Past Imperfect

by Michael Parker

  She breathed in deeply, almost a sigh, and let her shoulders drop, remembering she had promised her sister that she would phone as she soon as she had arrived at the hotel. It wasn’t long before she was talking to her sister, or rather, listening.

  ‘Yes, Laura,’ she said. ‘I’m really happy with the room.’ She’d hardly had time to look around.

  ‘Now remember what I said: don’t get talking to any man who is on his own.’ Emma’s eyebrows lifted as Laura went on. ‘They are usually travellers and only out for what they can get. Be careful.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Emma promised with a hint of a chuckle in her voice, and thought about the man she had seen earlier. Her hand went up to her neck and the chuckle died in her throat.

  ‘Elderly couples are fine, Emma,’ Laura instructed her. ‘They make good companions and love to chat. Of course, if there are any single women there, you might want to get to know them. It’s so important that you understand how vulnerable you are at the moment.’

  Emma wandered over to the window, dragging the telephone cord behind her. Laura was gabbling on but Emma was taking no notice; she could see that man again. It looked like he had had a change of heart and was now heading back. She was able to study him without fear of being noticed: a kind of low-grade voyeurism. There was something different about the way he was dressed: not too much like the people around him. He certainly looked stylish but in a conservative way. He was wearing a buff-coloured cardigan, but on him it looked elegant: not sagging around the pockets like so many do. Where most people were wearing jeans or shorts, he was wearing trousers which were the right length and colour. His shirt was lemon yellow but didn’t dominate the rest of his clothes. The brown shoes looked just right. As he got closer to the hotel entrance, Emma could see his features more clearly. He wasn’t what some women would call handsome, but he had an attractive ruggedness. His dark hair looked combed but flopped around his ears. Emma guessed he was around fifty, which would make him fifteen years older than her.

  ‘Are you listening, Emma?’ her sister’s voice barked down the phone at her.

  ‘Yes,’ she lied, as she watched Max disappear into the hotel entrance.

  ‘Well, please ring me tomorrow and let me know how you are getting on. Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course I can. Tomorrow. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I do, though,’ Laura answered. ‘That’s the trouble.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Laura. I promise.’ She went back to the bedside and put the phone down. Poor Laura, she thought, always worrying about her. She sat on the bed knowing that her big sister had good reason to worry; her life with Ian had been traumatic and to some extent quite dangerous. It was a mercy that he was behind bars now, but she wondered if she would ever be free of his menace and the painful memories. She sighed and looked over at her large bag. It was still unopened. She recalled an old song her grandfather used to sing: pack up your troubles in your old kitbag and smile. Emma smiled at the thought and decided it was time to forget her troubles and unpack a new life, starting now and enjoying the three days of sublime, single freedom. Then she would make some firm decisions about where she intended her life should go. It was something to look forward to, and there was no one in her life now who could make her change her mind.

  The following morning, Max walked into the dining room wearing deck shoes, jeans and a T-shirt that declared the joys of open-water sailing. He made his way to the buffet and helped himself to a pot of tea. He then put a couple of slices of white bread into the toaster and went in search of somewhere to sit. He saw Emma sitting alone. He wondered if she would recognize him from the previous day when she had arrived at the hotel.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said as he stopped by her table. ‘I saw you yesterday in the lobby. Are you settled in OK?’

  Emma had been staring out of the window that overlooked the rear gardens of the hotel. White net curtains offered a degree of privacy for the diners. She turned her head as Max spoke.

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you.’ She felt her neck getting warmer and put her hand there.

  ‘Your first time here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ she answered quickly.

  ‘It isn’t mine, but it has been years since I was here last.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Did you get sorted out at reception yesterday?’ he asked.

  Emma frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I happened to overhear your conversation at the desk.’ He tipped his head in the direction of the hotel lobby. ‘I was reading through some leaflets.’

  ‘It wasn’t a problem,’ she told him and turned her head away. She kept her hand on her neck.

  Max could see he was in the way. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to your breakfast, then. Oh, my name’s Max.’ There was no response, so Max took his leave.

  Emma kept her face towards the window. By this time, her neck was hotter still and she was mentally kicking herself for being so rude. She had found some kind of secret pleasure when she had been watching him through her bedroom window the previous afternoon, and now the opportunity had presented itself to get to know him better, she had thrown it away. It was hardly a ‘come on’ from him, she thought. How could a man standing there holding a teapot be making a pass at her? She laughed quietly at the thought.

  Emma suddenly realized she was quite tense, so she relaxed and leaned back into her chair. She saw Max over at the buffet picking up his toast. She wondered where his smart clothes were, and if they were just for show. Perhaps he was a bit of a poser, she thought. Then she rebuked herself for being so childish; the man had simply asked if she had settled in OK and told her his name, nothing more than that. She watched as he put together his breakfast and walked across to his table. He didn’t look in her direction once. She was still looking when she heard the waitress ask if she could remove her breakfast dishes. Emma snapped out of it and glanced up at the young woman. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  The waitress picked up the dirty plates and, just as she was leaving the table, she looked over to where Max was sitting. Emma saw this and realized she must have been staring at Max for quite some time for the waitress to notice.

  Max ate his breakfast thinking only of how he would spend the weekend. He gave no more thought to the young woman, realizing that she had no interest in striking up a conversation, which was why he dropped her from his thoughts. It did cross his mind that he might characterize her; parcelling her up to be put away, only to reappear in his next book. He finished his breakfast and went up to his room for a shower and shave. There were no more thoughts about vulnerable women, his agent, or activities that might engage his brain and constitution, simply the desire now to stroll along the seafront and empty his mind of all its clutter.

  Emma left the hotel and walked across the road to the common. She was wearing dark-green, knee-length shorts, slip-on shoes and a beige blouse. She had a cardigan folded over her arm. Beneath this was her small bag. There was little in the bag other than her mobile phone, a lipstick, a pack of tissues and a small amount of cash.

  Her walk took her over the green and down onto the seafront. She could see the pier stretching its way out to sea and thought it would be nice to stroll to the end of it. There was a cluster of kiosks near to the entrance. She stopped and bought herself an ice cream: whipped vanilla with a chocolate flake in the top. She was thinking of little else except how nice it was to feel free and unfettered when she saw Max. He was sitting on a bench looking out over the sea. He had his arms folded and seemed to be miles away in thought. Emma was about to turn round and walk back, but thought better of it. She tried to look as though she was unaware of anybody or anything around her as she got closer to where Max was sitting. He looked at her as she strolled past. It was a casual glance. He smiled briefly, raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement and looked away. Without thinking, Emma stopped. Max looked at her again, his expression impassive.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, affecting surprise. ‘Enjoying the sunshine?�
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  ‘Yes, thank you.’ He didn’t say anything else.

  Emma pointed at the bench. ‘Do you mind if I sit there for a moment?’

  Max straightened up and held his hand out in an open gesture. ‘Sure, be my guest.’

  Emma settled herself beside him, keeping a respectful distance.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if I seemed rude this morning,’ she began, ‘but it wasn’t intended.’ She stopped, not sure what to say next.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he told her. ‘I shouldn’t have been so nosey; it should be me apologizing to you.’

  ‘Well, apologies accepted on both sides?’

  Max nodded. ‘We’re quits, then,’ he said and lapsed into silence.

  ‘Have you been here before?’ It seemed the obvious thing to say seeing as she couldn’t think of anything else.

  Max grinned. She had clearly forgotten what he had said to her that morning. ‘Once: it was a long, long time ago.’

  Emma could see his expression change briefly; as though he was taking his mind back to that time. ‘On your own?’ she asked. ‘Or with someone?’

  ‘With my wife,’ he told her, knowing it was a lie.

  Emma looked at him with surprise registering on her face. ‘So you’re married?’

  He shook his head. ‘My wife died a couple of years ago. Road accident,’ he explained.

  She apologized immediately. ‘Oh, I’m sorry: I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’ He pointed towards the end of the pier. ‘Shall we walk? It may save you dripping ice cream all over yourself.’

  Emma shifted on the seat and looked at her hand. The ice cream was just beginning to run down the side of the cone. She put the cone to her lips and licked around the edges.

  Max laughed. ‘How many times do we do that?’ He stood up. ‘Shall we?’

  They strolled in silence for a while, each with their own thoughts. Emma was wondering what her sister would say, while Max was wondering why he felt like a teenager on his first date.

  ‘What brings you to Portsmouth?’ he asked.

  Emma thought about how much she should tell him before answering. After all, despite the introductions they were perfect strangers. ‘A divorce,’ she answered laconically.

  ‘Oh.’ It was all he could manage at first. Then he asked if she wanted to talk about it.

  Emma shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘What shall we talk about, then?’

  Emma had been looking straight ahead. She turned her face towards him, and the sun caught her features in such a way that Max found it quite disarming. ‘Let’s talk about you,’ she said. ‘What do you do for a living?’

  Max didn’t want to tell her what he did, thinking that it might look like he was trying to impress her, so he lied. ‘I’m a journalist with a local newspaper.’

  ‘What, here in Portsmouth?’

  He laughed quickly. ‘Goodness no, I’m with the Cambridge Gazette.’ That was the third time he’d lied to her.

  ‘So what brings you to Portsmouth?’

  It was a reasonable question, and justified considering he had asked her the same thing. ‘Well, it’s not a divorce; I’m just taking a well-earned break before my editor starts breathing down my neck.’ That much at least was true.

  Emma stopped by the rail and finished the last of her ice cream, managing to let it run into her hands. She looked helpless as she tried to search for a tissue without touching her clothes. Max pulled a pristine, white handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.

  Emma wiped her hands. ‘You don’t want this back, do you? Not now it has ice cream all over it.’ She didn’t wait for an answer but stuffed it into the pocket of her shorts. ‘I’ll wash it for you. Let you have it back tomorrow.’

  Max didn’t argue; it was only a handkerchief admittedly, but it was a connection.

  ‘So what things do you write about in your newspaper?’ she asked.

  ‘Local stuff: traffic problems; council meetings; garden fêtes; petty crimes. Anything that takes my editor’s fancy, really.’

  ‘Don’t you find that boring?’

  Max heaved his shoulders. He thought about the detailed research he had to do for his books and how dangerously absorbing it was; particularly when there was a self-imposed deadline to meet. ‘Not really. It’s my job: it’s what I do.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that,’ Emma told him. ‘My English isn’t very good. I would make loads of mistakes.’

  Max laughed softly. ‘I’m sure the editors would take care of that.’

  She looked at him. ‘Is that what they do: correct your mistakes?’

  ‘In a way,’ he told her. ‘But they get cross if you make too many.’

  Emma laughed. ‘Well, if you’re still in work, you must be OK.’

  Max pushed himself up from the rail. Emma followed and they continued walking. The sun had slipped behind a cloud, allowing a chill to settle over them. Emma pulled her cardigan over her shoulders.

  ‘You can never trust the English weather,’ she complained. ‘Never know what to wear.’

  ‘You can trust it to be unreliable,’ he told her.

  Emma laughed at this. She was beginning to feel comfortable in his company, but her sister’s warning was never far from her mind.

  ‘Do you have a family?’ she asked.

  Max didn’t answer straight away. ‘I have a brother,’ he said eventually, ‘although I never see him. I have a sister, a half-sister actually, but it’s easier to refer to her as my sister. She lives in Australia.’

  ‘So you see nothing of either of them?’

  Max glanced at her. ‘I haven’t seen my sister for years.’ He didn’t say anything else.

  ‘But what about your brother?’ Emma asked. ‘How come you don’t see him?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Max answered solemnly, shaking his head. ‘But it’s in the past.’

  ‘Is he older than you, or younger?’

  Max stopped and turned towards her. ‘He’s my twin.’

  Emma’s face dropped and her hand flew up to her face. ‘Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have asked.’

  Max laughed. ‘That’s the second time you’ve said that,’ he pointed out. ‘Don’t go making a habit of it.’ Emma was about to say something but he put his hand up and stopped her. ‘Don’t worry. Let’s talk about your family. Brothers or sisters?’

  ‘I have a sister. She’s older than me.’

  ‘Do you see much of her?’

  It was Emma’s turn to become thoughtful. She couldn’t tell this stranger how her sister practically fought tooth and nail to protect her from her husband, and how she bossed her around as though Emma was her daughter. She couldn’t tell him that despite her sister’s way, Emma loved her dearly and hoped that she too would have the courage to fight for her sister if it was ever needed, although she knew that Laura didn’t need anyone to fight her battles for her; she was a tough bird and could look after herself.

  ‘I see quite a lot of her. Too much, I think.’

  ‘Do you get on?’

  She frowned and nodded firmly. ‘My sister wouldn’t let us not get on.’ Then she smiled. ‘I adore my sister. She keeps an eye on me.’

  ‘Was she a help to you during your divorce?’

  ‘Before, during and after.’

  Max could see something profound in the way Emma answered his question. He guessed that like the majority of divorces, this young woman’s was no less painful than others and her sister’s support would have been a tremendous help.

  ‘Any other relatives?’ he asked.

  ‘I have a grandmother,’ she told him. ‘Lives in King’s Lynn.’

  ‘No children?’

  Emma shook her head quickly. ‘No, my husband didn’t want a family.’ She shivered. In her mind was the memory of her husband and she wondered if that had made her shiver. She pulled the cardigan tighter around her shoulders. ‘And what about you, Max?’ she ask
ed, taking her mind away from her past. ‘Do you have any children?’

  He didn’t answer immediately, and Emma thought she could see hesitancy in his eyes. He looked down at the ground.

  ‘No, no children.’

  She wondered if he had lost a child through an accident or illness because of the way in which he hesitated before answering. She wanted to ask, but knew it was neither the time nor the place.

  Max’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it, then cancelled the incoming call. It was his agent. ‘My editor,’ he lied. ‘Can’t leave me alone.’ He said it with a shrug and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  ‘Will you have to go back to work?’ Emma asked him, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  He screwed his nose up and shook his head. ‘No. I’m sure she can manage without me.’ He stopped beside the rail. Emma stopped too. His expression softened then and he looked into Emma’s eyes. ‘Look, would you have dinner with me tonight?’

  The question took Emma by surprise and it showed as she struggled to come up with an answer. ‘Oh, well.’ She stopped prevaricating. ‘Yes, why not? Of course.’

  Max felt a warm satisfaction flow through him. It meant this lovely woman would be in his company much longer than he dared hope. It was almost like something out of the pages of one of his novels. Then another, dark thought slipped into his mind and he fought to keep it down. It had nothing to do with Emma or his intentions, which were entirely honourable, but a sinister chapter where his art had done more than imitate life.