Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  ‘Only twenty minutes. Not bad for you, Tessa.’

  The men introduced themselves and shook hands.

  ‘I don’t suppose Tessa’s ever mentioned me. I suspect she compartmentalises her life. There are probably hundreds of us out there, locked away in soundproof boxes, ignorant of each others’ existence.’

  Lewis already liked Dan Coates.

  He wasn’t so sure about Charlotte Jamieson who, pleading the inadequacies of public transport, didn’t show up until they were drinking coffee. She was, as Tessa warned, poised, intelligent and argumentative. It was difficult to imagine her losing control, but were she to do so it would be something to behold.

  By the time they left the restaurant, Lewis, full of food and drained after his heart-to-heart with Tessa, would have been happy to go back to the flat but the others weren’t ready to call it a day and they ended up in a jazz cellar, somewhere off Leicester Square. The sparse audience, concentrating in reverential silence, was a spectacle in its own right – middle-aged men with goatee beards and pony tails, young women with Nefertiti eyes, dressed from head to toe in black. Each number lasted for ten minutes or more, the musicians – drums, saxophone, trumpet and string bass – improvising, in turn taking up the intricate, meandering thread of the music. The visceral sounds stirred Lewis and he soon saw that what might be labelled ‘discords’ were, in fact, sophisticated harmonies, way, way beyond the simplistic rhythms of popular music.

  The club turned out at midnight and, when they climbed the steps to the pavement, there were still crowds of people milling around, making the most of the breeze that bowled Saturday night litter, like tumbleweed, down the dusty streets.

  When they reached the flat, Lewis was exhausted but too keyed up to sleep. His mind raced with the evening’s events – conversations, extraordinary music and the touch of Charlotte’s hand on the inside of his thigh. Sprawled on Tessa’s sofa, he felt that he had, without knowing how or why, crossed an invisible border and strayed into an alien land.

  ‘Would it be okay if I stayed another night?’ Lewis asked next morning. ‘I won’t get in your way.’

  ‘Fine. Anything particular you want to do?’

  He tugged sheepishly at his ear. ‘Actually, Lotte’s invited me to a drinks party this evening.’

  ‘That’s odd. She didn’t mention anything to me about a party.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘She thought you might be glad to get me out of the way, so you could spend some time with Dan. I don’t want to bugger up your whole weekend.’

  Tessa had to hand it to Charlotte who had, right under her nose, lured Lewis into her trap. He might be a grown man but he was inexperienced in the hunting methods of the predatory female, and particularly vulnerable at the moment. She ought to warn him that he was in moral if not mortal danger. But it might first be prudent to establish the facts.

  Once she’d dispatched Lewis to get milk and the Sunday papers, she rang Lotte. ‘What’s all this about a party? You wouldn’t have designs on my brother, would you?’ She kept her tone breezy.

  Lotte fobbed her off in an equally casual manner, saying that Lewis was a ‘sweetie’ but a little unsophisticated for her. ‘He was telling me that he’s a bit down at present. I thought a party might give him a lift.’

  Lotte’s parties – orgiastic affairs involving unlimited alcohol and shameless sex, shrouded in a fug of marihuana – were legend. If she set her sights on Lewis he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Chapter 22

  A couple of weeks later, Lewis returned to London. This time he spent two nights in Lotte Jamieson’s king-sized bed.

  He told his parents and Andrea that he had tickets for the Proms, but he had no choice but to come clean with Tessa.

  His sister frowned, ‘I hope you know what you’re getting into.’

  ‘Isn’t this what you’ve been egging me on to do? Break a few rules. Live a little.’

  What had happened was straightforward. He had been seduced by a woman who revelled in sex and was happy to share her delight with him. And that’s all it was – sex without the least pretence of love.

  After Sarah’s birth, Andrea treated sex as a marital duty, giving no indication whether their lovemaking, which at the beginning of their relationship she had appeared to enjoy, any longer gave her pleasure. She initiated sex only when she wanted to conceive. Once Jane arrived, she couldn’t escape fast enough, taking with her the two children she had so obviously set her heart on. He could almost convince himself that Andrea had pushed him into Lotte’s bed. He made a pact with himself. If he wasn’t brave enough to walk out of his ‘nice’ life, he would give Lotte up. In any case, once the novelty of corrupting a provincial lad wore off, he would undoubtedly get his marching orders. He was prepared for that. Then, whenever his squeaky clean existence as family man and deputy head of the Maths Department became unbearable, he would have those exquisite hours spent between Lotte’s satin sheets as a consoling memory.

  Before he left London, he called to see Tessa, not sure whether she would berate or congratulate him for his adultery.

  She did neither, and, having made him a cup of instant coffee, returned to her desk saying, ‘I can’t stop to chat. I’ve got to get on with this,’ her detachment smarting more than Lotte’s dismissive, ‘See you around, sweetie.’

  At odd times – on his way to the library or cleaning the car or cooking his Boy Scout meals – Kirsty Ross popped into his thoughts. When they’d parted she’d moved to Newcastle, but she never failed to send Christmas and birthday cards. After his marriage, the messages in the cards became less personal and he appreciated her sensitivity. It was good to know that she was doing well; that she owned her own house and had a ‘lovely boyfriend’. He wasn’t sure why she kept in touch or why his heart raced at the sight of her handwriting. Neither was he sure why he kept all her cards in a manila folder at the back of his locker in the staffroom.

  Tessa calculated that, at the current rate of progress, she would finish writing the book before Christmas. After her struggle with the previous novel, this one was a doddle and the days flew productively by. It was a blessing that her work was engrossing because other aspects of her life were less than satisfactory.

  Dan Coates, in his unobtrusive yet persistent fashion, was becoming a fixture. Only four years older than she, there were times when he seemed like a tolerant parent, standing within arms reach, patiently waiting whilst his child mastered a new two wheeler. But, he was also a tender lover – the first to convince her that lovemaking had something to do with love. And it had been when Dan showed up that she began writing again.

  Why did the thing between Lewis and Lotte bother her so much? Hadn’t she constantly tried to spice up his turgid life? Okay, Lotte would soon tire of her brother’s gauche charms but, if Lewis had acquired a taste for adultery, there were unlimited numbers of Lotte Jamiesons abroad in the world. But what if she’d made a dreadful mistake? What if he would be happier living his tidy, monogamous life and leaving her to walk on the wild side?

  Determined to reassert her own ‘wild side’, she phoned Mike Stoddy, pretending that she wanted to get in touch with Diane about a school reunion. He said that he remembered her coming to the house and that they had all been following her writing career with interest, although he hadn’t got around to reading the books. As they were saying goodbye, and as though it was the least important thing on her mind, she told him about seeing the photograph of Rundle in the exhibition.

  ‘It would be great to go along to a gig. You don’t happen to know where he’s living these days, do you?’

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact. He’s down in Brighton. Hang on, it’s here in my diary.’ He reeled off a telephone number.

  There was nothing to be gained by delaying. She dialled, imagining Rundle rousing from post-coital sleep and trekking from the furthest corner of a rock’n’roll mansion. But wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, he didn’t answer. Edgy and disappointed, she phone
d Dan and tried to start an argument, her bad humour aggravated by his refusal to rise to the bait.

  It was three days and a dozen unanswered calls before Rundle picked up the phone. ‘Yeah? Who is this?’

  Four words after thirteen years and already her heart was racing. ‘I’m not sure if you’ll remember me. It’s Tessa. Tessa Swinburne. From … a long time ago.’

  ‘Aaaah. Tessa Swinburne. From a long, long time ago. You’re quite the celebrity now, so Mike Stoddy tells me.’

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Naturally Stoddy had tipped off his mate that she was asking after him.

  She mumbled something about the photograph. ‘I wondered how things were going. With your band, I mean.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were into music.’ Was he mocking her? ‘Actually we’ve packed it in. A couple of months ago. It was costing us more than we were earning. Equipment. Transport. Drugs. It’d be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. Enough of my tale of woe. Where are you living these days?’

  ‘London. Hampstead.’

  ‘Nice.’ He paused. ‘Are you going to give me your phone number?’

  It was her turn to hesitate. ‘I’m not sure whether—’

  ‘Tess, sweet Tess. You started this, don’t forget. If my memory serves me well, you’re a bit of a one for starting things.’ He laughed – a gentle, intriguing laugh. ‘Look. Why don’t I say that I’ll be … where? … at the bottom of Nelson’s Column on Thursday afternoon. Three o’clock. It would be nice to bump into you.’

  The gallery that represented Dan was putting on an exhibition of his recent work and he was assembling a guest list for the private view. ‘I thought we’d ask Jay and Liza,’ he said as he and Tessa were on their way to the pub.

  ‘Weren’t they living somewhere outlandish?’

  ‘Not that outlandish.’ He fished an envelope out of his pocket. ‘Seville, in fact. I got this today. That’s what made me think of them.’

  Liza had written the letter. It was short and barely legible but it seemed that they were all – all six of them – having a right old time and Jay’s work was starting to sell. ‘Connor wants to be a bullfighter!’

  Dan jotted down names. ‘Jay and Liza. Your brother, of course. And what about Lotte? Or do we want to knock that on the head?’

  The ‘we’ – redolent of permanence – made Tessa nervous.

  ‘It’s your party, Dan.’ She sipped her drink and watched a lad pummelling the pinball machine near the door.

  Two days had passed since she’d spoken to Rundle. His suggestion that they meet, and the implications of her decision, preoccupied her. From hour to hour she changed her mind. Go. Don’t go. Her intention had been to get her own back – she wasn’t too clear what for – and the effective way to hurt Rundle was not to show up. But then she’d heard his voice, and the whole thing became less clear-cut.

  She went to meet him wearing a cream smock, its neckline low but not revealing, a leather belt gathering it at the waist. Beneath it, a gypsy skirt in reds and oranges, the wide hem swirling around her ankles. She left her hair loose – it made her look younger that way. The overall effect was, she hoped, modesty with feral undertones.

  For once, the Underground was running perfectly. Fearful of arriving before him, she got out at Leicester Square and went into a shop selling tacky souvenirs, browsing aimlessly until it was well past three o’clock. In the end, concerned that the staff might think her a shoplifter, she bought a domed snowstorm containing a replica of Nelson’s Column.

  It was August and Trafalgar Square was like a beach, a holiday buzz uniting the sea of landlocked beachcombers. Although the fountains had been switched off because of the drought, old and young alike perched on the perimeter walls, dangling hot feet in the phantom water. Tourists bought grain from street vendors, squealing as wild-eyed pigeons homed in on outstretched hands. Another blurred snapshot for the album. Ice cream. Rucksacks. Maps. Sunhats. So many people. What if she failed to recognise Rundle or missed him in the crowd?

  She need not have worried. Flared jeans, pale blue tee shirt, denim jacket over his arm, there he was, standing between the lion’s stony paws.

  ‘Hello.’ He smiled, standing quite still, making no move to kiss or even touch her hand. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure myself until an hour ago.’

  He probably knew that this wasn’t true, but mumbled niceties were a useful way to negotiate the initial awkwardness.

  ‘Well I’m glad you did.’

  He was more handsome than she remembered. His reddish hair was longer but neatly cut, and he was carrying more weight. That furtive look had disappeared and his smile – had she ever seen him smile? – was engaging. A proper man, that’s what Gran would have called him.

  ‘I brought you a present.’ He took a paper bag from his jacket pocket and offered it to her.

  Inside was a small stick of rainbow-coloured rock and, through the twisted cellophane she could make out the crude red letters running through it. BRIGHTON.

  ‘I was going to eat it myself if you hadn’t turned up. Easier to digest than a bunch of flowers. And, of course, I thought you’d appreciate the literary reference.’ He grinned. ‘I didn’t actually think of that until just now. Anyway, what d’you fancy doing? I thought we ought to take a look at the photograph as it’s responsible for bringing us together.’

  Looking at the picture again, this time with Rundle at her side, she wondered if, by contacting him, she had tampered with fate. But that couldn’t be right, could it? The whole point of fate was that whatever happened was meant to happen. Fate had tampered with her, more like.

  The afternoon was proving to be not at all what she’d expected. Rundle was treating her with courtesy and it was as if they were on first a date. He talked a bit about the break up of his group; how they’d never been focused; how they’d spent too much time drinking and arguing.

  ‘I was pretty pissed off when we folded but, if I’m honest, we were never going to make it.’

  Over tea in the basement café, he told her that he was working as a car mechanic, a trade learned whilst doing National Service.

  ‘I hated the army,’ he said. ‘All that bullshit. But it taught me a skill so I suppose it wasn’t a total waste of time.’

  The news that he had been in the army came as a surprise to her. He must have just been discharged when they’d met and it explained why he had been so fussy about his room and his possessions.

  The cafeteria closed at five and the staff shooed the customers out on to the pavement. Everyone seemed to be hurrying somewhere, to know exactly where they had to be. Before Tessa could ask Rundle what he wanted to do next, he looked at his watch. ‘My train leaves at six, so I’d better get a move on.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s a shame but I’ve got to get back.’ He kissed her cheek and squeezed her shoulder – the first time that they had touched. ‘Why don’t you come down to Brighton sometime? Get some sea air. You’ve got my number, haven’t you? Of course you have.’ He grinned, raised his hand and was soon lost in the rush hour crowds.

  As the Underground rumbled northwards, all she could think about was Rundle. Her plan was to captivate him then, once she had him in the palm of her hand, to reject him. She was prepared to do whatever it took. She had tidied the flat and changed the sheets; told Dan that she had a meeting with someone from Ward & Cox and would ring him the following day. Now Rundle had wrong-footed her with his conversion from selfish egotist to considerate companion. Correction. His apparent conversion. It was possible that he, too, had an undisclosed agenda. But, as it stood, unless she chose to contact him, the game was over.

  The school holiday dragged on. In the beginning, Lewis’s parents kept asking, ‘When will Andrea and the kiddies be back?’ Now, after four weeks, they rarely mentioned her.

  Lewis took to dropping in on his mother for ‘elevenses’ or a sandwich lunch. Approaching sixty now, Peggy Swinburne’s hair had tur
ned almost white. She was too thin – she always had been – but, tanned after a summer spent in her beloved garden, Lewis had rarely seen her looking healthier.

  It hadn’t rained for weeks. Grass in gardens and parks was scorched and crunchy. Trees were already shedding their leaves. Newspapers and television encouraged people to save water – bath with a friend; to put a brick in the lavatory cistern; to ensure that cigarettes were extinguished before discarding them. His father disconnected sections of the cast iron downpipe and directed their bathwater, via more pipes and funnels, into an old water tank that he had stationed outside the back door.

  ‘It was like this in the war,’ his mother said nostalgically. ‘We all did our bit. Made little sacrifices.’

  A new routine emerged. Coffee with his mother; afternoons listening to his growing collection of jazz records or brushing up on scholarship-level maths; evenings listening to the radio whilst he worked on his most recent Airfix model. He was expanding his cooking repertoire. He discovered that ironing could be very gratifying and that the fewer rooms he used, the fewer needed tidying.

  Andrea phoned often, reporting that the girls were well; that she was well; that her parents were well. Lewis responded in kind. How agreeable it was to have a long distance family who were all so well and so … absent.

  Each evening he crossed the day off the calendar, watching the row of oblique strokes marching towards the beginning of term and the arrival of a fresh battalion of pupils. But this particular academic year had added significance. Sarah was due to start at the local primary school on the first Monday in September.

  With only five days to spare, Andrea summoned him to collect them, giving him one day to tidy away his bachelor life. The half-finished model of the Ark Royal went in the shed. Coltrane, Jimmy Smith and Miles Davis were relegated to the remotest corner of the bookshelf. He cleaned the grease off the cooker, changed the bedclothes and emptied the waste-paper baskets. He popped into school to check the new timetable and replaced Kirsty’s letters in his locker. Charlotte Jamieson could remain where she was, lounging between the satin sheets of his memory, a reminder that once, just once, he had broken the rules.