by David Nobbs
He was going to be early. He asked the driver to pull up round the corner.
As he approached the restaurant on foot, James saw Jane striding along the pavement towards him from the opposite direction. They met just by the door. It was like a scene in a film, and he wondered if she ever imagined that she was a star in a film, and decided immediately that she didn’t, that she was extremely intelligent but had no imagination at all.
In her high-heeled shoes her long legs looked slim and elegant. In her high-heeled shoes she was exactly the same height as him. He felt that this had been calculated.
She kissed him on each cheek and then on the lips. Then each stepped back to examine the other.
‘You look great,’ he said.
‘You look tired but interesting,’ she said.
They wafted into the restaurant on a tide of expensive perfume and to a chorus of dramatic and meaningless exclamations of delight. Jane was kissed on both cheeks by three handsome Italians. There were cries of, ‘Ah, Mrs Winterburn,’ and, ‘Oh, Mrs Winterburn,’ and, ‘So good to have you back, Mrs Winterburn.’ Men who were big in plastics sighed enviously into their pasta. James’s hand was vigorously congratulated on the good fortune and good sense of being in Mrs Winterburn’s company. Their chairs were pulled back, and then softly moved forward once they had sat, and their shining white napkins were opened with a flourish that might in a different environment have brought several bulls to heel.
James could sense Jane’s endless firm thighs under the table. To think that he hadn’t known whether he would still fancy her or not.
‘So,’ he smiled, ‘not just Nino to look after us, but Franco and Mario and Marco and Polo. God, you look good.’
He wished that he hadn’t said this, it was too much, and much too soon.
There followed a curious silence, a silence born not out of the difficulty of finding something to say, but out of the fact that there was so much to say that it was impossible to know where to begin. With their being companions in widow-hood? With Ed’s murder? With the question, concerning Ed’s murder, that he had to ask, and to which he dreaded the answer? With memories of their brief affair in Cambridge? With the challenge to her business ethics that he would have to make?
Easier to start on menu chat.
‘It’s a good menu.’
‘Oh, yes.’ In her voice was a tone which stated, Would I be here if it wasn’t?
He had forgotten just how supremely confident she always was. He was amazed, now, to think that he had ever possessed the courage to ask her out, to take her to bed, to unroll her tights, to … please her.
But had he pleased her? Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps that was why she left him, so soon, all those years ago.
‘Everything’s good, but it’s always as well to go with Nino’s recommendations.’
She spoke as if she was sitting in a sedan chair being carried by two lesser mortals. You don’t have to like somebody, James thought, to be seriously attracted to them.
‘Now. Wine,’ she said. She was taking control. He had forgotten how she took control.
When she turned to summon the wine waiter unostentatiously but in a manner that was impossible to refuse, he noticed that perhaps she didn’t look quite as good as he had thought in the theatricality of their arrival. There was just the faintest beginning of a second chin, above a slight, barely detectable scrawniness to the skin of that swan-like neck. Soon it would be more turkey than swan.
That’s the danger of compliments. You can never take them back. You can’t ever say, You know how good I said you looked. Like to qualify it a bit, on reflection. You are beginning to go off just a little.
She asked the wine waiter for his recommendation. ‘All the wine’s good, but it’s always as well to go with Paolo’s recommendation.’
‘The Barolo’s drinking well at the moment,’ said Paolo.
‘So am I, to be honest,’ said James.
He wished that he could take this remark back, God, how he wished that he could take it back, but Paolo laughed as if he had never heard it before and said, ‘Sir is a wag.’
James met Jane’s eyes, and he wanted to laugh. But he seemed to remember that she didn’t do laughter, and his amusement died.
‘But perhaps that is too heavy for luncheon,’ said the Italian sommelier. ‘I have a Valpolicella that will dispel any prejudices you may have against that wine.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jane. ‘All right with you, James?’
‘Perfect. I’m more than happy to dispel a prejudice.’ Oh, how he wished she would smile.
They ordered dry Martinis.
‘Carlo makes the best dry Martinis in London.’
‘Of course he does,’ he said, dry as the Martini.
She didn’t recognise the mockery.
Nino recommended the vitello tonnato and the wild sea bass. After careful consideration they both chose the vitello tonnato and the wild sea bass.
‘Well, well, poor you,’ she said, clasping his hand but without warmth. ‘You must be devastated.’
A sliver of sorrow flitted through James like a sparrow through a greenhouse. Yes, he missed Deborah, but this wasn’t devastation. He wanted to say more, but it was still too early to confess. You confessed over brandy, not in dry Martini time.
‘My feelings are very different. Ed and I had no sort of …’
Even in this immaculate restaurant the waiters brought the drinks in the middle of important sentences. James longed to take the first exquisite, bracing sip, but was too polite to do it till she’d finished her remark.
‘… no sort of marriage in the last years. He went to bed with anything that moved. I lost all interest in that kind of thing. Anyway, cheers.’
He tried not to look too eager to take that first sip, but the sigh of pleasure that he gave as he rolled it round his mouth gave it all away, and he felt obliged to make some comment.
‘A little voice inside me cries out for cool, clear, mountain spring water,’ he said. ‘It praises it as the finest, most healthy, tastiest drink on earth. But it speaks too quietly, and I hardly hear.’
They talked about Ed’s death. James didn’t mention his suspicions over Mike. Nor did he ask his question. It was too soon for that too. It was strange, but it was too soon for everything.
Jane said that it was only natural that Ed should have made enemies, and James could tell that, although she no longer loved him, she couldn’t quite conceal her pride.
He seized on the moment.
‘After going bankrupt he opened up again once in your name, didn’t he?’ he asked. ‘So you knew all about it?’
Her eyes challenged him.
‘We did nothing illegal.’
You didn’t have to admire a woman to want to go to bed with her.
‘I don’t think that’s the point. The point is moral, not legal.’
James found himself – he could hardly believe it – talking about responsibility, talking about how he felt about his workers, about the ethics of business and indeed of all human life. Why? Did he have the faintest chance of cracking this hard nut?
‘You always were naive,’ said Jane. ‘I remember that being what attracted me to you.’
‘Oh. Terrific. What every man wants to hear. “What first attracted you to me? Was it my charm, my sense of humour, my good looks or my big prick?”. “No, it was your naivety.”’
‘Not just your naivety.’
‘Ah. There’s hope. What else?’
‘Your shyness.’
‘Fantastic.’
The wine, though not ideal with the sea bass – black mark, Paolo – was very pleasant. The sea bass – black mark, Nino – was no more than adequate. James felt that the restaurant – black mark, Jane – was no more than average in quality. It was only outstanding in charm. Jane had fallen for the charm, perhaps because she had so little herself.
He realised now why he had gone onto his high horse about the ethics of business. He’d been tr
ying, with words, to do what memory and appearance and the passage of time had failed to do. He’d been trying to quell the excitement in his genitals.
He’d succeeded. He’d fancied Jane because in those first moments it was exciting and glamorous to be with her. He’d fancied her because he’d fancied her long ago. He’d fancied her because she had long legs, great breasts, a wide mouth, and fine hair, as black and thick as his but softer and less rebellious.
His words, his spelling out of his disapproval, had begun to cut through his desire. Her admission – well, she didn’t see it as an admission – that she had ‘lost all interest in that kind of thing’ had stamped on several small fires. When a woman says that she isn’t interested in sex, it can be a challenge to a man, but it can also be a sign that he’s wasting his time.
James, who was often very honest with himself, also reflected on the fact that an element in the cooling of his desire was his hurt pride. The revelation that Jane had fancied him for his naivety and shyness had not sent bold, brave messages to his sperm cells.
The thrill had all gone already. He’d noticed, even as she walked towards him, that her legs, though long, were charmless. They widened as if by some mathematical principle. They were severe. Her features, too, were perfect but without character. Her mouth was wide, but her lips were thin and ungiving. Already, after an hour, he was tired of her. There was no pleasure to be had from or with her. This came as an enormous relief, but also – for what real man does not have a streak of perversity in his make-up? – as a real disappointment. James felt that he was left with a scene that had ended halfway through. It had been too early to confess, and now already it was too late. There was no point in whispering intimate secrets to this woman in this restaurant. He might as well shout them to a brick wall. The meal was now like the last, dead match in Davis Cup tennis, which often featured reserve players once the result had been decided. How James wished that there was another James in reserve, to finish his meal for him, and keep Jane company, and share the bill.
It was almost too late to ask his final question, but it had to be done.
‘You said that the newspaper reports were very inaccurate. You said Ed’s body wasn’t in the Ouse. Where was it?’
The answer was the one he didn’t want, but the one he had known it would be.
‘An obscure little thing called the Peckover Drain.’
The Reverend Martin Vigar had sparse hair which he had carefully combed to cover as much of his pate as possible. He was very tall, and walked with the slight stoop of a man who doesn’t want to intimidate his fellow mortals.
James couldn’t believe that he was so pleased to welcome a vicar to his home. But then anything that took his mind off the evening to come was welcome.
In fact the vicar fascinated him. When, on being offered a cup of tea, he replied, ‘That would be quite delightful. “The cup that cheers,”’ and, ‘No, no, no sugar thank you, I’m sweet enough already,’ he was every inch a vicar and as arch as a bishop. But, when they went into the living room and he got a wad of A4 and a ballpoint pen out of his briefcase his voice lost its trace of sing-song, and developed a hint of North Kent, and his businesslike manner led James to expect that at any moment he would say, ‘Now, life insurance. Are you adequately covered?’ This prompted him to say, ‘Quite a change of career you’ve had,’ to which the vicar replied, with a smile, ‘Yes. Straight from Mammon to God.’
‘Did you … you know … get a sudden call … as it were?’
The Reverend Martin Vigar gave a self-deprecating smile.
‘Nothing as dramatic as a call,’ he said. ‘More of a whisper in my ear. I suppose, increasingly, over the years, I began to feel the need for a meaning to life, and particularly to my life.’
‘And have you found that meaning?’
The vicar hesitated.
‘It isn’t as clear-cut as that,’ he said. ‘I am finding it. It is a process, a long process, not always an easy process.’ He turned suddenly grave. ‘I’m so sorry that my first visit to your lovely home should be for such a sad reason.’
‘Thank you.’
He produced a sheet of paper and handed it to James, and again, it felt as though it would be a quote for insurance.
‘The order of service. I think it’s as agreed, but I thought we should check before it “goes to print”.’
James looked through it carefully.
‘Yes. That’s fine.’
An imp in his head almost prompted him to add, ‘I’ll pay by direct debit, I presume,’ but he resisted it.
‘I had a very good talk with your brother Philip. He seemed a very nice man.’
‘He’s great.’
‘That is so good to hear in this time of crisis for “the family”.’
James was beginning to realise that there were a lot of inverted commas in the vicar’s life.
‘He emphasised that you are not in essence a religious family.’
James was careful not to fall into his catchphrase, not to say, ‘I’m sorry.’ He felt very strongly that this was nothing to apologise for.
‘No, we’re not. In fact, I’ll be honest with you, after we’d arranged all the details I wondered if we should have gone for a humanist service.’
‘Ah. Yes. The woodland burial route. Well, let me reassure you, Mr Hollinghurst. This will be a Christian funeral service, but it will not be pious. It will be, if I may put it like that, “soft on God”. Very low church. Very C of E, you might say. In my eulogy I will touch upon the message of eternal life, but I won’t “rub it in”.’
‘Thank you. It sounds as if it’ll be “just the ticket”.’
No, James. Restrain the imp.
‘We have a very good faith school round the corner from the church, and a lot of parents come to my services purely to get their children qualified for entry. I know that, and they know that I know it. I don’t like it, it’s not what I left Allied Dunbar for, but I live with it, and it does mean that I know how not to “over-egg the pudding”.’
‘Well … good … thank you. That sounds … just right.’
‘So, the eulogy. That is, I presume, the lady in question on the pianoforte.’
‘It is.’
‘She was beautiful. Truly beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You must be devastated.’
Yes, I must. Go away, imp!
‘Yes.’
‘This is never easy, and I know you are going to give “that personal touch”, but I wish not to sound too remote, that can be so very depressing. I was at a service once where the vicar said, “We can only imagine all the kind and thoughtful acts that he made in his life, being nice to waiters, stopping the car to let little old ladies cross the road,” and his widow interrupted, “He didn’t drive.” So embarrassing.’
‘Deborah did drive, and she drove fast.’
‘Perhaps that is something that, in view of the manner of her death, we should skate over.’
‘True.’ James approached three words that he would find difficult to utter with a straight face. That imp again. ‘More tea, vicar?’
‘Do you know, that would be most welcome. I always think of myself as a “one-cup man”, but these interviews are never easy, and the throat is dry.’
While he was pouring the tea, James was desperately trying to think of tales about Deborah that would illustrate her qualities and would be suitable to relate at a funeral, but all he could think about was the Peckover Drain. A suitable epitaph for Ed, perhaps, but a strong indication that Mike had murdered him. Mike had denied that they had caught perch in ‘the something drain, picturesque Dickensian name’. He had denied all knowledge of it. Why should he have denied this if the drain didn’t have a sinister connotation for him?
He realised that the Reverend Martin Vigar was speaking.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’ Round about a hundred miles, probably.
‘I understand. It’s a difficult time for you.
No, I was just saying that I’m not so much looking for those amusing anecdotes that always sound slightly forced in the mouth of a vicar. I just want to get things right.’
James pulled himself together and began to talk about Deborah’s family, her time on the farm, her love of riding, her education, her first-class degree, her fine mind, their first meeting in the stifling dry heat of dusty Malta (leaving out her trips along the corridor to his bedroom). He spoke of the early days of parenthood, of the family holidays, of how perfect a son Max had been, irritatingly so to Charlotte sometimes, in the days before she walked out.
He told the vicar how Charlotte had disappeared without trace for more than three years before she made that one phone call to say that she was all right. He didn’t think he could have told of these things if he hadn’t been in touch with Charlotte again, and even now he could barely speak of them without breaking down. There was a crack in his voice, he was on the edge of an emotional precipice, and he wasn’t helped by the hugely solemn face the vicar suddenly put on as he began these revelations.
He talked about his hope that Charlotte might come to the funeral.
‘Her boyfriend, Chuck—’
‘Chuck?’
‘I know. I know … hopes to be able to persuade her to come.’
‘Ah. Perhaps I ought to know whether she is there. Perhaps, right at the beginning of the service, I could give you a look, and you could give me a little nod or shake of the head, and, if it’s a nod, perhaps also give some indication of where she is sitting.’
‘No. I think that could be disastrous. I just wanted you to know, but I think it has to be absolutely low key. It’s very sensitive. She’s very sensitive.’
The Reverend Martin Vigar looked as if he felt thwarted of a potential big moment, but he agreed.
