by Robyn Sisman
Lloyd picked up his net and stood quietly by the water, breathing in an expansive lungful of clean summer air. He had done the right thing. As he turned to go, a much larger trout, a real monster, moved out from the bank below him. It had been there all along, the crafty fellow, waiting for him to get out of the way. Now the fish cruised into the fast current, carelessly conspicuous in the sunlit water, as if it knew that Lloyd presented no danger.
The sun was still high in the sky when Lloyd gave a final farewell toot of the car-horn to the children and turned out of the driveway. Summer days in England seemed to linger forever. It was hard to believe it was almost six o’clock. He rolled down his window to enjoy the country freshness while it lasted. His skin was pleasantly warmed from the sun. He felt well-fed, relaxed, content.
“Oof.” Betsy let her head drop on to the headrest of the car seat. Her arms dangled at her sides, limp as noodles. “I’m exhausted. I can’t believe how early those children got up.”
“Was it early?” Lloyd swerved to avoid a pheasant in the road. Its feathers glowed green and bronze and crimson. “I didn’t hear them.”
“That’s because of all that whiskey you drank. I thought we’d never get to bed.”
“I was being polite. Lorna wanted to tell me about all the different Scottish malts.” He grinned. “She was great, wasn’t she? I love the way she lets family life wash over her.”
“Ye-es.” Betsy sounded uncertain.
“She seems to be able to make toast and laugh at the children’s awful jokes and feed the dog and keep Harry in order all at the same time.” He winked at Betsy. “You’ll be like that one day.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sure you will.”
“Not the dog part, anyway.”
“You said it was darling.”
“That was before it got dirty paw-marks all over my clothes. I’ll have to take them over to Franco’s when we get home. I don’t think I could trust the British to get anything clean.”
Lloyd kept silent. Some things women said were best left un-challenged. He tried another tack.
“I loved the way you teased poor Harry about becoming a housewife after you finished your thesis. I gather that Australian men aren’t exactly famous for their feminist principles. He probably believed every word you said.”
Betsy didn’t answer for so long that Lloyd turned to check her expression. “Maybe I wasn’t teasing,” she said, with a strange little smile.
“What does that mean?”
“I didn’t tell him I wanted to be a housewife, exactly. I just said I wasn’t sure I wanted to be an academic.”
“But—” Lloyd was thrown into confusion. “I mean, you’ve been studying English literature for years. What else are you going to do?”
“I’m going to be married to you, silly.”
“Well . . . yes. But don’t you want to pass on what you’ve learned? Or teach school or write books—or something? That’s half the point of me working hard, earning the money to support us both until you’re ready to do your own thing.”
“It’s not just your money. Don’t forget my allowance.”
“No. Of course.” But Lloyd couldn’t help thinking of all the expenses she didn’t contribute to, like the rent, the bills, movies, dinners, vacations. Mostly her allowance went on clothes and things for the apartment, not necessarily ones he would have chosen himself. Then he felt ashamed of his meanness. “It’s not the money that’s important,” he explained. “I thought you wanted an equal partnership, equal status—you know, what Virginia Woolf meant when she talked about ‘a room of one’s own.’ I’d like you to have your own independent life, not just wait on me.”
“I’ll always want to keep my mind alive, naturally.” Betsy closed her eyes. “Does your stomach feel funny? I’m not at all sure that salmon last night was cooked through. I couldn’t believe how they served it with the head and everything. That awful white eye!” She shuddered. “By the way, did you call the Wilding woman about the cat?”
“Not yet.” Lloyd had forgotten all about it. Now he quailed at the thought. What could he say?
“You can do it tonight, after dinner. Not that I could eat a thing.” She yawned. “Will it bother you if I take a little nap?”
“Of course not.” Lloyd felt oddly deflated. “I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself more.”
“It’s OK.” She patted his thigh briefly. “That’s what I’m here for—to support your career.”
Lloyd drove on toward London with a reddening sky at his back, his mind floating free. Tomorrow he would talk to Fox and air his anxieties. Probably Harry would tell him he was worrying about nothing. After all, Lloyd had no evidence to support his vague suspicions. He hardly believed them himself. He wished he had got hold of Sheri on Friday. He would try again tomorrow. There was nothing he could do on a Sunday night, anyway.
Or was there? Lloyd drove on down the gray motorway, blind to the ugly fly-overs and dismal industrial complexes that cluttered the fringe of London. Imperceptibly, the pressure of his foot on the accelerator increased. A plan was forming in his mind.
Chapter Seventeen
Mozart or Phish? It was a tricky decision. On the one hand, she wanted to appear sophisticated and serious, not just a bimbo in a rubber dress; on the other, she wanted Nick to think her fun, not a stuck-up prig. Would jazz be a good compromise? She flicked through the CDs, her face in turn registering approval, bemusement and disdain.
It was a hot Sunday evening. Suze had just showered and was wandering about the apartment in her most alluring underwear, keeping cool until the last minute. Nick was due shortly for a perfect little supper à deux. Suze was rather looking forward to an evening in. She flitted from the kitchen to the living room and back again in a happy trance.
Yesterday had been the most romantic day of her life. They had met at noon under the clock in Grand Central Station, just like Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart in an old film she had once seen. The cathedral-like ticket hall was high and cool, sliced with pillars of dusty sunlight. When Suze had spotted him in his dazzling white shirt and tight jeans, she could hardly believe this vision was waiting for her.
First they had descended to the Oyster Bar, where they had sat at the counter on high stools, drinking Bloody Marys and feeding each other slices of smoked fish. The bustling paneled room was the epitome of urbane New York, Suze thought. Nick’s bare elbow brushed hers on the counter. Close up, and in daylight, he was hand-somer than ever. He seemed delighted with her company: he admired her dress and teased her about her accent. Giddily, Suze teased him back: “Are you really pleased to see me? Or is that a mobile phone in your pocket?”
Afterward Nick suggested that they go to a private view of a hot new sculptor; one of his connections had slipped him some invitations.
“But I thought you were going to show me New York,” Suze protested.
“You don’t mean . . . tourist stuff?” Nick looked horrified.
Suze was firm. This was her first visit to New York, perhaps her last. He had promised. She didn’t care how corny it was; she wanted to go sightseeing.
So that’s what they did. First they lined up to ride the elevators to the top of the Empire State Building, giggling at the Japanese camera-freaks and taking turns reading to each other out of Suze’s guidebook. Nick knew nothing about history or architecture, she discovered, and when they finally reached the 102nd floor, he had stared at the far, hazy view with such wonderment that she became suspicious. Eventually she had teased and tickled him into admitting that, in all his fifteen years in the city, he had never been up here.
Next they took a long, meandering walk through Central Park; it was much more fun than a London park. They watched the jugglers and clowns and kite-fanatics; they quacked at the ducks and rode on the old carousel; they kissed under the cool trees by the lake. But when Suze’s eye alighted on one of the horse-drawn buggies, Nick drew the line. “What if someone saw me? Bliss Bogardo
has an apartment around here. She could be at the window right now, checking me out with her binoculars.”
“Who is Bliss—?” Suze had started to say, but at that moment Nick decided to kiss her, jamming her brain signals so that afterward she could do no more than stumble hip-to-hip with him across the yellowed grass, smiling dreamily.
When they were hot and exhausted they rode a cab down to the little dock on the Hudson, and took the Circle Line boat around Manhattan. As they slowly circumnavigated the whole magical island, sipping cold beer, Suze waved at the people on land—the poor saps who weren’t in love—until Nick told her that two tourists had recently been shot dead from a bridge in the Bronx.
“I know what we can do afterward,” Suze had said excitedly. She explained how her father had bought a bottle of champagne in some Manhattan club back in the sixties and asked for it to be put aside for his daughter until she came to claim it. “It was some kind of sales gimmick, I think. I couldn’t have been more than a baby at the time.” She put her hand on Nick’s arm. “Oh, do let’s go. Dad says it’s one of his ‘great spots,’ and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather share my champagne with.”
“What’s the club?” Nick asked, with professional interest.
“It’s called ‘21.’ Have you heard of it?”
Nick recoiled. “Jeez, Suze. I mean, businessmen go there. There are toy cars hanging from the bar, and stuffy old farts in armchairs. They’ve probably got Frank Sinatra on the sound system.”
“Oh.” Suze felt rebuffed. Hastily backtracking, she suggested a restaurant in SoHo she’d read about, which was so cool you had to reserve a table three months in advance, guessing that this was the kind of challenge Nick liked. She was right.
He flashed her a cocky smile, his good humor restored. “Leave it to me.”
Suze listened with a guilty thrill while he called the restaurant and reminded them of all the celebs he’d brought them in the last year. “Bump a couple of nobodies off one of the corner tables,” he drawled, winking at Suze, and she had leaned against him, burying her face in his delicious shirt-front, trying not to think of the people whose table they had pinched.
The place turned out to be rather ordinary, despite one or two faces she thought she almost recognized, and by the time Nick asked for the bill she was ready to let him take her home. After all the activity of the day, the flat seemed quiet and intimate. Suze left him in the living room while she made them Manhattan Killers on the rocks. He roamed the room curiously, scoffing at the furnishings and books and selection of music. “You can tell this apartment belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Ordinary. No one’s had chairs like that since the eighties. And look at this!” He waved a particularly gruesome CD at her over the kitchen doors.
Suze felt oddly defensive. There were some nice things about the apartment. She made herself promise never to reveal to Nick that she’d decorated her own flat herself. After a while, he came over to the kitchen and stepped inside. There was barely room for both of them. “Look at you,” he teased, squeezing her waist, “the little home-maker. I don’t think I’ve even seen my kitchen since around 1992.”
“But where do you eat?”
“Restaurants, take-out places. Nobody cooks anymore.”
“I do. Sort of.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” He was opening drawers and cabinets at random. “The people who live here must be pretty geeky. Imagine spending your money on pots and pans . . . What’s this thing?”
“It’s a pastry brush. You use it to—Ni-ick . . .” Suze giggled as he leaned over to sweep the soft bristles across the tops of her breasts.
Then he carried their drinks over to the sofa—the leather one, Nick insisted, with a provocative lift of his eyebrows—and lounged against the armrest, watching her with hungry, hooded eyes. Suze lit a cigarette, trying to appear cool; she didn’t want Nick to think her a total pushover. But the leather proved too intoxicating. Suddenly Nick snatched the cigarette out of her hand and pulled her onto his lap, kissing her and tugging at her clothes. His hands slid into soft, secret places. Suze felt the briefest pang of conscience about doing this on someone else’s sofa, before her mind dissolved into a mush of sensation. Nick’s body was heavy and warm; she felt she was burning up. Crikey, she was burning up!—or, rather, the sofa was. Suze rolled away and stared aghast at her cigarette smoldering into the expensive leather. But Nick had just laughed, extinguished the thread of smoke in a splash of cocktail and pulled her back to him.
Now Suze was frowning at the unmissable black hole right in the middle of the sofa. What if the Rockwell people made her pay for a whole new one? She placed a cushion over the blemish and returned to the kitchen.
The only disappointing part of the day had been waking up early this morning to find Nick already gone. She had been looking forward to a long, lazy Sunday breakfast together. Nick had left her a note explaining that he had a deal going with some Australian soap-opera star who could only be contacted at weird hours, and that he would see her tonight—which he had spelled “tonite,” with a little circle forming the dot of the “i.” Oh, well, Suze thought, you couldn’t have everything.
She glanced at her watch. Help! She’d better get organized. She had already discovered that producing the perfect little supper was not as easy as she had thought. All the shops seemed to be open on Sundays but half the ingredients had different names here. Rocket was called “arugula,” spring onions were known as “scallions,” and as for buying a perfectly straightforward carton of double cream—forget it. She had found it impossible to find anything that wasn’t no-fat, lo-fat or pale sludge popping with chemicals. Never mind. Her menu was a model of sophisticated simplicity: rocket with shaved Parmesan (“parmajahno” in American), poached sea bass with baby vegetables and wild strawberries soaked in Cointreau. The pièce de résistance was to be homemade Hollandaise sauce, a recipe she had not previously attempted, but what could be so difficult about stirring a bunch of eggs and butter together?
She had just put the ingredients into the double boiler and was heading toward the bedroom to put on her dress when the telephone rang. If that was Nick ringing to cancel, she’d murder him.
It was Lloyd Rockwell. The man had a genius for ringing at inconvenient hours.
“Yes?” she demanded crisply.
“Hello.” His voice was cautious. “I’m sorry to bother you again, but I’m afraid I have more bad news.”
What now? Suze wondered. She hoped that little Hitler at the electricity board hadn’t cut her off again just because she hadn’t paid on the exact day. “Can you be quick? I’m in the middle of cooking.”
“It’s about your cat,” he went on. “The thing is he’s—well, the fact is, he’s passed away.”
“Passed away?”
“Dead, if you prefer.”
“Mr. Kipling? Oh, no . . .” Suze pressed a hand to her mouth. She thought of all the times he had cheered her up, swaggering into the sitting room, boasting with the merest flick of his tail of unspeakably daring exploits on the rooftops of North London before collapsing into companionable sleep by her radiator. He had never been officially hers, but that was part of his attraction. He came when he wanted to; she fed him if she had anything at hand. He had been particularly fond of Marks & Spencer cheese flan, she recalled. A sob escaped her.
“Don’t cry,” he pleaded. “Please don’t cry.”
“What happened?” Suze sniffed. “Did he get run over?”
“Not exactly . . . You see, you must realize we didn’t know he was your cat. When we found him coming in and out of the house, we thought he was a stray. So—I don’t know how to tell you this, but we thought the best thing was to take him to the veterinarian. She said he was pretty near the end of his life anyway, and it would be difficult to find him a home so . . . so . . .”
“So you killed him,” Suze finished savagely. “How could you?” she burst out. “A poor innocent cat just looking for a bit of company.”
“
I know. I’m sorry. Truly, I can’t tell you how sorry. I see now it was a terrible thing to do. I know there’s no way to make it up to you, though I would if I could.”
He did sound sorry too. Suze snapped one garter against her thigh in agitation. She was upset and wanted to vent her anger on him, but felt he didn’t deserve it.
“Betsy’s bought you a present—a microwave oven. It’s not supposed to be any kind of compensation, of course,” he went on hurriedly, “just a small token of our apologies.”
Suze scowled into the telephone. Microwaves were for dull people. As she stood, silent and mulish, she became aware of an odd smell.
“Oh, no!”
She dashed into the kitchen, trailing the long phone wire behind her. Disaster! In the Hollandaise-sauce pan was an evil-smelling brown custard. Suze went to snatch the pan off the stove, burned her hand, screamed and dropped the telephone receiver. Hopping with pain, she found an oven glove, put the pan on the draining board and ran cold water over her hand. She waved her other hand in front of her nose. The smell was disgusting. What would Nick think?
A disembodied voice was squawking at her from the floor. “Hello? Hello?”
She picked up the telephone receiver. “What is it now?”
“What happened?”
“I just burned my Hollandaise sauce, that’s all. And he’ll be here any minute. Everything’s got to be perfect. I’m not even dressed.” Rising panic made her voice squeaky.
“Maybe it can be rescued. What does it look like?”
Suze peeked into the saucepan. The suppressed memory of an afternoon spent with Bridget shortly after the birth of Timmy-wimmy rose from oblivion. “Baby poo.”
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound too great, I admit. Why don’t you skip the sauce? Any man would be glad to have dinner cooked for him, sauce or no.”
“You don’t understand,” Suze wailed. “This isn’t ‘any man.’ It’s got to be perfect. I mean, this is someone who throws away his dress shirts after one wearing.”
