I took out my notebook and retrieved the letter from Lavinia Maddon to check her address: 47a Eaton Square. I just wanted to ask her a few questions, that’s all. Nothing sinister. Perhaps just restate Crace’s position in a polite but firm manner. I was in London to clear up a little business for Mr. Crace and thought that while I was passing through I would just drop in to see her. But wouldn’t she think I was a little odd if I just called in like that? How did I know she would even let me in? After all, she might not be at home, might not even be in London. Perhaps I should phone her. Yes, that’s what I would do. I took out the envelope again and dialed the number on the letterhead. Four rings and then the click of an answering machine. Her voice was deep and strong, oozing with privilege and confidence: did I want to leave a message for Lavinia Maddon, my name, number and time of call? I was about to speak when I saw a woman walking down the pavement. I cut the connection and watched her approach. I was sure it was her.
Tall, slender, a brunette; immaculate, glossy hair; well dressed, smart—she wore a charcoal gray tailored skirt and matching jacket, a crisp white blouse and a string of jet beads. As she walked closer, it appeared that she was deep in thought, her thin lips pursed together, her intelligent eyes focused, concentrated. In one hand she carried an expensive-looking soft black leather briefcase, in the other a book. I knew I had seen the cover before, a cubist portrait of three boys standing around a teacher, a brutal montage of red and black lines. I squinted, trying to get a better view of the title, half-knowing what it would be. The title of the book moved in and out of focus, the letters melting away as if they were mercury. She came to a halt outside the house and brought the briefcase up to her waist. As she fished inside it for her key, she lodged the book on top of the bag, where I had a better view. The title came into clear, crisp focus: The Debating Society.
I felt something like a sting inside me. I couldn’t allow her to stand in my way. Not now, not after everything I had done, everything I had worked for. What option did I have? What was my future? If my Crace project fell through, I would have to return here to Britain, broke. A life at home with my parents. Rows with my father. Endless talk about what had happened. Desperate at-tempts to try and get a second-rate job. Thoughts of Eliza, unbearable memories of her.
I watched as she climbed the steps to the door, turned the key in the lock and walked inside the expensive house. I waited five or ten minutes before I rang her number again. She picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Can I speak to Lavinia Maddon, please?” I said, trying to enunciate the words as clearly and as precisely as possible.
“Speaking,” she said.
“I’m ringing on behalf of Gordon Crace. My name is Adam Woods; I’m his assistant.”
“Oh yes, thank you.” Her tone changed. “Thank you so much for calling. I did receive your letter and, although I was disappointed, I had hoped that I would get a chance at least to speak to Gordon, to Gordon Crace, to try and persuade him that the book would be a very serious study.”
“Yes, he’s very well aware of your project,” I said, pausing. I needed to find out exactly what she knew, how much research she had actually done. “Although Mr. Crace was doubtful about its validity—as you know he is an intensely private person—he now believes there is no point in trying to resist any further. I think he thinks that, as someone is bound to write a biography, it may as well be someone of your standing, of your caliber. So he is, in principle, interested.”
“Really?” Delight infused her voice.
“Yes. I’m in London at the moment on business for Mr. Crace and wondered if perhaps we could meet.”
“Of course. That would be wonderful. Whenever would be convenient.”
I looked up at the top flat and saw her form walk toward the window, which overlooked the garden square. I stepped back out of view.
“I wondered if you had any time later. Sorry it’s such short notice, but another meeting I had has just fallen through.”
“That would be fine—absolutely perfect. Would you like to come over to my flat? It’s in Eaton Square.”
I told her that would suit me. She gave me directions, as if I needed them, and we arranged to meet at seven o’clock. I had an hour to kill.
I found a cafe where I recorded the recent events in my notebook, enjoyed a cappuccino and read through the cuttings once more. I had to assume that Lavinia Maddon had done all the necessary biographical groundwork—inquiries into Crace’s background, parents, birth certificates, school records, university career—sweeping up anything that was in the public domain. If I went ahead with the plan, if I kept up the pretense that Crace was interested in her book, perhaps she would reveal to me exactly what she had discovered. If she found out about my book later, I would tell her that I was merely acting on Crace’s orders to find out as much about her project as possible. I was simply doing my job. And Crace wanted an authorized account of his life, a biography done by a person whom he trusted, not some stranger like her.
Just before seven, I made my way back to her flat. The trees in the square cast long shadows across the tall white houses, like skeletal fingers caressing alabaster skin. I rang her bell and she buzzed me in.
“Fifth floor. Don’t bother with the lift, it’s easier to walk up,” she said.
For a moment, as my hand trailed up the dark, polished banister, I felt gripped by a sense that I couldn’t go through with this, whatever “this” was. I wasn’t sure what I would do, and that scared me. I stopped on the stairway and turned to look at myself in a gilt-framed mirror. My skin looked even more ghostly white than usual, my blond hair adding to the bleached-out effect. I pinched my right cheek a couple of times, hoping to bleed some life into my face, but I still remained the color of a cadaver.
As I climbed the last couple of steps and turned the corner, I saw Lavinia waiting for me, her face beaming.
“Adam, hi. I’m Lavinia. So lovely to meet you. Please, come in.”
She stretched out her hand and I felt the thin bones beneath her skin. Her handshake was just as weak as Crace’s. As she smiled, a spiderweb of fine lines spread out under the surface of her lightly powdered face, rippling up from the corners of her mouth to her eyes and forehead. From a distance I would have thought her to be in her mid-forties, but she was at least a decade older.
She led me down a hallway into a large drawing room. Books lined every wall and spread across every available surface. The floor was carpeted in beige coir matting. A vase of white lilies spread their deathly aroma through the flat.
“Would you care for a drink? White wine?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Please, sit down.”
I lowered myself into a deep, wide gray sofa. A pile of bubble-wrapped books—a German translation of her Woolf biography—sat on the low coffee table in front of me. A New Yorker magazine, no doubt boasting one of her erudite, terribly well written, 10,000-word pieces, nestled next to the day’s newspapers.
She came back and handed me a glass of cold white wine. She sat in the identical gray sofa opposite me.
“You can’t imagine how pleased I was that you called.”
I was sure that I could.
“From your last letter, I got the distinct impression that Mr. Crace would never agree to my book. I was in a quandary about what to do. Really quite at a loss.”
“Had you done much work? I mean, background research and—”
“Oh yes, quite a substantial amount. I’ve already built up quite a file on him. I mean, of course, I didn’t want to be presumptuous, just that if Mr. Crace did agree, I wanted him to realize I had done the initial research to indicate that I was serious, both in my intentions and as a biographer. But I wonder what it was that made him change his mind. He seemed so set against it.”
I shifted in my seat and leaned forward.
“To be honest, it was because he had had an approach, another approach, from yet another writer.”
> She blinked, and for a moment her eyes flashed with fury.
“Of course, no one with the same literary credentials as you,” I added. “Someone who proposed a book, well, nothing more than a sensational, vulgar book.”
“Can I ask who it was?”
I did not say anything for a few seconds. A little punishment wasn’t entirely out of the question, I thought.
“I’m sorry. I think it’s best if I kept that quiet. I wouldn’t want the name to get around.”
“Of course. I understand,” she said. She pretended not to care, but I watched as she bit the inside of her cheek. Her eyes darted back and forth. “So do you really think Mr. Crace would agree to see me?”
“I don’t see why not. Obviously not at the moment, but certainly within the next few weeks or months. But before that, he would have to be sure of your intentions. I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Maddon—”
“Lavinia. Please call me Lavinia.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, and I’m sure you only have the highest sort of book in mind, but I think what Mr. Crace would really like to see, what would put his mind at rest, is any kind of draft material you have on him.”
“Well, that’s really rather early in the day, I’m afraid. I haven’t put pen to paper, yet, you see.”
“Is there anything you could prepare for him then? Perhaps a synopsis, something you might have given your agent or publisher?”
“I do have something along those lines, but really I don’t think it appropriate to show him.”
She saw me look a little astonished. No doubt she was afraid that I would skew the deal, return to Crace and tell him to call the whole thing off.
“But having said that, I could easily rework it into a form that would suit Mr. Crace. Something more reader-friendly, without all that publishing jargon.”
What she was really saying was that she would tone it down and fashion it into a more sanitized version.
“Yes, that sounds like something Mr. Crace would be interested in seeing. I know he is quite keen to get this sorted out in the next few days so—”
“Really as fast as that?”
“Yes. He’s not one for letting things hang around. I’m going to fly back to Venice at some point next week, so perhaps if you could give it to me then…?”
“Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
I had well and truly hooked her. Could I go even further?
“You know, it’s funny,” I said, laughing, “you might even know more about Mr. Crace than the man himself. You see, soon after he moved to Venice, a great deal of his personal documentation was ruined during a particularly bad acqua alta.”
“Really?”
“I’m sure he would be delighted if you could give him copies of anything you found—birth certificates, genealogical records, anything along those lines.”
“Well—”
“I really do think it would make all the difference.”
“Erm—”
“Make your case all the stronger.”
“You think so?”
“Of course. Then he’d feel that he really could trust you. And it would only be to replace those documents he once had in his possession. But if you have a problem with that…”
“No, I’m sure that will be fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’ll give those to you next week as well so you can take them back to Mr. Crace.”
“That’s very kind. Mr. Crace will not be able to thank you enough.”
For once the gratitude in my face was genuine. I think I really did feel something.
By the time I arrived back at Jake’s flat, I was exhausted. I threw myself onto the sofa, rubbed my hands over my tired eyes, and lay back on the cushions, feeling any remaining trace of energy drain away. Blackness enclosed me, and I must have fallen asleep as the next thing I heard was the ring of my mobile. I picked up it and saw my parents’ number flashing on the screen. I rejected the call; I wasn’t ready to speak to them.
I lay there in the dark, hardly moving, barely breathing, until Jake returned home. He walked in, switched on the light and found me sitting there, eyes open.
“For fuck’s sake, man! What are you trying to do, give me a coronary?” he said, dropping his keys into the bowl on the sideboard.
I cleared my throat and laughed it off. “Sorry,” I said.
“So how did you get on today? Find out anything interesting about your mystery man?”
I told him that the cuttings library had proved useful and thanked him again for his help. To prevent further questions, I asked him about his day. He’d been to a book launch that evening and sported red wine stains around his lips, like an extra mouth.
“I saw your favorite person there,” said Jake.
“Who?”
“Can’t you guess?”
I had a good idea who he meant, but I didn’t want to think about him.
“Dr. Kirkby. God, you should have seen his face when he saw me. I think he thought you’d be around. But I was probably equally as astonished to see him. It was the launch of a biography of an obscure nineteenth-century female artist. Critics generally thought of her merely as a muse, but apparently she painted in secret. Quite a story, I suppose, and really—”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Only very briefly, just to be polite. His arm’s better, out of its sling, anyhow.”
We laughed.
“She wasn’t with him, was she?”
Jake looked at me with concern, even anxiety.
“No, she wasn’t there, mate,” he said quietly. “You still think about her then?”
I nodded. I didn’t really know what to say.
“You are better though, aren’t you?”
“I think I am,” I said. “It was one of those moment-of-madness things, I expect. Lost all sense. Like I was a different person.”
“Yeah, right.”
“But I’ve changed since then. I’ve got a real direction now.” I couched the clichéd phrases with a certain amount of irony. “Know what I’m doing. Focused.”
At that moment I remembered that last time with Eliza. I had just wanted to be with her, close to her.
“So what are your plans?”
“I’m off to Dorset tomorrow—more research for my writer. I’ll probably come back to London again for a night or so—stay here if that’s okay—and then back to Venice next week.”
I’m sure anyone would have behaved just like I did in a similar situation. Provocation, that’s what they call it. Parading her new man around like that. And so soon as well. He used to be her—our—lecturer. There was something so sordid about it all.
“How are you getting there? Dorset?”
“Train—two and a half hours, Waterloo to Dorchester.”
I had waited outside the college building and followed him home. I made sure I kept out of sight on the Tube, moved to a different carriage and hid behind my newspaper. I trailed him from Finsbury Park, dropping behind him if he slowed down or if I thought he might turn his head.
“Where are you going to stay?”
“I’m not sure yet. Probably in a B & B somewhere or a pub perhaps.”
Before he had turned the corner to his street, I had slipped on a balaclava. An overly theatrical touch, maybe, but at the time it seemed to make sense. That morning I had gone to a tacky clothing shop and bought a nasty nylon hooded top, a pair of jogging trousers and some trainers. I also wore a pair of black fake leather gloves.
“What are you going down there for?”
“Just a bit of research.”
I had checked to see if there was anyone around. Good—no one.
“Which part of Dorset?”
“It’s a village called Winterborne. It’s about fifteen miles from Dorchester, toward—what is it?—Blandford Forum.”
As he had turned the key in his lock, I ran up behind him and grabbed him around the neck. He tried to spin around and wrestle free, but I had him in a tight lock, his
arms flaying around like an insect’s. I decided it would be too risky to speak, but I gestured for him to give me his bag.
He dropped his briefcase and told me to take whatever I wanted. Just leave him alone. The pathetic fuck. His tawny beard quivered with fear, his slate-gray eyes rabbit-scared. How could Eliza choose someone so insipid, so cowardly, so pathetic?
I released the grip on his neck, causing him to fall forward like a rag doll. He greedily drank the air around him, a drowning man surfacing above water. I could have finished him off, I was sure. Perhaps I should have. Instead, I took hold of his right arm and twisted it behind his back, snapping it like a wishbone. The sound was really satisfying. I pushed him down to the ground, laughed at his whimpering, ransacked his bag, took a credit card, some cash, and then ran off. I heard him feebly call for help, but I disappeared down a side street. I took off the trainers, slipped off the joggers and hooded top, ripped away the balaclava and shoved the lot inside my rucksack. Underneath I was nice and respectable, a hardworking student—jeans, white shirt, black loafers, all of which I had carried with me. If I was stopped by the police, I could plead ignorance. Nobody would believe that I was the type of person who could do that kind of thing.
In the end, I decided not to call my parents before leaving London. I didn’t want to know about my finals. What difference would it make to my life now? Whatever class of degree I had been awarded, I knew it would never be good enough for my dad. There was no talking to him, he was just insane.
We had been sitting around the dining room table. Mum had tried to make the occasion a special one: pretty place settings, candles, bone-handled knives, crystal glasses. She had cooked Italian food in anticipation of my trip, and her lasagna wasn’t at all bad. We had enjoyed a few glasses of Prosecco and then a nice bottle of red wine. Conversation was confined to a narrow, safe path—nothing that veered off into the danger zones of my past or my future—and it looked as though we were going to enjoy a perfectly civilized evening, culminating with kisses on both cheeks from my mum, a strong shake of the hand from Dad and a flurry of well-meaning parting words. All that changed in the space of a moment.
The Lying Tongue Page 12
