by Sue Margolis
Anna refused to be drawn. She simply smiled and said he probably had a point.
Ed said nothing for a minute. He was clearly considering his next move in his campaign to get some response from her to his teasing. Finally he announced that he was going to his Jewish godson's circumcision the next day. For the next ten minutes he didn't stop sounding off about how barbaric it was that in this day and age, Jews were still mutilating their baby boys. Finally he had turned to Anna and demanded to know how she could possibly justify it.
The truth was that Anna couldn't justify it. If she was honest, she thought circumcision was horrific. Like many Jews, she and Dan had circumcised their son out of some irrational atavistic tribal calling rather than religious conviction. Nevertheless, Ed had touched a nerve. She was buggered if she was going to let him win the argument, but was still determined not to lose her temper. Remembering that his parents were Polish Catholics, because she'd heard Campbell refer to him at a drunken leaving do as a Catholic Polak, Anna looked at Ed, and in a calm, self-assured tone which belied her galloping pulse said:
“Ed, please don't lecture me about barbarism. There are religious reasons as well as sound medical reasons for circumcision. On the other hand, your Polish ancestors had no motive other than hatred for carrying out pogroms against the Jews.”
Ed didn't say another word on the matter. Anna knew this wasn't as a consequence of her having shot down his argument about circumcision being barbaric. She knew she hadn't. She suspected Ed had shut up because he was in shock. He simply wasn't used to being with a female who fought her corner. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the first time a woman had put him in his place.
That moment of sweet victory became one Anna would recall time and again over the next two years.
Ed reached the reception desk where Anna was standing. He was still panting heavily from his sprint.
“Ed . . . hi. What's going on?” Anna inquired. “And correct me if I'm wrong, but would I be right in thinking the Gonzalez family has a long-lost English branch, and that you are it?”
Ed was still too puffed to speak, or even smile. Instead he held up his index finger to indicate that he would explain everything, but he needed a minute to get his breath back. He put his camera bag on the floor, placed his hands on the desk and lowered his head between his outstretched arms.
Anna looked across to where she had been sitting and noticed some small bottles of Evian water standing next to the coffeemaker. As she walked across to fetch one for Ed, for a second her mind went back to the minicab and to her thoughts about not giving up on adultery until she'd scored her hat trick. . . .
As she picked up a bottle of water, she turned her head to look at Ed. He looked smarter than usual. His Levis were less faded and his well-cut woolen jacket looked brand-new. As he leaned against the reception desk, she could see the jeans pulling ever so slightly across his behind. It was even more compact than she remembered.
She went back to the reception desk, unscrewed the cap on the water bottle and handed it to him.
“Here, this'll cool you down.” Ed lifted his head up from between his arms and smiled his thanks. The dark-navy jacket looked stunning against his gray-blue eyes and amber freckles. Anna had to admit that although Ed Brzezinski was the most arrogant and conceited man she had ever met, he was also one of the most beautiful—second only to Charlie Kaplan.
As she watched him put the bottle to his lips and lean his head back, a large flock of sexually aroused butterflies materialized in Anna's belly, only to disappear in a matter of moments. It was all very well having the hots for Ed Brzezinski, she thought, but if he was still the unpleasant, egotistical fool he was two years ago, she couldn't even consider sleeping with him. She wasn't about to do an impression of a simpering nineteen-year-old geisha. She was desperate to find the third man for her article, but not that desperate.
What was more, Ed was unlikely to have forgotten her pogroms outburst. She was still proud of her speech and didn't have the faintest regret about making it. Nevertheless, she had to acknowledge that because of it, he probably thought her an aggressive, argumentative cow and hated her. There was very little chance he would speak to her in anything other than curt monosyllables, let alone go to bed with her.
“Anna, I am so dreadfully sorry I'm late,” he said as he put the bottle down on the reception desk. Anna looked at him in utter disbelief. Not only was Ed speaking to her, using several polysyllabic words, he was actually apologizing for something. Could it mean, Anna wondered, that he had changed his tune and thought of her as his equal, as someone worthy of his respect and consideration?
Wet tails of tawny hair were stuck to his forehead. As the butterflies took up residence once more inside her, Anna wondered if people with auburn hair had auburn pubes.
“I've been at the High Court in the Strand all morning,” he went on. That explained his smart clothes and absence of stubble.
“I left ages ago, but the traffic was murder round Trafalgar Square. . . . Then when I got here I couldn't park. I finally found a meter a mile or so down the road and I sprinted all the way back. I was frightened you'd set off for Poole without me.”
Anna looked at him, a mixture of confusion and irritation on her face.
“But the picture desk said I was going with Monalisa Blake. When did they change their minds? And why didn't somebody leave me a message to let me know what was going on?”
“I don't think there was time,” Ed said, running his fingers through his hair to get rid of the wet bangs. “Monalisa phoned Campbell just as he was about to dash off to a photo shoot. Apparently the dozy cow got confused about where the two of you were going and forgot she was supposed to meet up with you first. To cut a long story short, she left home at nine this morning and instead of driving to Poole, she went to Goole in Yorkshire.”
Anna frowned. “I don't believe it. No one's that daft. I reckon she's playing hooky. I bet some pathologist mate of hers invited her along to some juicy postmortem. She's probably bouncing a flash off some poor bugger's liver as we speak.”
Ed Brzezinski said that Anna was probably right.
“Anyway . . . you've got me instead of Monalisa.” He bent down and picked up his camera bag. “Campbell bleeped just as I was leaving court and asked me to take her place on the hen-party job.”
“Great.” Anna beamed insincerely. She paused, assuming Ed was about to explode and deliver another diatribe on the indignity of being asked to cover such a down-market story. When, after several seconds he hadn't detonated, she decided it was safe to continue making conversation.
“I can't say I was looking forward to an evening with Monalisa. I swear the woman dabs formaldehyde behind her ears.”
Ed grinned. She couldn't remember ever seeing his face in anything other than a scowl.
“So what were you doing in court?” she asked cheerily, buoyed up by his expression. “Tom Cruise had you up for harassment?”
His smile disappeared at once.
“Not exactly. I'll explain on the way.”
They got a cab back to Ed's car, which was parked in a side street. Ed paid the driver and, seeing Anna struggling to get her holdall out of the taxi, went to help her.
“Jesus, Anna,” he said, heaving the overstuffed bag across the floor of the taxi. “Don't tell me, you've just pulled a one-woman bullion heist and the real reason we're going to Poole is to meet up with your fence?”
He hadn't lost his aptitude for sarcasm, but at least today it had come with a side order of humor. Anna giggled. Ed turned to face her and let the bag drop with a thud at her feet. Anna said thank you and watched Ed rearrange the bank notes in his wallet. He looked pale and exhausted, as if he hadn't slept for days. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed it when she first saw him in reception. He stuffed his wallet into his back pocket.
“You know, what with my stuff, I'm not sure your bag's going to fit in the trunk.”
He nodded in the directio
n of the car parked a couple of yards down the road. Anna's face fell. He was still driving the clapped-out Mini.
“And if you dare call it a pile of crap like you did that time we went on that singing spaniel story,” he said in mock anger, “I'll drive down to Dorset on my own and you can cart this thing on the train.” He kneed Anna's bag along the pavement towards the 1966 dark-green Mini Cooper S.
“This car is a classic,” he said, getting out his keys. “Cost me twenty grand three years ago. Bugger of it is, the classic market collapsed and she's only worth about fifteen now.”
Anna said she failed to see why anyone in their right mind should want to pay even fifteen thousand pounds for a thirty-odd-year-old Mini.
“Ed, I've ridden on seaside donkeys with better suspension than this car possesses.”
She waited for him to come back at her with some cutting remark. She watched him open his mouth and then close it. It was as if the fight had suddenly gone out of him. Could it be that Ed Brzezinski had mellowed? She remembered one of Brenda's favorite sayings: “A leopard can never change his spots unless he's kept the receipt.” Perhaps Ed had kept his.
Saying nothing, he turned away from her, pushed the front seat forward, maneuvered the holdall into the back and set it down alongside his camera bag.
Being elderly, it was legal for the pile of crap to have no seat belts. As they bumped and lurched along the Westway, the Mini's engine sounding as if there were a thousand angry bees trapped under the hood, Anna found herself clutching the plastic handle above the passenger window for support.
They'd talked a bit about the hen-party story and the kind of pictures Campbell had in mind, but Ed seemed to be finding it immensely difficult to carry on being cheerful and enthusiastic, and after a while the conversation dried up.
Anna stared out the window and watched the city relinquish its hold on the landscape. Every so often she turned to glance at Ed. Even from his profile she could see the pain on his face. She assumed it had something to do with the court case. Finally she plucked up the courage to ask him about it.
“So, Ed . . .” she said gently, “you still haven't told me why you were in court.”
He didn't take his eyes off the road. It was a moment before he spoke.
“I wasn't exactly on trial. Although I certainly felt like a criminal by the time I left. My wife and I divorced a couple of months ago. We were in court for the child custody hearing. As of today I have been denied all contact with my kids.”
“Ed, I am so sorry.” She put her hand on his shoulder and kept it there for a few seconds. “I thought I kept up with all the gossip at the Globe, but I had no idea you'd got married, let alone had children.”
“We had a couple . . . twin boys. They're a year old now.”
“But what on earth happened? I don't understand. . . . How could you be left with no contact whatsoever?”
“Simple. My wife bribed the au pair. She gave her a grand to say in court that she'd seen me beat her up and that I got drunk whenever I looked after the babies. What gets me is I've barely had more than a nightly glass of wine since the twins were born. I even gave up the cigarettes. Anyway, the judge, who was some crusty old fart, decided to believe her. He then described me as a violent and abusive husband, and an unfit father. Apparently I can appeal, but God knows how long that'll take. Even if I win, there's a good chance the court will insist my visits are supervised.”
As his voice trailed off, Ed turned towards her briefly. For a second or two their eyes met. Anna had no trouble imagining Ed being a narcissistic pain in the arse to live with. She certainly had no trouble believing he had been unfaithful, but seeing his wretched, broken expression, she found it impossible to accept he was a violent man.
She searched her brain for something constructive to say, but could think of nothing that wasn't a ridiculous palliative. The only useful thing she could do was listen. She decided to sit quietly and wait until he was ready to carry on speaking. She glanced out of the window. They were about to join the M3. They would be in Poole in an hour or so.
After a couple of minutes Ed began speaking again. The words were suddenly pouring out of him. He seemed desperate to talk.
Ed had met his ex, Tilda Hasselquist, a tree surgeon from Sweden, while he was covering a Christmas charity event in Scotland. Along with half a dozen other tree surgeons Tilda had agreed to help cut down fir trees which were going to be distributed to needy children.
Campbell McKee had been tipped off about the story from a mate who worked for BBC Scotland. He'd been distinctly underwhelmed by it until the mate got to the bit about one of the tree surgeons being some six-foot Swedish girl with waist-length butter-colored hair, Bambi eyes and breasts like a couple of honeydews.
Immediately Campbell had summoned Ed into his office and instructed him to get his arse on a plane to Edinburgh.
“What I'm after is a snap of the tart up a tree . . . starkers except for a Father Christmas cloak. I'm relying on you to come back with the business. Ed . . . I'm talking stiff nipples, wet, pouting lips . . . and for fuck's sake make sure she looks like she's really caressing her bleedin' chainsaw.”
Needless to say, Ed had been up in arms about being sent on such a prurient assignment. Campbell's reaction had been to throw him a bundle of rolled-up tenners “to keep the mare sweet” and make the point that as the highest-paid newspaper photographer in the country, Ed shouldn't be so fucking picky.
“Oh, and by the way,” Campbell shouted to Ed as he was about to walk out of Campbell's office and slam the door behind him, “I'm not bothering to send a reporter with you. I thought, seeing as you're so intelligent, you could ask her a few questions. What I'm after are tales of saucy sauna romps, her thoughts on whether British men keep it up longer than Swedes, which of course she'll say they do . . . and find out which is her favorite ABBA hit. . . .”
Although Tilda Hasselquist was, as Campbell's mate had described, tall, blond and big-chested, she also had an IQ of 180 and a Ph.D. in arboriculture from Edinburgh University, not to mention a highly developed fiscal sense.
Ed, who'd fallen madly in lust with her in about three nanoseconds despite her high intelligence, did everything he could to persuade her that posing nude for a tabloid newspaper was as good as prostituting herself. Tilda laughed, accused him of being a prude and said there was nothing wrong with people admiring a beautiful body like hers. She was determined to go ahead with the picture, so long as she received an appropriate fee.
There was nothing he wouldn't do for Tilda, so he spent hours on the phone to Campbell negotiating her fee. Campbell finally agreed to pay her two thousand pounds.
The Sunday before that Christmas, the picture of Tilda, batting her thick eyelashes and naked except for a Father Christmas cloak and her chainsaw, appeared on page five of the Globe on Sunday. The headline accompanying it, which Campbell had composed in a matter of seconds, was “Xmas Chainsaw Mascara.”
We dated for a few months,” Ed continued. “I would fly up to Scotland at weekends or Tilda would come down to London. Then we found out she was pregnant. By that time we both knew we were in love and we didn't think twice about getting married.”
One of the reasons Ed's lust for Tilda had turned to love was that she had seen a loving, caring man beneath his inflated ego and bad temper. She forced him to confront his anger and made him understand that it had only come about because he had been forced to give up war photography.
With Tilda by his side and the babies on the way, Ed was able to develop a new sense of self-worth and, for the first time in years, become a likable human being.
He stopped taking himself so seriously and developed a sense of humor. He made his peace with Campbell and even found he enjoyed going on some of Campbell's ridiculous capers.
After a while, he became less emotionally dependent on Tilda. It was then that he started to find fault with her and become bored.
He accepted that many Swedes got depressed during
the dark winter months and took her seasonal suicide attempts in his stride. What he found harder to accept was that even in the spring, when she cheered up, she was an unspeakably dull companion.
Tilda's idea of fun was an evening spent reading aloud to Ed from the works of the Greek philosopher Theophrastus. She considered Theophrastus' On the History of Plants, in particular his section on the treatment of tree wounds, to be the most significant contribution to the development of modern arboriculture. Afterwards she would attempt to engage Ed in a heated debate on the pros and cons of bare-root transplanting of deciduous trees.
It was at these moments that Ed found himself looking back fondly on their trips to casualty to have Tilda's stomach pumped.
He wasn't sure which he found more tedious—Tilda reading aloud from her tree books, or going out for a meal with her. Her favorite eatery was the self-service canteen at IKEA on the North Circular road. She insisted they go there for lunch every Saturday. While Ed toyed with his gravadlax, Tilda listened to a Strindberg play on her Walkman and tucked into a huge plate of Swedish meatballs with lingonberry sauce. This was accompanied by an even huger portion of Janssons' Temptation, a creamy potato dish designed to keep the daily calorie count of Swedes in the frozen north as close as possible to the annual food intake of the average African tribesman.
After lunch Tilda would drag him round the store looking at roller blinds or light fittings for the new house. All their furniture came from IKEA. She must have been the only customer who referred to each item of furniture by the cutesy Swedish names IKEA assigned them. “Have you had a new delivery of Bjorns?” she would ask the salespeople. “How are they comparing in empirical functional utility with the old Stig?” Ed only realized that Tilda's passion for the place had turned into an obsession when he came home one evening to discover a huge wire basket sitting next to the fireplace. It was filled to the brim with miniature garden rakes called Sven.
