by Jean Levy
‘Does she live with anyone?’
‘No. I think the last guy left because he couldn’t bear the noise.’
Episode Twenty-four
I sat beside Matthew as he drove the Escort through the weekend congestion, out towards the A3 via Shepherds Bush and Hammersmith. It was unusually warm for the time of year and the pavements were full of foul-tempered shoppers, grizzling children and people who seemed to be leaning against bus stops waiting for the world to end. The overall feeling was one of filth and hatred, an atmosphere that was not improved by Matthew’s mood, which degenerated with each inconvenient set of traffic lights and crunched gear. By the time we reached Putney High Street he had taken to winding down the window and yelling at bus drivers, who occasionally deigned to signal their contempt. I tried to concentrate on window-shopping between pedestrians. Then a taxi pulled out and caused Matthew to brake hard and stall the engine. He started up again and pulled away without warning, evoking a horn blast from another taxi:
‘These bastards think they own the road!’
‘If you dip the clutch when you brake, it doesn’t stall like that.’
‘If it wasn’t such a crap car it wouldn’t stall like that!’
‘Do you want me to drive? I’m used to it.’
‘No, just leave me alone and let me get through this SHIT!’
‘There’s no need to be so bad tempered.’
‘I’m not being bad tempered. I just don’t need criticism when I’m driving this heap of rust. You have more than enough money to get yourself a decent car, but you insist upon driving this disgusting wreck!’
‘Well, I think you’re a terrible driver.’
‘Thanks. I’m just trying to make this trip easier for you.’
‘What? By getting us both killed? … Lights! CAR!’
‘What … fuck!’ He slammed on the brake. The Escort jolted to a standstill just short of the bumper of the car in front. Matthew sagged against the steering wheel. We waited in silence for the lights to change. We pulled away and he turned immediately into a convenient petrol station and cut the engine.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Sarah, if Annabelle upsets you, we leave straightaway, OK?’
‘Is that what’s been upsetting you?’
He sighed. ‘That and the fact that I’ve received a solicitor’s letter warning me to stay away from Geraint Williams’ places of work, which essentially excludes me from any influence over what that bastard does to you. It was on my desk when I nipped into the office this morning.’
I watched him gripping the steering wheel then looked away through the windscreen, half focussing on a battered litterbin a few feet from us. It was surrounded by more rubbish than it could possibly hold. So much dirt and waste, being carried from one place to another but never really going away. Everything was a mess …
‘Matthew, I’m going to tell Dr Gray I’m not going to see them anymore.’
‘You can’t stop seeing them!’
‘No, but I can threaten to, unless you can come with me. Anyway, nothing they do is making the slightest difference. I’ve not remembered anything.’
‘You remembered when …’
‘I remembered a feeling, that’s all.’
‘You should at least tell Dr Gray that.’
‘OK, I’ll tell him that. Then I’ll say I’m not coming anymore.’
*
Well over an hour later, Matthew pulled up outside a terrace of houses on the outskirts of an uninspiring little town I had never heard of. He helped me out of my car, handed me the roses that had suffered the journey on the back seat, and escorted me up the short path to my friend’s front door. He knocked on one of the glass panels. A shadow approached on the other side and the door scraped open. I did not recognise my friend’s face, her voice, her perfume, her house or its clutter. I stepped inside Annabelle’s hallway as if for the first time and watched this totally unknown, plumpish, ginger curly-haired woman collapse into an emotional heap in front of me. I stood firm as Matthew coaxed her from her paroxysms of sobbing and led us into her lounge.
‘Annabelle, this is not constructive,’ he whispered. ‘Shall we sit down and try again?’ He started to gather up drawings, wire, an adjustable wrench. ‘For God’s sake, you could have cleared some of this crap away!’
Annabelle wiped her face and collapsed into the space Matthew had managed to clear in the middle of her vast sofa. ‘I wanted to show Sarah what I’ve been working on since …’ She looked up at me. I was still clutching the presentation bunch of roses. Once again she disintegrated into sobbing. I wasn’t sure how to respond. I tried to empathise with this stranger, who was beginning to look ridiculous, but I simply didn’t know enough about her to feel sympathy.
Matthew cleared a space next to the sobbing, sat close and began patting Annabelle’s shoulder. I didn’t want that to be happening. My disapproval moved me to action. I focussed away from Annabelle’s hand which was now resting on Matthew’s knee.
‘Annabelle, why don’t you pretend we’ve just met and you’re telling me about your work?’ I bent to pick up a crumpled drawing. ‘Let’s start with this. What is it?’
Annabelle wiped her sleeve across her face and scrabbled around for a couple of other displaced drawings. Her mannerisms were unfamiliar. ‘It’s for storing DVDs.’ She placed the drawings across Matthew’s knees and traced along a few lines with her finger. ‘They go in there. It was commissioned by the guy that bought my Tin Man.’
‘The Tin Man?’ I said. ‘Like in The Wizard of Oz?’
‘Yes, only bigger, with a penis. Do you remember the Tin Man?’
‘She remembers things from when she was small,’ explained Matthew.
‘I remember TheWizard of Oz,’ I said. ‘The Tin Man wanted a heart.’ I burrowed deeper into my surviving memories. ‘The lion wanted courage and the straw man wanted a brain.’ I laughed. ‘I could probably do with a new one of those.’
Annabelle chewed her lip and seemed to be about to resume sobbing. I needed to prevent further patting. ‘Tell me about how we met. We can start right from the beginning.’
Annabelle threw the drawings over the back of the chair and glanced at Matthew for sanction. He signalled his approval. ‘Just about you and Sarah, right? Nothing confusing. I’ll put the flowers in water. Is there wine in the fridge?’
Annabelle nodded. Her ginger curls wobbled frantically. Matthew stood up, plucked the roses from my grasp and headed out of the door and through the hallway; I was perturbed at how well he knew his way around Annabelle’s house. Around Annabelle. I stepped over and shifted a pair of jeans and sat in the space next to her, not close but close enough that nobody would think of sitting between us.
‘Matthew said we met at university.’
‘Exeter. We were in Halls next door to each other, in the first year. Then we found a flat.’ Tiny tears started to form along her eyelids, waiting for their cue. ‘You threw some frozen mince at your window. In Hall. And broke it.’
‘What? The window?’
‘Yes, you’d decided to be a vegetarian. The mince was OK. I shared it with Mike. Do you remember Mike?’
I shrugged.
‘Do you remember the huge hill we had to climb to get to lectures?’
I shook my head. ‘Sounds terrible.’
‘It was, especially after a night of scrumpy down the pub.’
We chatted. Gradually Annabelle became less tearful. Matthew returned with chardonnay and glasses, cleared an armchair and sat drinking wine and listening to the conversation ramble on: student romances; a holiday in Corfu; me starting teacher training and my brief affair with the headmaster of the school I was sent to for teaching practice, giving up the course and going to work first in a series of offices and then in a florist shop. I felt quite alarmed about the affair with the headmaster. I hoped he wasn’t married. I noticed Matthew looking worried. Then Annabelle’s mention of her own short-lived marriage really seemed to c
oncern him.
‘Why did that fall apart?’ I asked.
‘Because after we got back from the registry office, we realised we hated each other.’
I laughed. ‘Was I ever engaged or anything?’
Matthew interrupted. ‘Nothing significant until you met me. Annabelle, I presume you’d like another glass? To go with the other twenty you obviously had before we arrived?’
‘I had a couple of shots to calm me down.’
‘Really?’ He walked over to the cluttered table to refill his and Annabelle’s glasses. ‘Do you want a top-up, Sarah?’
I shook my head. ‘I hope I didn’t sleep with too many men before I met Matthew.’
‘Why?’ asked Annabelle.
‘You didn’t!’ said Matthew.
For some reason that annoyed me. ‘How do you know?’
‘I just know! Annabelle, did you book a table?’
‘Seven-thirty at The Mad Hatter. We can walk, and you said you liked it there.’
I tried to disguise my irritation. ‘Have I ever been there?’
Annabelle swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘Yes, several times, but then Jeff stopped going there because he hated the chef from when …’
‘Annabelle!’ snapped Matthew.
Something was happening. I didn’t understand Annabelle and Matthew being suspended like that. Like images captured on a paused video. Not blurred but not right. Slowly disappearing behind the thick grey mist. I tried to call out to them, to come back, but the air was too bitingly cold as it passed down my throat, filling my chest with sharp pains. I wanted to run away but my arms and legs wouldn’t move. All I could do was hold my breath and watch the grey mist. It began to sparkle in places. Like fireworks in a cloudy sky. Then all at once it crackled out of existence and became laughter: shrill and unpleasant.
Matthew’s voice broke through. ‘Sarah, are you alright?’
I turned to try to catch sight of the source of the laughter but outside Annabelle’s window there was only empty grass.
‘I thought I heard children,’ I said. I turned back to Annabelle. ‘Have I ever been there?’
‘Been where?’
‘The Mad Hatter. Have I ever been there?’
‘Yes,’ said Annabelle.
*
Supper went well enough. Annabelle had clearly benefited from the large mug of black coffee Matthew forced her to drink before leaving and the conversation about our forgotten friendship continued over three courses, wine and coffee. Watching Annabelle consume her rare steak, reconfirmed my commitment never to eat anything that had previously bled warm blood. How dare Della Brown try to trick me that way! By nine-thirty, I had reached saturation. There was a limit to how much of my previous life I could take in a single session. I stifled a yawn.
Annabelle looked distraught. ‘Am I talking too much, Sarah?’
Matthew laughed. ‘No more than usual. Shall I get the bill? Annabelle, sweetheart, another bucket of wine, or have you had enough?’
‘I’m OK, thanks. Are you both at Sarah’s now?’
Matthew flashed yet another warning glance, but Annabelle seemed not to notice. She looked straight at me. ‘Are you going to sell up and move to Matthew’s place?’
‘Annabelle!’ snapped Matthew. The couple at the next table turned to look. He lowered his voice. ‘Do not mention my house, OK?’
I was confused. ‘Matthew, I’ll drive if you’re feeling grumpy.’
‘I’m not!’ He tried to catch a waiter’s eye. ‘I just get ratty when people remind me that I own a desirable property in Hampstead, currently occupied by a Gorgon, who’s probably defacing my furniture as we speak!’
‘She’s probably fucking someone in your bed as we speak,’ suggested Annabelle.
Matthew sighed. ‘Thanks for that, Annabelle.’
‘You ought to throw her out and move in there with Sarah. It can’t be pleasant in Sarah’s place with all those memories.’
Matthew banged down his glass. The couple on the next table stared across with disapproval. ‘If you want to use the ladies, go separately.’
‘What?’ demanded Annabelle.
‘I can’t risk you saying anything to Sarah that I can’t hear.’
‘Like what?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. But I’m sure Annabelle would think of something.’
*
The walk back was almost uneventful. Annabelle rambled on about her projects and about a weekend away with the guy who purchased her Tin Man: ‘He wanted to stand Tin Man in his bedroom but his wife said no: one giant hard-on was enough for her.’
‘Annabelle,’ said Matthew. ‘Please spare us the details!’
‘Was he married?’ I felt uncomfortable.
‘Yes, he still is. God, Sarah, have you had a moral rebirth or something?’
‘I’m just shocked you can be so casual about committing adultery.’
‘Well, you’re a fair one to talk!’
‘Annabelle,’ said Matthew, pulling me to a standstill. ‘Will you please shut up about your bloody love life! Nobody wants to know.’
‘You are such a miserable bastard these days!’
‘And you drink too much!’
‘Like you don’t!’
I had to intervene. ‘Hey, I’m sorry this is difficult. But, please, stop arguing.’
Annabelle folded her arms. ‘Sorry. Do you have time to stay for coffee?’
‘No,’ said Matthew.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course we do.’
*
Matthew drove back to London, calmer now, after most of his worst fears had been realised and consigned to history. I watched the patches of countryside get taken over by streetlights and thought about Annabelle’s strangeness. Matthew’s reactions. Perhaps Annabelle had come close to revealing something I was currently forbidden to know. Something Matthew knew. I touched his hand. ‘What did Annabelle mean: “all those memories”? Did something terrible happen in my flat? Are the police investigating something that happened there?’
Matthew paused a little too long before he replied. ‘No, as far as I know, nothing happened in your flat that might explain why you were missing.’
More half-truths.
We drove on in uneasy silence. As Putney Bridge approached, I felt Matthew’s fingers close around mine. ‘What are you thinking about?’ he said.
‘Annabelle. Did you ever sleep with her?’
Horror flashed across his face. ‘No way! I told you.’
I couldn’t remember him telling me. ‘Would you? Sleep with her?’
‘What, if she was the only woman left on earth and I was blind and deaf? No, I wouldn’t, I’d find a chimpanzee. Or a ferret.’
I laughed. ‘I can’t imagine ever knowing her. You’d think I would remember something. It makes me feel I’ll never remember anything if I can’t remember my best friend.’
Matthew crunched the gears. ‘If I had a choice I’d forget her too.’
Frankfurt
The Frankfurt Book Fair was staggering towards its close. Promises had been made, wallets bulged with newly exchanged business cards. On the J.D. Hillier stand, a few of the more conscientious staff members, recently back from lunch and awaiting farewell drinks at the Frankfurter Hof, were whiling away the time encouraging a group of Beijing trade delegates to take advantage of the numerous freebies that nobody could be bothered to pack up and take home. At the front of the stand, beside a larger than life cardboard cut-out of a small child clutching a single slipper, David Marchant, Hillier’s managing director, was directing his attention towards Lucy Ashdown, occasional bedfellow and one half of the Parry & Ashdown Literary Agency. The other half of the agency was not back after lunch. Lucy was casting her eyes around the stands while occasionally smiling encouragingly at whatever Marchant was saying to her. She caught sight of her flamboyant young editor reading his text messages.
‘Poppy,’ she snapped, ‘would you mind locating Sarah and mentioning to her t
hat China is a large market and if she spends any more time signing books the unsigned copies will become collectors’ items.’
*
Some of the larger publishers were already vacating their pitches. Trolleys clattered towards the parking access. Their wheels echoed through the last-afternoon emptiness. Sarah didn’t like those echoes. Sarah didn’t much like the book fair either but she was there because Matthew wanted her there. She was, after all, one of the agency’s most noteworthy authors and now, rescued from the wilderness, she was a successful writer. She owed it to Matthew to be there. She wound her way through the literary labyrinth, her hand numb with signing her name. Rounding a last corner, she collided with Poppy.
‘God, Poppy, what’s the hurry?’
‘The Bitch wants you back talking to Chinamen!’
‘What?’
‘There’s a group of Chinese delegates … Oh, shit! They’re coming this way!’
