Life After Lunch

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘They’re okay. Wondering why I’m around all the time.’

  ‘They must like seeing more of you, though. And vice versa.’

  ‘Hm …’ He felt in his breast-pocket and took out a wallet. I knew he was going to show me a photograph. My heart sank.

  ‘There they are.’ He handed me the photograph. ‘ My Rachel and little Michaela.’

  I took time to study the picture. It showed two enchanting little girls, one of about six, the other perhaps three, in what I took to be bridesmaids’ dresses of blush-pink taffeta, with garlands slightly askew on their Mabel Lucy Atwell curls. The younger one was sitting on someone’s lap, the older standing alongside leaning slightly. There was something Victorian about the pose, although the setting – from the glasses and bottles glimpsed in the background – was clearly a riotous party.

  ‘My sister-in-law’s wedding,’ explained Prentiss. ‘Last month.’

  ‘They’re absolutely beautiful,’ I said. ‘You must be very proud of them.’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘ I just wish they could be proud of me.’ And he burst into tears.

  He didn’t stay long after that. Our moment of truth was swiftly followed by a regrouping on Prentiss’s part as though he couldn’t wait to cover his tracks and pretend it had never happened. When he’d gone I dealt with a fairly standard NIMBY query arising from care in the community and then took the opportunity to call in on Ted, my Wednesday colleague.

  ‘I think he may be having a nervous breakdown,’ I told Ted. ‘And I wish I knew what the hell to do.’

  Ted had been a personnel officer with British Aerospace until relatively recently and was my consultant on all things to do with man management.

  ‘Just what you are doing,’ he said. ‘ I think it would be pretty unwise to try and assume any expertise you haven’t got, and neither would it be advisable to go behind his back.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I assured him, ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing that. But I feel so helpless.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Ted. ‘But in my experience in these matters, less is generally more.’

  We weren’t very busy, and at twelve-fifteen, still rather unsettled, I went down in search of something to eat.

  When the city fathers had overseen the conversion of the Corn Exchange into a community centre some twenty-five years ago they’d envisaged a stately civic pleasure dome to which the townsfolk of all ages and persuasions would be drawn for comfort, recreation and assistance. It was a fine concept which had been only partly successful in the execution. The Exchange housed a 400-seat theatre which was used by amateur groups as well as touring professional companies and bands; a twice-weekly toy library; a Senior Citizens’ drop-in and luncheon club; a single parents’ encounter group (to which Verity was continually urging Becca to go and which Becca regarded as the pits); assorted evening classes; Alcoholics Anonymous; and us. At the time it must have seemed a good idea to include the CAB in this mix, but we had been put on the first floor, accessible only by a back iron staircase like a fire-escape, which was difficult for the elderly, the very young, the disabled, and people with pushchairs. We had complained, and the carrot of smart new premises near the Health Centre was being dangled. Till then we suspected that many of our potential clients, who also belonged to constituencies catered for on the ground floor, got their advice on an ad hoc basis down there, and only ventured up the fire escape in extremis.

  The problem was compounded by the Barley Mow Bar in the foyer, where I was now buying a glass of cider and a wholewheat pastie. The Barley Mow’s competitive prices brought it a brisk lunchtime trade from the surrounding retail outlets and the market, who packed the place out and must have acted as a deterrent to any shy or nervous person wanting to venture in.

  Although I was early, all the small metal tables were already taken, so I contented myself with standing by the shelf provided for the purpose which ran along the back wall. Above the shelf was a noticeboard advertising everything from aromatherapy to the local AODS production of Cage aux Folles. I stood with my back to the room as I munched my pastie, using the notices as the equivalent of the lone diner’s open book.

  His name appeared on a large pale blue advertisement for a Brains’ Trust, to be recorded for regional television in the Exchange Theatre six weeks hence. He was on a panel which also included a junior minister, a well-known biographer and a trade union leader. He was described as Patrick Lynch, Professor of English at St Stephen’s College, and author of Language and Libido.

  When I went back upstairs it was to find that we were busy again, with one client in with Ted and another two people waiting on the hard chairs. One was a neat, elderly man in a green zip-up jacket and a checked cap. The other was Patrick Lynch himself.

  ‘Hallo there!’ he exclaimed, rising. ‘I’ve already explained to this gentleman that I’m not a customer, so I won’t keep him waiting.’

  ‘Oh, well—’ I transferred my attention to the old man. ‘ Would you like to go on in and I’ll be with you in two ticks. Just take a seat.

  I pulled the’ door to. ‘Has your cat been held hostage again?’

  ‘What?’ He furrowed his brow and then exclaimed, ‘No! I thought I’d like to see you in your context.’

  ‘I see. Well, here I am.’ It certainly wasn’t his context, any more than Planet Burger had been.

  ‘Grandchildren well?’ he asked. Steady on, I thought. Okay, okay.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Look, I really ought to go in and see my client.’

  ‘You certainly did ought.’ He stretched out an arm in an after-you gesture. ‘Are you still offering dinner by the way?’

  His genial bluntness caught me completely off guard. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got round to – to be honest, we don’t have many dinner-parties.’

  ‘Very wise. Nor me.’

  ‘How about a drink?’ I heard myself saying. ‘ Let me buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He beamed. ‘ When do you finish here?’

  I told him, he named a pub, and left. I sat thoughtfully in front of my client who had a sordid little property problem with his estranged middle-aged daughter, but I was only half listening. Had something happened? And if so, had Patrick Lynch made it happen? Or had I? And what was I doing even thinking in this way?

  ‘… so you see,’ said my client in his dipped, golf-club voice. ‘I really don’t know where to turn, or what to do for the best.’

  There were plenty of all-day pubs around the market-place. When I finished at four I went to meet Patrick Lynch in one called the Tanner’s Arms. I sat alone in the saloon bar for fifteen minutes before he appeared and took me through to the public.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘but I prefer a bit of spit and sawdust.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘This is fine.’

  ‘But not what you’re used to,’ he suggested, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘I don’t spend that much time in pubs.’ It was meant to be an explanation but came out sounding prim.

  ‘Do you not?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you and Mr Lewis do, then? By way of fun?’

  He spoke the last word with a slight hesitation on either side of it, like a newsreader pronouncing the name of a particularly exotic foreign city.

  Actually I was stumped for an answer. The quest for fun wasn’t something we went in for any more, but to say that would make us sound like a sad old couple and I particularly did not wish to give that impression to Patrick Lynch.

  ‘We go to the pictures, we see friends, we have a large family—’

  ‘You give parties,’ he reminded me kindly.

  ‘Yes, we do sometimes give parties.’

  ‘But not dinner-parties.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘we have people round to eat, but I wouldn’t dignify what I provide on those occasions with the title of dinner-party.’

  ‘I’m sure you sell yourself short. I bet you’re quite the society hostess on your night.�
�

  ‘I am not!’ I had to laugh at this and he snorted with satisfaction. ‘Ask anyone.’

  ‘Now tell me,’ Patrick asked. ‘What did you say to that poor little chap with the moustache and the highly polished shoes?’

  As I outlined, as far as confidentiality would allow, my conversation with the client, I reflected that for Patrick Lynch cleanliness was next to godliness and as such was probably quite beyond the pale. As he sat there with his Guinness and his fag he exuded a rich, pungent male odour. He had a way of staring as I talked, with the occasional snapping blink that was like a nod, reminding me that he was paying attention.

  Whether he was or not I couldn’t tell, since the moment I finished speaking he asked, ‘Now tell me, what does your husband do?’

  ‘He runs an entertainment management agency. Mostly pop singers and bands.’

  ‘He never does,’ said Patrick. ‘The little devil.’

  Looking back, I believe that remark, with its stain of condescension, was a turning-point. For it was then that Patrick Lynch, whether consciously or no, tweaked at the ground beneath my feet, and I lost my footing, my presence of mind, and my way.

  Chapter Eight

  When the ground has gone from under your feet you walk on air. Cartoon characters do it – it’s called the plausible impossible. It’s what enables Bugs Bunny to run halfway across the canyon before realization hits. When it does he looks down, panics, and plummets, arms windmilling, to the ground …

  The following evening the phone rang while we were eating supper in the kitchen. Josh had the phone in the sitting-room with him so that he could keep in touch with his empire even on his bed of pain.

  ‘It’s for you-hoo,’ he croaked.

  ‘Which one?’ asked Glyn.

  ‘Mrs Lewis, whoever that is.’

  ‘I’m eating!’ I called. ‘Ask if I can ring back.’

  There was some mumbling and a pause. ‘He says it’s Professor Lynch and he’ll be very quick!’

  I’m sure something happened to my face. I didn’t blush, but I felt an internal tremor of shock.

  ‘Are you coming or what?’ Josh was plaintive. ‘ I can’t keep on yelling, my throat hurts like buggery!’

  ‘Go on,’ said Glyn, ‘I’ll stick your plate in the microwave.’

  Josh’s arm was sticking out over the end of the sofa, holding the receiver. I took it, picked up the phone, and walked into the hall. In the kitchen I could see Glyn covering my plate with another and putting it in the microwave. This domestic act accorded ill with his red ‘Chicago Bulls’ T-shirt and leather jeans.

  ‘Hallo?’

  ‘I heard what you said – sorry to disturb supper.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Shan’t keep you long. I enjoyed talking to you yesterday. Actually, I enjoy being with you.’ The change of tense was accompanied by a change of tone. There was no denying the implication. My legs felt strange and I braced my knees backwards.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Really?’

  ‘I understand you probably can’t talk now.’ I was trapped, as he knew I would be, by his assumption. ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘I’d like to see you again.’

  ‘Would you?’

  Glyn had finished eating and was standing in the doorway gazing out at the garden with his hands linked behind his head. I turned away.

  ‘As soon as possible,’ said Patrick.

  ‘I don’t see any reason why not, diary permitting.’

  ‘Je-sus H!’ He spluttered mirthfully. ‘Diary permitting! How about tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll be at the Bureau at the usual time, you could call in then.’

  ‘Good. I will. Diary permitting.’

  ‘Cheerio, then.’

  ‘Cheerio!’ he mimicked. ‘Toodle-oo. Pip-pip. I think you’re gorgeous.’

  I returned the telephone to Josh. I was a trembling mass of physical symptoms but when I caught sight of myself in the drawing-room mirror I looked almost unnaturally calm, if a little bright-eyed.

  ‘Something to do with the Bureau,’ I announced, returning to the table.

  ‘Poor bugger.’ Glyn retrieved my plate from the microwave and put it in front of me. ‘He won’t ring again in a hurry.’ He sat down opposite me. ‘Diary permitting – I should ko-ko.’

  Verity was going to visit the shrine at Walsingham with Shona, in Shona’s camper-van.

  ‘If there’s anything or anyone in particular you’d like me to offer up to Our Lady,’ she told us as she made Marmite sandwiches, ‘concentrate on it between two and three when we’re there, and I’ll be the channel.’

  ‘Could you see your way to giving Human Condition a mention?’ asked Glyn.

  ‘We always do.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘you mean the band, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ll certainly offer them up,’ said Verity. ‘Especially now Becca’s going out with Griggs.’

  We gawped.

  ‘And I always pray for everyone in this family anyway,’ she added, cutting two rounds in half.

  ‘Thank goodness, sweetheart,’ said Glyn. ‘We could all do with a following wind.’

  It was a warm, fine day and we went to a restaurant that overlooked the Peace. The restaurant had once been a cricket pavilion, and we sat out on the wooden verandah and ate Spanish omelette.

  ‘This is the life,’ said Patrick. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘It is,’ I said. ‘It’s lovely.’ I could feel him staring at me with that look which was both a challenge and an invitation, and which did not entertain the faintest possibility of either being turned down. I’ve always loved food and had a hearty appetite, but I was having difficulty finishing the omelette. I could amost feel myself getting thinner as I sat there. I recognized the sensation – it was a bad case of over-excitement. I could almost hear my father saying, ‘Easy does it. Deep breaths. Brave and calm.’ But it was too late for that.

  ‘Look,’ I said. He tilted his head encouragingly. ‘I’m married.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not. So that makes it your problem.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Having lunch?’

  ‘You know it’s not just that.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Tell me what you think it is.’

  I was boxed in. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Let me,’ he suggested, suddenly laying hold of my wrist. ‘I believe we have what’s known as a thing going on.’

  I couldn’t speak. I was thrilled and appalled. His grip on my wrist was tight – I couldn’t have moved without a struggle.

  ‘Oh yes we have,’ he insisted, as though I’d argued with him. ‘And here we are, sitting in the sun together, both knowing it.’

  ‘I’m forty-nine,’ I said. God knows what point I was trying to make. Perhaps I thought he’d leap from the table in disgust, never to return, thus absolving me from any further awkwardness.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Spooky!’

  ‘And a grandmother.’

  ‘I know.’ He kept his hand on my wrist and shovelled in the last few mouthfuls of omelette with the other. ‘And if you don’t watch out I’ll report you to Social Services.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘For failing properly to safeguard your grandchildren in a public place, for allowing them to speak to strange men, and for wilfully embarking on an extra-marital affair with a chap who, you’ll be dismayed to learn, is five years younger than you.’

  He released my wrist and sat back, fishing his cigarettes out of his trouser-pocket.

  ‘You can go anytime you want,’ he said. ‘And without a trace of damage done if you don’t count my broken heart and blue balls.’

  I didn’t go. We sat in silence for a couple of minutes. The click of a lighter, the long first exhalation. My silence was confused and tumultuous, his placid. A youth and a girl in their late teens walked past, and he raised a hand to them.

  I realized that if I wasn’t going to leave, then I had to say s
omething – anything – in self-justification.

  ‘I really am not used to this sort of thing.’ I glanced at him.

  He smiled enquiringly. ‘Are you not?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘On the other hand—’ He gestured. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘I must be mad …’ I said this with my head lowered, almost to myself. I knew – and it was shamingly obvious that he knew also – that this litany of feeble protest was a mere formality. Even while I spoke I was imagining what it would feel like to be in his arms, the rough skin of his face against mine, my fingers buried in his hair, his smell in my nostrils, the solid bulk of his body pressed against me. Slip-sliding away …

  When he stood up I was buffeted by panic. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to work,’ he said. ‘That way. Do you want to walk?’

  I walked with him to the main road. He turned to face me, hands in pockets.

  ‘I fancy you ferociously,’ he said. ‘Abso-fucking-lutely ferociously.’

  Later I thought that any one of hundreds of people who knew me might have been walking past at that moment, but it was a measure of my altered state that I never took my eyes off his face. I couldn’t.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  He gave a little there-you-go shrug. ‘I can’t make you do anything, Laura.’ It was the first time he’d used my Christian name. ‘As you pointed out, you’re the one with the marriage.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So.’ He took a card from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘That’s me. I live alone, and there’s an answering-machine. Get in touch.’

  In the moment that it took me to glance down at the card, he was on his way, his open-shouldered, splay-footed swagger cleaving a path through the lunch-hour crowds in Bartholomew Street.

  I went back into the Peace. Beyond the trees on the far side I could see the church tower, reminding me that Isobel’s quiet, trusting little stone was very near. Perhaps she’d heard every word.

  The church clock struck two. I closed my eyes for a second and reminded Verity, urgently, to pray for me.

  After that three more days went by, during which I carried Patrick’s card about with me. On several occasions I got as far as dialling his number, but then put the phone down while it was still ringing. Twice the answering-machine was on, but I didn’t leave a message. It was only later that I realized he could dial the search number to find out who’d called. In between these aborted calls I was elated. To be fancied ferociously was nice at any time. At my age it was powerful ju-ju indeed. To be told in a crowded street that one was fancied ferociously, by a man whom one fancied ferociously in return, was very heaven.