Life After Lunch

by Sarah Harrison

  I watched spellbound. They weren’t all that far away but they might as well have been – they would never guess they were being watched, let alone by me, and if they did look in this direction they wouldn’t be expecting to see me, and that would effectively render me invisible.

  He stood and waited for her to catch up – that figured, I thought. On the other hand she didn’t exactly rush to his side – full marks to her. I don’t know what I’d been half-expecting, but there was no embrace, no kiss, not even the hint of a casual caress. Instead, the very absence of all these things made their body language speak louder than words. Gazing, fascinated, across the water at them as they stood with the summer-afternoon strollers parting and rejoining round them, I knew from the tilt of their heads, her hands in her hip pockets, his arms folded across his chest, the unnecessary nearness of their positions, as though they were being filmed by a television camera, that they slept together. Not once, nor in the past, nor even occasionally, but regularly, and currently.

  There was no shock, more a slow, burning dawn of humiliating realization. It wasn’t just that Patrick made love to that slim, youthful, unblemished body as well as to my solid, middle-aged, child-scarred one. It was that everything about this chance encounter on the bustling riverbank made it abundantly clear that Patrick colonized everything with a pulse. If I had ever succeeded in fooling myself about the truth – that Patrick slept with his glee club – I was no longer able to now.

  The girl lowered her tilted head, brushing the toe of her sandal lightly back and forth on the path. Patrick swayed very slightly forward – he was speaking, she was listening. I hadn’t the slightest desire to hear what they were saying; from this distance their conversation was not about words, but posture and demeanour. Patrick, still talking, actually glanced up in my direction and I froze, but he didn’t see me. At the same moment Susan said, ‘What’s going on out there?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  She coughed painfully. ‘I don’t believe you. I bet the whole world and his wife are out there taking the sunshine.’

  ‘The whole world and his wife’ struck me for the first time as a curious expression. ‘No.’

  I turned back into the room just as Patrick looked up again. In the comparative darkness of the flat my startled reflection in the mirror confronted me like some latterday Lady of Shalott. While between it and me lay Susan, passive for once, dependent on me for news of the outside world.

  ‘There are plenty of people about,’ I said. ‘You’re better off in here.’

  ‘I never for a moment doubted it.’

  I stayed about another hour, during which Susan perked up and even accepted a glass of her own white wine. Taking it from me, she knelt up on the sofa and surveyed herself in the mirror.

  ‘God in heaven, what do I look like?’

  ‘Someone with the flu,’ I said.

  ‘Tomorrow I’m getting up and subjecting myself to a complete overhaul and once-over.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s a mistake,’ I said. ‘The advice is always to stay in bed for at least one day after the temperature’s back to normal, and yours has only just gone up.’

  She gave me a sidelong look of friendly contempt which persuaded me the paracetamol were taking effect. Seeing Patrick had put paid to any idea I’d had of confiding in her. The last thing I wanted at this moment was Susan’s stringent advice – I was sufficiently honest with myself to know that the more apposite it was, the less I’d welcome it.

  For something to say, I mentioned the Edelrats’ get-together.

  ‘Would you be interested in coming along?’ I asked. ‘Because if you are we could go in together.’

  ‘I’m not in the least interested,’ she said. ‘But what does interest me is why you should be.’

  ‘They’re old friends. It’ll be amusing.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘Bunny’s been through a dreadful time – still going through it, actually. I regard it as a gesture of solidarity to go.’

  ‘Oh yes …’ Susan’s eyes narrowed, betraying a glimmer of interest. ‘I read about that in the paper.’

  I felt suddenly protective towards Bunny. ‘It’s a tragedy for the people concerned.’

  ‘Tragedy?’ Her voice was thin with scorn. ‘ Do me a favour. It’s just another sad little tale of hypocrisy and repression.’

  ‘That’s neither fair nor kind, and you know it.’

  ‘Oh!’ She closed her eyes and tipped her head back on the sofa in an attitude of despair. ‘You really are the world’s worst perpetrator of the double standard, Laura. Things are only terrible for Bunny, if they are terrible for Bunny, because George was idiotic enough to be found out.’ Susan’s eyes, wide open now, fixed on me with a look of chilling intransigence. ‘ It only requires a little imagination. A little sophistication, for God’s sake. I mean – you manage it.’

  I called on Becca on the way back and found her doing housework, alone and beetle-browed with discontent.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I asked over the drone of the hoover.

  ‘I’m fed up,’ she announced flatly. ‘And don’t ask why.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Do you want something? I’ve only got teabags till I’ve been shopping.’

  ‘A teabag would be just the job.’

  She switched the hoover off and went into the kitchen. I sat down on the sofa. Becca’s living-room bore testament to an afternoon of violent and resentful subjugation. Every surface gleamed, the plants had been spray-misted and the carpet was smooth and debris-free. There was a faint smell of polish.

  She came back in with the tea and handed me mine.

  ‘Enjoying some peace and quiet?’ I said.

  ‘They’re at Karen’s, if that’s what you mean. I don’t know about the peace and quiet.’

  ‘It’s all looking very nice.’

  ‘Makes a change.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘No, it’s what I meant.’

  There followed a short pause. I had the idea that Becca wanted the reason for her malaise dragged out of her, but I honestly hadn’t the energy. Also, I’d learnt that the best way to handle her moods was simply to sit them out passively.

  ‘Roberto seemed in good form,’ I remarked.

  ‘He was, yes.’

  ‘Did Amos enjoy seeing him?’

  ‘I think so. They’re both about the same age at the moment. In a year or two Amos will be taking Roberto out.’

  I took this to be a stab at black humour, and laughed. ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Becca took her cigarettes off the mantelpiece and lit one with a flourish. She smoked in a way that came perilously close to reinvesting the habit with glamour. A lifelong non-smoker, when I saw her with a cigarette I almost wished to have one myself.

  ‘Where does the show move on to?’ I asked.

  ‘Ipswich. The mind boggles.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll go down a storm in Ipswich.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  The phone rang and it was as if she’d been subjected to several hundred volts. The barely started cigarette was stubbed out and she jumped up and went into the hall, not quite breaking into a run, and closed the door smartly behind her. I noticed that she must then have stood by the phone for a minute before picking it up, because it rang about four more times. That’s my girl, I thought.

  In spite of the closed door I didn’t wish to be suspected of listening so I switched on the television. There was one of those typical late-afternoon quiz programmes fronted by a well-groomed man with grey hair and spectacles. The contestants were drawn from both genders, all age-groups and every conceivable walk of life. There were a lot of cardigans and several waterfall blouses. I was amazed at how much they knew. Did they sit down and read encylopaedias every evening? One man – Roger from Chorleywood – had a terrifying detailed knowledge of the life and work of Fellini and could also list Uncle Tom Cobbleigh’s fellow-travellers i
n the correct order. It was, as Josh might have said, awesome.

  Becca came back into the room a changed woman. The very air had altered. Her skin glowed, her eyes were bright, and her voice no longer grated with discontent. Yet again, knowing my subject, I didn’t ask.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked, sitting down with her legs draped over the arm of the chair and lighting another cigarette. ‘Oh, this thing.’

  ‘Switch it off,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t really watching.’

  ‘I know. You were being tactful.’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘You didn’t have to worry. It was nothing private.’

  ‘Oh.’ I picked up the remote control and zapped the quiz. Becca gave me a sidelong look and then one of her most devastating grins.

  ‘I know you’re dying to know – it was Griggs.’

  Her happiness was like a fire beyond a closed window. I could see its light and its glow, but I couldn’t experience its warmth. I was cut off.

  We went to see Tango Americano the following night. It was a wonderful over-the-top tour de force of writhing hips, smouldering machismo and haughtily stamping feet. Roberto had two solos – one as a youthful gigolo seducing, and subsequently breaking the heart of, a rich older woman; the other as a rough youth off the street who is taught to tango and subsequently outshines everyone else with his natural talent. In this role in particular he shone. Sweat flew from his dark hair as he strutted and prowled, and his face burned with a furious passion which I’d never seen there in real life.

  We went round to see him afterwards. The backstage area at the Corn Exchange was a warren of small, poorly ventilated rooms with peeling paint and a pungent smell comprising years of make-up, sweat, alcohol and unwashed costumes. Roberto shared one of these with two other male dancers, small, genial men, shorter and older than their stage personae had suggested. After greeting us warmly they withdrew, leaving us alone with Roberto who opened a screwtop bottle of red wine.

  ‘Put it there,’ said Glyn, holding out a hand. ‘You were plain terrific.’

  ‘You were,’ I agreed. ‘We were terribly impressed.’

  ‘I’m so glad that you came,’ said Roberto. ‘I appreciate it. And you really enjoyed it?’

  We assured him that we had. Glyn was quite bright-eyed with the thrill of it all. I did hope he wasn’t going to make some ill-advised offer. The thought of our son-in-law’s livelihood being our responsibility was a further complication I felt we could live without.

  ‘Will you be going into the West End?’

  Roberto shrugged – a real dancer’s shrug that seemed to use every muscle in his body, just enough. ‘We can only hope.’

  ‘I think you’d be a sensation, all of you,’ said Glyn.

  ‘Tango isn’t new.’

  ‘No, but then new isn’t necessarily box office at the moment. What people want is a new slant on the familiar. Stuff they’ve seen before, but done bigger and better.’

  Roberto smiled modestly. ‘We shall see. I’m only pleased to have been here so that all my family could come.’

  ‘So we’re ‘‘all his family’’,’ said Glyn on the way home. ‘I never thought he saw us like that.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘It makes you think, doesn’t it?’ He glanced across at me to gauge my reaction, and when there was none, laughed self-deprecatingly. Though I’m not quite sure what about.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  I had no contact with Patrick until the night before I was due to go into London to meet up with the Edelrats. He rang up quite blatantly, as usual, when we were having supper and Josh was on his way out. It was Josh who picked up the phone.

  ‘Mum! It’s for you.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I dunno … Some bloke …’ Josh’s voice faded and was cut off by the slamming of the front door.

  For the first time I resorted to subterfuge: ‘That’ll be Colin.’ Colin was one of my pickier book-keeping clients.

  I lifted the receiver in the hall. ‘Hi there,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’

  ‘Hi there,’ I said loudly, ‘I was expecting you to call.’

  ‘Were you? Or is this some elaborate subterfuge?’

  ‘I think I’ll be okay for that meeting, I’ll just take a look.’ I replaced the hall receiver and went into Glyn’s office where I knew I couldn’t be heard, but leaving the door open so as not to appear secretive. When I picked the phone up I hissed, ‘Why do you do this? What would you have done if Glyn had answered the phone?’

  ‘Asked to speak to you of course.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid – what are you trying to do?’

  ‘Precisely nothing. Guilty behaviour engenders suspicion. Why do you think most burglaries take place in broad daylight? Because no one thinks twice about two blokes loading up a furniture van outside an open front door.’

  ‘That’s not analogous, and you know it.’

  ‘So can you come round?’ he said blandly.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I can’t, I’m in London.’

  ‘Day after?’

  ‘It’s the weekend.’

  ‘It was the weekend last time as I recall …’

  ‘I’ll see.’

  ‘Monday, then?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Monday it is.’

  I went back into the kitchen, boiling with nervous fury. Glyn glanced at me. ‘All sorted out?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I looked down at what remained of my salad. I could no sooner have eaten it now than flown.

  ‘How was he?’

  I felt a little cold explosion in the pit of my stomach before I regained my presence of mind.

  ‘He was fine. You know Colin. A bit of an old woman.’

  Glyn seemed to accept this. ‘You’re going in to carouse with the girls tomorrow, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m going into the office – fancy a lift? Then you can get really legless and travel home in comfort.’

  I debated this swiftly with myself. I didn’t want his generosity, I couldn’t cope with it. ‘I don’t know when we’ll be finished.’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t. Let’s leave it that if you stagger into G and D before I leave, then the lift’s there. Otherwise British Rail can have the pleasure of your patronage. At any rate, we’ll go in together, shall we?’ He got up and put his plate in the machine. ‘Coming through? Human Condition’s on Channel Four.’

  They did two numbers, and came over very well. They wore suits over bare chests, and gym shoes. They were very English. Their lyrics were cryptic and full of streetwise, lower-middle-class irony. There were references to mums, and buses, and job centres, and old cars, and dogs. The tunes were downbeat but catchy. The presenter, an elder statesman of the British rock scene, his receding hairline compensated for by a generous ponytail, interviewed Griggs. He asked him if he saw himself as part of a tradition.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Griggs. ‘We can trace our line right back, back to the Music Hall via David Bowie and Alma Cogan.’

  ‘Attaboy,’ said Glyn. ‘I like his style.’

  The presenter asked several more questions along philosophical lines, all of which Griggs fielded adeptly with laconic, Lennonish humour.

  When the programme finished, Glyn switched off in high good spirits.

  ‘Comes over a treat, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘he does.’

  ‘I have a feeling we’ve just been watching our meal ticket for the foreseeable future. How’s the liaison with Becca going, by the way, any idea?’

  ‘It’s still on, I think.’

  ‘No sign of the big E yet?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ said Glyn, bouncing up from his chair. ‘I’m going to give Cy a bell in case he missed it.’

  A little later, while Glyn playe
d in the office, I gave Susan a ring at home.

  ‘How are you? Are you better?’

  ‘Never more so,’ she said. I detected a sharpness in her tone, probably due to embarrassment over having been ill at all in the first place. Sympathetic queries had been given their marching orders.

  ‘Good. I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about tomorrow, have you? The Edelrats’ lunch in town?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Sorry, Laura, but it’s not my cup of tea.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘But give them my regards, by all means.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The Gondola.’

  ‘Ah, a nostalgia trip,’ said Susan. ‘Still, not too weighed down by suits. They should be sympathetic to all that dreadful rattling of purses that goes on with large groups of women.’

  I let this completely unreasonable sally pass, not without some difficulty. She was goading me because she needed to, not because I needed it. With Susan you took the rough with the smooth.

  One thing I didn’t intend to do was pass on her regards. If Susan were actually to turn up, the others would have been guardedly pleased to see her, but a message would ring distinctly hollow, something she must have known as well as I did.

  Quite unexpectedly, she said, ‘You’ve got a family wedding coming up, haven’t you?’

  ‘In three weeks. It’s clever of you to remember.’

  ‘You always underestimate me, Laura.’

  I sensed that this was a time and a conversation in which it would behove me to humour my friend.

  ‘It’s my cousin’s,’ I explained. ‘Sinead’s going to be a bridesmaid.’

  ‘Nice dress?’

  ‘Sweet. Even Becca thinks so.’

  ‘How grateful you must be about that.’

  ‘It does help, yes.’

  ‘And what about you, what will you wear?’

  ‘I haven’t thought. I suppose I shall have to go shopping for something suitably gracious.’

  ‘What’s gracious got to do with it? You’re not the fucking Queen Mother!’

  ‘Wrong word. Perhaps I meant elegant.’