Lunching at Laura's

by Claire Rayner

  ‘Are you afraid because of Anya Zsuzske?’ she said after another long silence. ‘She is awfully old, you know, and one day –’ She let the words hang in the air between them and he turned his head and looked at her and then, oddly, laughed.

  ‘Oh, my dear Laura, don’t you think I’ve lived with that every hour of every day this past I don’t know how many years? She’s – you don’t have to tell me how frail she is, or how much I need her or – no, I don’t want to talk about that.’

  He put his cup down very deliberately and with his head still bent over it said loudly, ‘Your brother, Alex. Does it worry you that he’s – that he – that he prefers – doesn’t have girlfriends? That –’ He stopped and didn’t look up.

  ‘That he’s gay?’ she said after waiting for him to go on. ‘Of course it doesn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What?’

  He looked up at her now and said even more loudly, ‘Why not? It’s a perversion, isn’t it? A disgusting perversion? Why doesn’t it worry you?’

  ‘Because I don’t think it’s perverted at all. It’s just the way Alex is. Always has been. I mean, as far as I know. He’s –’ She shrugged. ‘He’s Alex. My brother. What he does with his sex life’s got nothing to do with that, has it? He’s Alex –’

  Paul shook his head, still not looking at her. ‘It isn’t as easy as that,’ he said. ‘Not really. You can pretend it doesn’t matter, but of course it does.’

  ‘Paul,’ she said then, and leaned forwards and took hold of both his hands. ‘Paul, I don’t worry that Alex is gay and I don’t worry that you are, either –’

  He snatched his hands away from hers as though she had burned him.

  ‘I’m not – I’m – I’m not anything!’ he cried and then his face crumpled. ‘How can you say that? I’ve lots of women friends, lead a perfectly normal man’s life – just because I never married – but how could I? There was always Anya – my brothers were married, had their families, they wouldn’t take care of her, would they? I could never be sure a wife would care for Anya as she should be. How could I marry? I’ve cut myself off from all that sort of thing for Anya’s sake. How can you say – I’m, that I’m such a thing. How can you call me perverted and horrible and –’

  ‘Paul, my dear, dear Paul, I said nothing of the sort,’ Laura said, as calmly as she could. It wasn’t easy, for he was shaking with emotion and filling the room with his fear. She could almost smell it, acrid and powerful, and it made her own pulses beat faster and filled her chest with tension. ‘I don’t think like that. I don’t think people are perverted or horrible just because they happen to have slightly different needs to other people! I could never think like that – it’s you who use those labels, not I. Look, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, I didn’t mean to. It’s just that – well, I wanted to help. I hate to see you looking so miserable and I know that it’s supposed to make people feel better if they talk about the things that worry them. And it was you who mentioned it. Well, you mentioned Alex and I thought that was why you –’ She shrugged. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I got it wrong, I meant no harm.’

  He was leaning back in the armchair again, and in control once more. He even managed to smile shakily at her. ‘I’m sorry if I – I didn’t mean to get so intense. It’s just that – well, Anya had a bad night last night. Couldn’t sleep. And that meant I couldn’t either.’ The smile became a little crooked. ‘I’m not complaining, mind you. She’s worth every atom of effort I put into looking after her. Just explaining, you see.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said and returned to sipping her own tea. She wouldn’t say another word, not till he did. Let him explain what he wanted, what it was that had made him so tense that the very air around him seemed to shimmer with it. She’d take no more risks.

  The silence between them grew and stretched and then at last he said abruptly. ‘There was a reason for asking you about – about how you felt about your brother.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s – it’s because of – I mean, it seemed to me that it made a difference to the way you might feel about other people.’

  She shook her head at him, mystified. ‘You’ll have to explain, Paul. I’m sorry. I may seem dim, but I just don’t understand. What has Alex got to do with anything, and other people? I mean, he’s my brother, and I’m fond of him, though I don’t see much of him.’ She laughed then. ‘He’s a villain really – so busy about his own life he hasn’t time to so much as phone. Not that I’m much better. I’m so tied up at the restaurant. We communicate mainly by rumour these days. But I don’t mind. He’ll call soon enough if he’s in trouble, I imagine, just as I’d call him. The less I hear the more certain I am that he’s all right.’

  ‘He isn’t.’

  ‘What did you say?’ He’d spoken so abruptly that she didn’t think she’d heard him properly.

  ‘I said, he isn’t. All right, I mean. I don’t think he is.’ He closed his eyes then and said in a tight voice, ‘I saw him last week. I thought – he didn’t look well. Had the flu, he said. And then he said something about not telling you because it might worry you. And then I thought –’ He looked at her wretchedly, and shook his head and then rubbed his mouth with one hand.

  ‘I’m so afraid he’s ill because of – because of how he is,’ he said piteously. ‘I had to talk to someone about it. I had to, I –’ He shook his head again and then, to her horror, began to weep. The tears slithered down his nose, snail-like and glistening and she sat there frozen with embarrassment and said and did nothing. She couldn’t do more than sit very still, trying to take in what he was saying.

  ‘You hear such awful tales,’ he went on. ‘So many people getting ill, and they have the blood tests and if they find out they’ve got the thing then they worry themselves sick about whether it’ll make them ill, however good they’re feeling at the time, and then –’ The tears thickened and his voice seized up and he put both hands in front of his face and wept so bitterly that the chair beneath him shook with it.

  She came and knelt beside him, holding his arms above the elbows, not knowing what to do to comfort him, and not knowing what it was that had so frightened him, not wanting to know, just holding on to him and feeling the tension of his muscles through the thin sleeves of his jacket. And then not being able to hold back any longer the word that had come leaping into her mind as he spoke she said loudly, ‘Paul! Are you saying you think he’s got AIDS?’

  The tears increased, and the shaking became even more marked. Now she was angry and shook him hard, and then reached up and pulled his hands away from his wet face.

  ‘For God’s sake, man! You’ve got to tell me! If he has, I have to know, so that I can – is it true? Or are you just guessing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He managed to get the words out and the sound of his own voice in his ears seemed to steady him, for he took a deep shuddering breath and said in a firmer tone, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then what the bloody hell are you doing coming here and frightening me this way?’ she flamed at him and jumped up and stood staring down at him, holding her elbows bent and her fists tight like a boxer waiting to be attacked. ‘How dare you come here and –’

  ‘I couldn’t help it,’ he said piteously. ‘I couldn’t. I’m so scared – I thought –’ Again the tears threatened to overwhelm him, but he dragged up some control from somewhere and sat up and took a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed at his raddled cheeks. ‘I can’t lie any more, can I? I – there was a man who – I spent some time with him. And then he told me that he’d been with Alex once and then when I saw Alex – Oh, Christ, Laura, I’m so afraid!’

  She stood there, very still, and slowly released her fists and let her arms dangle at her sides, trying to take in what it was he was saying. He was gay; he had at last admitted it. She’d always hoped he’d be able to relax enough one day to accept his sexuality and stop being so remote and so icy, but not like this. Never like this. To be told in thi
s way, that both he and her brother – she shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘There’s only one thing to be done,’ she said, and pushed past him to go to the table in the corner where the telephone stood.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He turned and stared at her, his face crinkled again with anxiety. ‘What are you doing? Where are you going? Laura?’

  She didn’t answer him but dialled the number and stood there listening. ‘If he’s got the bloody answering machine on I’ll –’ she began and then her face cleared. ‘Alex?’

  Paul leapt to his feet. ‘No! You can’t!’ he cried. ‘You can’t possibly – for God’s sake, Laura, you can’t!’

  But she paid him no attention. ‘Alex,’ she said crisply into the phone. ‘I have to talk to you. I’ve got Paul here –’

  There was a silent moment as she listened and then she said, ‘Your cousin Paul. Paul Balog. Who else? What? Yes?’

  Again she listened and then she said, ‘He frightened me, Alex. Said you were ill. Said it might be AIDS.’

  Paul turned away now and moved across to the other side of the small room as though by physically removing himself as far as possible he could leave the situation altogether, and her eyes followed him. But she wasn’t looking at him; just concentrating on the thin voice that could just be heard clacking at the end of the phone.

  ‘When did you have the blood test?’

  Again the watching silence as the little voice clattered.

  ‘And there can’t be any mistake?’

  She listened again and then slowly smiled. ‘I see. Okay, Alex. You did see I had to ask?’

  Paul stood up more straight, and looked across the room at her and she grinned at him and held the phone out. ‘Alex wants a word,’ she said briefly and after a long frightened moment he moved stiffly and awkwardly, but obeyed, and came and took the phone from her. ‘He’s had a blood test for it?’ he said.

  ‘And he’s clear,’ she said. ‘It seems he wasn’t too pleased with having flu. He thought it might be more too. But it wasn’t. Talk to him.’ And she returned to her tea and filled her cup. However calm she looked there was still fear and tension bubbling in her and the lid rattled as she picked up the tea pot.

  ‘Alex?’ Paul said. ‘I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have – what? – I – someone told me that – Goddam it, Alex, I can’t! I can’t possibly. Mmm? Well, yes. Yes. No, I still can’t. The best I can do is ask him to talk to you himself. No, I really can’t. I’m sorry. But it’s all right, isn’t it? I was so worried that – I’m sorry if I’ve made waves –’ He stopped short then and Laura looked up and saw the frown that tightened his face as she heard the laughter clearly from the other end of the phone and then lifted one eyebrow as Paul slammed the telephone down on its cradle.

  ‘Why is he laughing?’

  ‘Because he’s got no bloody sense of morality, that’s why,’

  he shouted and then looked mortified. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, Laura. He’s your brother, I know, but –’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t have to apologise either to me or for Alex. He is what he is, I told you. And I accept him that way. Why is he immoral?’

  ‘It’s not for me to say,’ he said stiffly and then burst out. ‘But damn it all, what a person does is private, a matter to keep to himself and to – to anyone who might be intimately involved. It isn’t something to make jokes about –’

  ‘He’s laughing because you thought he might have AIDS?’

  ‘No, he’s laughing because I thought I might have it. And because I thought the same person might have been –’ He went a deep crimson then. ‘Oh, Laura, I should never have come. I’m sorry. I really only wanted to help you, to do the right thing, to warn you – damn it, I shouldn’t have come. Please forgive me –’

  He turned and almost ran across the room to the chair by the door where he had left his coat and hat, and pulled himself into them and then pushed his way out of the door, jabbering as he went. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have said a word. I’m truly sorry. Forget it, please forget it –’

  She tried to hold him back, tried to calm him down, but gave up quickly. It was obvious he wasn’t accessible to anything she had to say and she stood at the top of the stairs as he went clattering down them, watching his silvery head disappear into the shadows. She heard the front door slam and then went slowly back to her sitting room.

  She had a lot to think about. A lot to think about, she told herself. A lot to think about. And went on repeating the words as a way of preventing the things she ought to be thinking about from finding room in her mind.

  But she couldn’t keep that up for long. Eventually she had to face it. Why on earth should Paul come to warn her that her brother might have been infected with a dangerous disease? Why hadn’t he talked to Alex directly? Why come to her in such a state? Was she seen even by Paul, almost thirty years her senior, as in some sense the head of the family, just because she ran the restaurant? Or was there something more to it than that?

  I’ll give him a day or so to get over the fright he’s had, she thought as she washed the tea things and fed her cat before setting out to go to the restaurant for the evening’s work, and then I’ll talk to him again. Because there’s something here I have to understand, and I don’t think I want to.

  20

  It was as well for his sanity, Joel thought, that Sally Lawrence was ill. She had called into the office to announce in painful detail an attack of pelvic infection which she blamed, with great bitterness, on the lovemaking behaviour of her ex partner, a sound recordist who had been fired from City a couple of weeks earlier after a loud public row with her; Brian Crowner, hanging up the phone on her with a furious bang told anyone who would listen that that was what came of having bloody women in the business. First they got the staff screwed up and then themselves.

  Joel, who had been sitting at his desk in the corner of the big production office had started to protest at the stupid injustice of that and then subsided; what was the point of getting angry over the knee jerk attitudes of mindless idiots like Crowner when he had enough problems of his own to deal with? Of course he ought to fight back against such a macho bastard, but feeling as he did at the moment, he couldn’t even begin to deal with fools like Crowner. He spent too much time thinking about Laura –

  ‘You’ll have to take over the Thrust cologne job, Coplin. Thirty seconds with a ten second alternative, and a budget that wouldn’t keep me in bog paper. It’s all yours,’ Crowner said and threw a folder on to his desk. ‘The agency handling it are almost as shitty as the client, so enjoy yourself. It’s a right Sally Lawrence cockup, this one. I wish you joy of it. You’ve got two weeks to do it – the schedules are booked.’

  Joel picked up the folder and looked at it. ‘Ye Gods, who ever came up with a bottle design like this? It’s revolting.’

  ‘It’s sexy. So they say – can you get the job done in the time? I warn you, it won’t be easy dealing with that prat from the agency – that was why I gave the job to Sally. Kept it out of our hair –’

  ‘And then you’re surprised she gets ill?’ Joel said but Crowner had gone back to his own desk, whistling. His whole career at City was based on buck passing and now he’d done it again, he was a happy man.

  And oddly, so was Joel, even though he felt he was walking on the edge of a crumbling precipice. He, who had always been rather amused by the fussing and fuming that went on among his friends when they fell in love, he who had always enjoyed the company of women and had his share of satisfying cheerful girlfriends but had never felt more than comfortable affection for them, to be poleaxed like this? It was mad, it was uncomfortable, it was embarrassing and it was above all very very exhilarating.

  Ever since he had eaten his dinner at Laura’s he had been obsessed with thoughts of her, and now, looking down at the Thrust folder he was grateful for it. To have a rush job to do was what he most needed; there would be little time to spend mooning whil
e dealing with this.

  He grabbed his coat and the folder and went, glad to get out into the air, and took a taxi over to the glossy advertising agency offices near Grosvenor Square, and it was a pleasure to sit in the back of the rackety cab which reeked, as they all seemed to these days, of cheap deodorant, and busy himself with the folder. He needed an idea that was quick, inexpensive and effective and which he could bulldoze over a nitpicking agency man and even fussier client. It was just the sort of job he had made his name on, and it was good to have it. The research for his planned film could never have held his attention like this. Now he’d be able to stop thinking obsessively of the compact shape and the round face and curly head of Laura. He’d be able to put her away and get a sense of perspective and proportion about her, and –

  But it didn’t happen like that. He found his idea – a sudden memory of the stallkeepers in Berwick Street market had come swimming into his consciousness as his taxi rounded a corner where a flower stall glowed vividly and ridiculously frothy with narcissi and roses and mimosa, and he saw a series of sharp, knowing comments from them about the attractiveness of their male customers and passers-by, all of whom, it would turn out, were Thrust users to a man – and he had no difficulty in persuading the agency chap, a rather frightened young man with a very shiny new diploma from the Harvard Business School, and damn all in the way of practical experience, to accept it. He had, by the end of the day briefed the casting people in finding his actors, had the location manager at City setting up the permissions to shoot in Berwick Street market, and had even made an appointment to meet the client and soothe him.

  Yet all the time this work had been going on, he had been thinking of Laura. Her face was there in the middle of the pages in the folder when he looked at them. Her voice echoed softly in his ears as the agency prat burbled on and on about unique selling points and perceived value and erotic design content, all the clichés he could find. Her presence was with him wherever he went and wherever he turned. It was as though he was operating on two totally different levels, or was perhaps two separate Joels inhabiting the same body. He even peered at himself in a mirror when after lunch with the AP (which was how he now thought of the agency prat) he escaped to the men’s room, almost expecting to see himself looking odd. But he saw only the familiar, rather rumpled image that he always did, the same square face and the quiet dark eyes and the full mouth and no sign of what was going on inside his head. And he sighed and went back to the AP to talk again about Thrust – which was beginning to sound like the most stupid product ever invented – and wondered when he’d see her again.