Bachelor Boys Read Online Free PDF Page A

approach the Darlings’ without a warm, homecoming glow. This was still where my triumphs mattered most, and my failures least. The big rectangular windows were golden in the blue dusk. For a moment, as I ran up the steps, I thought of those windows with their lights extinguished, and my throat contracted with fear.
    Phoebe’s bones felt hard and sharp under her jersey. She was wearing the cashmere polo neck of deep, dark Christmas red that I had bought her just before Jimmy died. Her eyes were huge above the soft collar, and her face seemed to have shrunk. But her smell was just the same. Perfumes didn’t really register with Phoebe. She carried her own scent, a mixture of sponge cake and tea rose.
    â€œCassie—oh, how lovely. I was praying you’d bring wine.”
    She didn’t want to be asked how she was. She wanted me to fall into
exactly the old relationship, so that was what I did. “All right,” I said, “let’s have it. Why the dramatic summons?”
    â€œFood first,” Phoebe said. She was excited, and rather pleased with herself. I heard Jimmy saying, “Watch her, Cass—I can feel one of her daft ideas coming on.” He and I never stopped teasing her about her ideas. After Jimmy died, it was left to me to talk her out of starting impractical businesses and unlikely charities. What would it be this time? I didn’t care. I hadn’t seen Phoebe so animated for months.
    â€œThe boys are out,” she said. “Which explains the deathly hush below.”
    Before Jimmy died, the basement had been made into a flat for the two boys. Phoebe’s double drawing room had had a new kitchen installed at one end. I put down my briefcase and tried to be useful. The round table was already beautifully laid. There was a bouquet of salad, and a bowl of ruddy nectarines. I opened the bottle I had bought and poured us each a glass. Phoebe sipped hers absently, intent on stirring a small saucepan on the hob. She was most herself when preparing food, which she did exquisitely.
    â€œBen’s at the Festival Hall,” she told me, over her shoulder. “He somehow got his hands on a ticket for Alfred Brendel, lucky boy. And Fritz has gone to Sheffield, to see a friend—well, you remember Toby Clifton, don’t you? He’s in Macbeth at the Crucible, playing Donalbain.” (It was odd to remember how long Phoebe and Jimmy had resisted calling their Frederick “Fritz,” when the nickname had been set in cement for at least fifteen years.) “I’m glad he’s got a decent part at last.”
    â€œDonalbain is not a decent part,” I couldn’t help saying. “It’s about the smallest part you can have in Macbeth , without being billed as a piece of furniture. You don’t have to talk up the achievement of everyone else’s sons.”
    Phoebe smiled, suddenly looking years younger. “I might have known you wouldn’t be impressed.”
    â€œIt’s not bad for a boy, I suppose. At least he’s in gainful employment.”
    â€œHe’s got a good leg in tights,” Phoebe said, draining pasta over the sink. “Perhaps it’ll lead to something.”
    The tagliatelli was fresh, and cooked to perfection. Phoebe served it with a creamy mushroom sauce. I ate with gusto, to draw attention (hers and mine) from the fact that Phoebe hardly ate at all. The fork looked
enormous in her hand. Afterward, she made a pot of tea and we moved to the deep sofas beside the log fire. The scents of woodsmoke, food and Phoebe mingled deliciously.
    She said, “I asked you here because I need your help.”
    â€œYou know I’ll do anything.”
    â€œIt’s not something I can talk about in front of the boys. You see, it’s about the future.”
    â€œOh.” I had that contraction in my throat again. Phoebe had never spoken to me directly about the approaching change.
    â€œNot in a