The house is red brick against the grey sky; ivy trails the walls and curls around the windows. He stares up at it with a blank expression. Someone could be looking out mysteriously from any curtained window. That is the sort of house it is. His eyes are the colour of the sky. He is in a dark, slim suit and has the appearance of respectable, cold youth. It seems his eyes never blink and this gives them a vaguely perturbing window onto a soul which is otherwise completely hidden. He smiles slightly and walks up the drive towards the front door, where he lifts the heavy brass knocker and lets it fall. Then he steps back and lights a cigarette, his otherwise smooth manners betraying a certain coarse need in this action. He needs no name at the moment. The door opens into darkness, the vague figure of Nurse all in white, a ghost answering its call. She nods, leaves the door ajar and he stands, finishing his smoke before deliberately flicking it away and entering.
She sits at the edge of the family swimming pool, still carelessly, idly sipping at a flute of champagne she has half-heartedly taken out with her. She is in a one piece swim suit and a long kimono, which she plays with. Twisting the fabric in her hands. Though while around other people she has a blinding vivacity, alone her eyes look like two bottomless wells and she seems infinitely sad, though without being depressed about it at all. The trees stretch over it all, their leaves falling delicately into the water.
Eugenie is in a dance studio being instructed in ballet. Her teacher is an older, but trim woman, once a prima donna, now no longer able to demand such attentions. Her hair is pulled back in a strict bun and she eyes Eugenie with envy, criticizing her every step. Eugenie takes this cruelty without complaint going through the steps again and again. Music pipes in from nowhere in particular. She twirls about the room endlessly, her teacher barking instructions and complaints in French. Then, exhausted, in the middle of a pirouette she falls, crying softly—she collapses on the floor, legs akimbo under her tutu—her hands vaguely come up to shield her face.
“Miss Eugenie!” Her teacher cries.
(This is all in French)
“I’m so sorry Madame.” Eugenie stumbles.
“It is a simple step, you clumsy fool! How many times must we go through this? You are hopeless.”
“But I never asked—“
“No you never asked to dance, but it is your mother’s wish, and seeing as how she pays for everything you and your spoiled sisters do, it is a wish I am armed to carry out to the best of my abilities despite your pathetic whining and disgusting form.”
“Please Madame—“
“Get up!”
“My ankle, I think I’ve twisted it.”
The instructor grabs her by the arm.
“I said get up. Do you think Rome was built in a day you stupid girl? Now if you want to be good you have to bleed a little.”
She pulls Eugenie to her feet.
On her chair by the swimming pool She smokes. She looks up as though she has heard something.
... I am clipped...
The young man is now inside the house, he wanders down the hallways with Nurse leading him.
clip me...
He looks around as though appraising the house’s current condition. He is familiar with it and its tenants. His visits are not often, perhaps once or twice a year, but they are visits which both he and those he has come to see eagerly await. Nurse shows him into a drawing room where Matilda is sitting smoking and playing roughly with the fat hound. When she sees the young man she gets up quickly, putting out her cigarette and brushing at her skirts. She makes as if to run forward and embrace him, but then puts her hands at her sides and merely smiles.
“Hello Tom.” She says.
He walks into the room comfortable, sits down and pours himself a drink. He seems much more relaxed than he has been until this point. He takes a sip and smiles charmingly.
“Hi.”
She sits back down and motions for Nurse to leave them. Neither pay attention to Nurse who leaves quietly and quickly.
“How have you been?” She asks.
“I could be better.” He smiles again, this time it is a smile which is a bit too bright. He sips at his drink again.
“Drink?” He gets up to make her one, anticipating her answer.
“No thank you, I’m not drinking at the moment.”
He just laughs, pours her a whiskey and hands it to her. She looks down on it, but does not move to refuse it. He laughs again and sits back down, lighting a cigarette.
“So, how is mother?” He asks.
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