Bumboy, you mean: unspeakable bumboy. ” Everyone turned round and stared at us.’
    â€˜They always do when one’s with Charles.’ David grinned. It was so typical of Charles, one had to know Charles to