What Men Say

by Joan Smith

  “Thanks,” she said, wasting the courtesy on an uncommunicative woman who shoved her bag towards her as it emerged from the X-ray machine. She began the long hike to the departure gate, stepping onto a moving walkway and speeding past returning holidaymakers with patchy suntans and T-shirts announcing they had spent the last two weeks in Corfu and loved every minute of it. Loretta disliked airports, the recycled air and the endless waiting, and she regretted having to spend her birthday in one; the morning’s post was in her bag, half a dozen cards stuffed back in their envelopes after she opened them on the coach to Heathrow. Bridget had posted hers on Saturday morning, when she went to buy coffee, with a scribbled apology for failing to find something more suitable than a washed-out flower print, while John Tracey had either forgotten the date or was too angry to send anything.

  In the departure lounge she found a seat in the nonsmoking section and snapped open her carpetbag. She had bought two papers at the airport bookstall, hoping they might contain more details than the Guardian about the man detained for questioning, but the Independent’s report was virtually word-for-word. The Daily Telegraph was more forthcoming, revealing that the suspect worked for a company based in Banbury but had previously been employed as a farm laborer on a large estate only three miles from Thebes Farm. Loretta felt a prickle of excitement, recognizing the unstated implication that the man’s local knowledge might have extended to the layout of Bridget’s garden; the Telegraph went on to report that the search for the dead woman’s missing clothes and the murder weapon had switched from woods behind Thebes Farm to the estate where the suspect used to work, concentrating on a number of ramshackle outbuildings. These had been searched before, a police spokesman admitted rather sheepishly, but extra manpower had been diverted to the area now it was considered central to the inquiry.

  Loretta lifted her head, glancing round the departure lounge in search of a phone. She saw one on the wall, next to the ladies’ loo, and was plucking up courage to try John Tracey again when an amplified female voice announced that her flight was ready to board. Loretta hesitated, wondering if there was time to leave a message on Tracey’s answering machine, but a flight attendant was already collecting boarding passes. Feeling a slight sense of reprieve, she folded the newspapers, slid them into her bag and promised herself she would try Tracey again as soon as the plane landed in Paris.

  A still photo filled the small screen, a line of armored vehicles rolling down a wide street. The voice-over was fast and urgent, so fast that Loretta was thankful she had been speaking French part of the day and her initial rustiness had worn off. She leaned forward to turn up the volume, then supported herself on her elbow on the hotel bed and listened to a report that Mikhail Gorbachev, contrary to reports yesterday, the first day of the Soviet coup, was alive and being held prisoner with his family at a resort in the Crimea. The screen switched to a picture of Boris Yeltsin, who was still holding out against the conspirators in the Kremlin, while a correspondent in Moscow phoned in a report about the response to Yeltsin’s call for a general strike. The next item was a studio discussion with a French trade-union official who had once met the leader of the conspirators on a trip to Moscow; his French was guttural, more difficult than the Parisian accent of the anchorman, and Loretta’s brow creased with the effort to understand. A single long ring from the phone startled her and she stuck out a hand to grab it.

  “Yes? Oui?”

  “Loretta? Is that you?”

  “Bridget? How did you get hold of me?” She was expecting a call from John Tracey, in reply to the message she had left on his machine the previous evening, and she was astonished to hear Bridget’s voice. “I mean, where are you ringing from?”

  Instead of a straight answer Bridget burst into tears: uncontrolled, choking sobs which alarmed Loretta so much that she jerked forward to turn down the volume of the television. The curly telephone cord twisted itself round her arm as she returned to the bed and she struggled impatiently to extricate herself. “Bridget, what is it?”

  Bridget tried to speak, broke down again and sobbed out unintelligible half-sentences. Loretta remembered an occasion when the situation had been reversed, when all that stood between her and imminent dissolution was Bridget’s voice at the other end of a telephone line. “It’s all right,” she said quietly, “I’m here. Cry as long as you like.”

  It took a full minute for Bridget to regain control. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly, and Loretta heard her blow her nose.

  “What’s happened? Can you tell me?”

  “It’s Sam. He knows about the baby.”

  “The baby?”

  “I almost told you that day in the Duke of Cambridge, when we had that stupid row, but I just couldn’t bring myself . . . I didn’t want to admit it, even to you.”

  “What’s wrong with the baby?” Bridget had had the usual test for Down’s syndrome, the risk was higher because of her age, but she had assured Loretta that the result was negative. Loretta thought of other conditions, spina bifida and anencephaly, and did not immediately register what Bridget was saying. Then she gasped: “Not the father? What do you mean?”

  “It’s not his.” Ignoring Loretta’s yelp, Bridget began to gabble: “It was when they did the first scan, I didn’t know they could tell the age of the fetus so accurately, they took one look and said I must have got the dates wrong, it was more mature than they expected. Remember that time in February when we split up?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That’s it, that’s when it happened, I’ve been over the dates a hundred times.”

  “But whose is it?” Loretta demanded unwisely. “Do you know?”

  “Of course I know, I wasn’t sleeping around. I went to a ghastly party in Headington and you know I don’t normally drink that much but I was so depressed . . . I don’t even remember leaving but next morning I woke up and there he was. I mean, I’ve never even fancied him. He said I invited him in, his wife was away at the time—”

  “Who? Who are you talking about?”

  “Stephen.”

  “Stephen Kaplan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, God.” Loretta breathed out, letting her body sag on the hotel bed. She wondered how Bridget had thought she could get away with it, given the difference in their physical types—Stephen small, dark and wiry, Sam tall with straight blond hair. Blame it on recessive genes? “Does he know? Stephen?”

  Bridget choked. “He just laughed when I told him. You know that old joke, with my brains and your looks . . . I was still sort of hoping I’d made a mistake, that he’d turn out to have used a condom or something. But he didn’t.”

  “God,” Loretta said again. She understood now why Bridget had insisted the baby would bear Sam’s name—as though naming something had the power to alter its essence. “How did Sam find out? You didn’t tell him?”

  “Course not.” She added, bewilderingly: “It was the estate agent.”

  “What?”

  “The hospital sent a letter saying all the tests were negative and giving the new date when it—when the baby’s due. Some idiot put the old address on the envelope, Woodstock Road, and it’s been sitting there ever since. The agent sent it on last week, after she showed Professor Lai round. It came this morning. I was on my way to the hospital and Sam thought it might be urgent. He was waiting in for the plumber, one of the loos isn’t flushing properly since the police messed about with the drains.”

  “Where are you now?” asked Loretta, trying to assimilate all this information. “At home?”

  Bridget was silent for a moment. Then she said in a small voice: “I’m at your place. I forgot to give you back the key. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Loretta pictured the note she had left on the kitchen table, next to an unopened tin of Felix, for the neighbor who came in to feed the cat. She had scribbled down the date and time of her return flight, and the name and telephone number of her hotel, just in case of emergencies.

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sp; Bridget drew in her breath and said: “He hit me, Loretta. Well, slapped me.”

  “Slapped you? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I ran out to the car. He came after me, he banged on the window and shouted about a divorce.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, Loretta.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t hurt you?”

  Bridget sniffed. “My cheek hurt for a while but it’s all right now.”

  Loretta glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m going to ring the airline and see how soon I can get a flight. It’s too late to get back tonight, but maybe tomorrow—”

  “Thanks, Loretta. I didn’t want to ask.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Bridget, you don’t think he’ll come after you?” A slap wasn’t fatal, it hardly turned Sam into a wife-beater, but distance doubled her anxiety. She gave an involuntary glance at the bathroom door, as though someone might be lurking in there.

  “I haven’t turned the lights on at the front. I mean, I’m not scared of him or anything, but I thought I’d sleep in your room if that’s all right.”

  Loretta’s stomach contracted. “There’s a torch under my bed, you can use that on the stairs.” She did not add that it was heavy and made of rubber, purchased after a spate of burglaries in Southmoor Road. “Listen,” she said, “put the phone down and I’ll try the airport. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  “Can’t I ring you? What if it’s Sam?”

  Loretta sighed and wished she had a more up-to-date answering machine, one with call-vetting. “I’ll let it ring twice, put the phone down and ring again so you’ll know it’s me. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Have you eaten anything?”

  “A slice of toast this morning. I’m not hungry.”

  “Have a look in the freezer while I ring Charles de Gaulle. What about Mrs. Mason? Does she know you’re there?”

  “Someone came in this evening to feed the cat. He was lying on your bed with me and he went racing off downstairs. I don’t think she realized I was here.”

  “I’d better speak to her as well. Go and get something to eat and I’ll see about this flight.”

  It took Loretta longer than she anticipated to get the right number for the airline, to find someone who could deal with her request and to establish that there was no way of swapping her return flight on Thursday afternoon for one the following morning. Instead she had to buy an expensive single ticket for Wednesday afternoon, paying by credit card and not thinking about how she would find the money when the bill arrived next month. The television was still flickering silently when she finished, the specially extended news bulletin having given way to an American film, and she turned it off before dialing her own number in Oxford.

  “Bridget? It’s all fixed. I should be home tomorrow evening about seven. Did you find something to eat?”

  “Yes, it’s in the oven. It’ll be ready in five minutes.”

  “Try not to worry. I mean, we’ll sort something out.” This was well-meant but not entirely honest; Bridget had dealt a bitter blow to Sam’s self-esteem, and Loretta did not think he was a very forgiving person.

  “Loretta? I was watching the news before you rang and they’ve charged him, that bloke they arrested on Sunday. Apparently they found her case in his loft.”

  “In his loft? They said that on television?”

  “No, I knew already. A couple of reporters rang last night, Sam told me when he came to bed.” Bridget suddenly sounded very tired.

  “And does he drive a blue van?”

  “Yes. He works for a wine warehouse in Banbury.”

  “Wine? I thought it was supposed to be something toxic.”

  Bridget sighed. “There’s an advert on the side, some wine called Explosif.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s Algerian or something.”

  “Like Red Infuriator?”

  “What’s that?”

  “They sometimes have it at Bottoms Up.”

  “I suppose. Listen, Loretta, the timer’s just gone off. Can I tell you the rest tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Bridget?”

  “Yes?”

  “What happened at the hospital this morning? How’s your blood pressure?”

  “Down a bit, or it was.” She sounded close to tears again. “Don’t worry, they’ve given me plenty more tablets.”

  Loretta lifted the phone back onto the bedside table and went to the open window, gulping in the dusty night air. She felt queasy, her stomach churning as though she had eaten something bad even though she had gone to one of her favorite restaurants in Paris. Her room was on the top floor of the hotel, at the back, and if she stood to one side she could see the twin towers of Nôtre Dame; the view across the rooftops calmed her, gradually dispelling her mental image of Bridget eating by torchlight in Oxford. Lights were coming on in uncurtained windows and in the distance she could make out a fire escape at the back of an apartment block, its sharp contours blurring as it zigzagged down into darkness.

  Somewhere a woman began to sing, imitation Piaf, every note a throbbing vibrato. It could be a recording but Loretta thought not, picturing the singer moving from table to table in the outdoor café in the Rue des Grands Degrés, accompanying herself on a guitar. She listened for a while, motionless by the open window, until the song reached its melancholy conclusion and was received with a polite spatter of applause. A breeze ruffled the muslin curtains and she drew them across, bending to turn on the table lamp as she went to the chair where she had left her Filofax lying open.

  Rose Earhart, the Australian friend she had arranged to meet for dinner the following evening, lived in a tiny flat off the Boulevard Rochechouart. Loretta dialed the number and was unsurprised when the phone was answered by another answering machine. Rose was self-employed, a film editor who worked for subsistence wages on low-budget films, and she had warned Loretta she was putting in long hours to finish a movie by a Senegalese director.

  “Rose,” Loretta said tiredly, “I’m so sorry but something’s come up and I have to go back to England.” She hesitated, wanting to say more but held back by feelings of protectiveness towards Bridget, even though the two women did not know each other. “It’s too complicated to explain just now,” she added, “but I’ll write when I get home. I’m really sorry about tomorrow night.” She pressed down the rest, dialed 0 for reception and began to explain, in halting French, that she would have to check out the following morning and would like to settle her bill—the French word escaped her for a moment—she would like to settle her addition as soon as she had finished breakfast.

  The arrivals lounge at Terminal One was large and bare, with two fast-moving queues for EC passport-holders and a much slower one for other nationalities. Loretta took out her passport and checked her watch anxiously, thinking she might just catch the 5:30 coach to Oxford if she was lucky. She joined the shortest queue, shuffling along behind an Italian woman with upswept blond hair and a chunky gold necklace until the line came to an unexpected halt. Loretta tutted, stepped sideways to see what the hold-up was and groaned when she saw the man behind the desk questioning two Asian men. They had old-style blue passports, the precursor of Loretta’s shiny red one, and the younger man was turning out his pockets, searching for something. Loretta watched them uneasily, wondering whether she should volunteer to help.

  “Your passport, please. May I see your passport?”

  Loretta turned, not entirely certain that the remark had been addressed to her. The speaker was a man in a dark jacket, not in uniform but unquestionably official. Loretta stared at him and said: “Me? Why?”

  He plucked the passport from her hand, scrutinized the unflattering picture taken in a photo booth and snapped it shut. “All right, Dr. Lawson, would you come this way?”

  “Where to?” Loretta hung back, glancing at her fellow passengers in the hope of finding a sympathetic face, someone whose support she
could enlist. She was out of luck: the blond Italian was flipping through the pages of Oggi, oblivious to what was going on, and the French couple behind her were preoccupied with a crying infant.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my passport,” Loretta protested, following the man in the jacket only because she wanted it back. “I mean, where are you taking me?”

  He ignored her, leading the way to an unmarked door in the side of the terminal building. Rapping loudly on the door with one hand, he thrust the passport at her with the other and walked away. The door swung inward and Loretta hesitated on the threshold, repelled by the gray, institutional furniture and the acrid fumes of cigarette smoke. Two black lines, roughly parallel, snaked across the floor, as though an unconscious body had recently been dragged across it; Loretta’s fertile imagination immediately began filling in the details, a drug courier collapsing under interrogation as a condom packed with cocaine burst in her stomach, the chaos in the room as customs officers tried ineffectually to revive her. At that moment a door opened on the far side of the room to admit a man and a woman, both of them familiar, and any notion that she had been stopped on a customs matter evaporated from Loretta’s head.

  “Dr. Lawson.” The Inspector greeted her in a tired, cheerful voice, coming round the table to shake her hand. “Sorry to grab you like this but it is important. Good flight?”

  Her grip was tense, contradicting the matter-of-factness of her greeting, and she had the restless, exhausted look of someone feeding on high levels of adrenaline. Loretta said nervously: “What is this? What’s going on?”

  The other detective coughed, turning his head aside, and Loretta recognized the young man she had seen on Sunday afternoon, outside the Ashmolean.