More Than You Can Say

by Paul Torday

  Then I asked, ‘What will you do if the place goes bust?’

  Emma dried her tears with a handkerchief.

  ‘I’ll have to sell this flat, I suppose. I took out a second mortgage on it when we started the restaurant.’

  ‘Well, looking at last week’s figures, I’d say our luck is running out.’

  Emma didn’t reply. Instead she started getting ready to go out.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Going to work, of course.’

  ‘But it’s early.’ It was only four o’clock in the afternoon and she didn’t need to be there until six.

  ‘We haven’t got a cleaner at the moment,’ she replied in a weary voice. ‘I need to give the place a thorough going over. It’s beginning to look grubby.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll see you later.’

  I picked up the newspaper as Emma continued to get ready. I had already read it, but I felt it was best to have some form of occupation.

  ‘I’m going now,’ Emma said.

  ‘OK.’

  But she wasn’t quite ready to go, after all. She went as far as the door and then turned.

  ‘Richard, when you came to me from your parents, I did everything I could to help. I could see how difficult you were finding it to deal with life. I could see how difficult it was for you to be around people – your family, even me. You treated us all like strangers, even as if we were enemies. But I stuck with you. I’m still sticking with you, because it hasn’t got any easier to live with you, believe me.’

  ‘OK,’ I said again. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  Emma stared at me. Her large eyes became even rounder.

  ‘I don’t expect you to say anything.’

  ‘Then what do you expect me to do?’

  ‘I want you to help me, Richard. Just help me.’

  Eighteen

  A week or two passed and things calmed down. Emma became her old, cheerful self again: although a pale ghost of worry settled on her face from time to time when she thought I wasn’t looking. I was worried, too: the restaurant wasn’t doing well at all. Even though the whole place had been refurbished and re-equipped only a few months ago, it was already beginning to look tired. When Michael left there hadn’t been a mass walkout, but staff seemed to come and go more frequently. I tried to support Emma. I helped with the paperwork and the stocktaking. I went with Emma to see her bank manager to explain why we might be a little late with the next quarterly loan repayment. He agreed to reschedule our payments, and charged us a new arrangement fee while he was at it.

  There was a sensation of trying to walk up an escalator that was going down; no matter how hard we tried, we were being carried remorselessly in the wrong direction. I tried to talk to Emma about it. We needed to have a plan in case the business got into serious trouble. But she wouldn’t hear of it. Her answer was to work even harder.

  Around this time I took an evening off – one of several in recent weeks – to have dinner with Ed Hartlepool. I’d seen him once or twice since joining the army, but we hadn’t spoken for a year or two at least when he rang me.

  ‘I heard you were back in London,’ said Ed. ‘And with Emma Macmillan, too. Are you married yet?’

  I experienced a slight feeling of guilt. I’d always said I’d marry Emma as soon as I was out of the army and in employment. Well, it had been several months now. Why hadn’t I done anything about it?

  ‘No. We’re living together, though. And we’ve bought a restaurant.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard that too,’ said Ed. ‘Now someone was telling me something about your place – something funny happened there. What was it?’

  I guessed that he had heard some gossip about the night Ned Taylor and his friends had visited. I didn’t reply.

  ‘What about you?’ I said, changing the subject. ‘Are you up at Hartlepool Hall at the moment?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Ed. ‘I’ve had to move to the South of France. After my father died and I inherited, there was some tremendous cock-up with a family trust and there’s been a row with the taxman. So I have to live abroad a lot of the year to avoid being a UK tax resident. I get back to Hartlepool Hall now and again. But I’m in London at the moment, at our flat in Knightsbridge.’

  I couldn’t imagine Ed living in the South of France, and said so.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘There are a lot of other expats around, so there’s a bit of social life. But I like to get back to London once in a while. I’m allowed to spend a certain number of days a year over here without losing my non-dom status. And I’ve joined a gambling club in London. You ought to come and have a drink with me there. It’s the most awful dive, but the drinks are good, and some of the members are hilarious.’

  It didn’t sound very tempting. But the alternative was yet another grim evening at the restaurant, waiting for customers to come in, while the waitresses hung around by the door to the kitchen. I needed a night off from all that and Emma wouldn’t miss me. Tonight less than half the tables were booked, and we didn’t expect many walk-ins.

  ‘Well, yes, that might be different,’ I said. ‘I’m free tonight, if that’s what you had in mind.’

  ‘Yes, tonight would be good,’ said Ed. ‘Come to my flat about seven and we’ll have a sharpener there and then go on to this joint. It’s called the Diplomatic.’

  That was how I started going to the Diplomatic.

  When I told Emma I was taking the evening off she said, ‘Yes, do that, darling – it will be good for you to have a bit of a break. Give my love to Ed. He probably doesn’t remember me.’

  She wasn’t being a martyr as she said this, but her smile was weary. She was working too hard, but nothing I could say or do would persuade her to take any time off herself.

  To my surprise, when I met Ed at his flat, he had put on evening clothes.

  ‘It’s the rule there for members,’ he said.

  ‘Seems like a lot of effort just to play cards,’ I suggested. ‘Anyway, won’t they bar me from entry for being improperly dressed?’

  ‘No,’ said Ed. ‘I’ll tell Eric you’re a potential new member. They make allowances for guests.’

  ‘Who’s Eric?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  Eric, the hall porter, was a big man with the complexion and figure of a huge tuberous root. He had a large pale face, and a dome-like skull covered in a few strands of well-oiled hair. His eyes were small and dark and he had a rosebud mouth. He must have been six foot six but he had managed to insert himself behind a tiny desk. He checked Ed in and gave me an unfriendly nod when Ed introduced me. Then we went through to the bar, where Ed ordered champagne cocktails. Refreshed by these, we wandered upstairs, and before I knew what was happening, Ed had pulled up a chair at a table where a card game was going on, and waved at me to do the same.

  ‘This is Bernie,’ said Ed, introducing me to a large dark-haired man who was dealing out the cards.

  ‘Hello, Bernie.’

  Ed then gestured towards a tall, thin man with a cadaverous face and wispy blond hair plastered across the top of his head.

  ‘And this is Willi Falkenstein.’

  Willi Falkenstein stood up, clicked his heels together and gave a sharp nod. I shook hands with him.

  ‘Everybody, this is a very old friend, Richard Gaunt. He used to be a soldier and now runs a restaurant. He’s thinking of joining the club, so please, don’t take too much money from him tonight.’

  There was a general murmur of greeting and I was dealt a hand of cards. The game at that moment was five-card draw poker, which I could just about cope with: we’d played a bit in the army. At first I won a little, and then I lost a little and then a little more. By midnight I was down a couple of hundred pounds, which was far more money than I was carrying on me. But Ed was relaxed when I explained I had to leave, and would have to give everyone a cheque.

  ‘Don’t worry. No one carries cash around these days. All you need to do is sig
n a note saying how much you owe and to whom. Anyway, I’m your main creditor tonight. We’ll give you a chance to win back your money next time you come.’

  ‘Next time?’

  ‘I’ve put you in the membership book,’ explained Ed. ‘Bernie and Willi will second you. It’s only a hundred pounds to join, and I get something off my bar bill every time I introduce a new member.’

  So that was how I joined the Diplomatic. Emma didn’t mind, although I could see that she felt that me becoming a member of a gambling club in Mayfair while our business venture was struggling wasn’t an obvious priority. But that was Emma. She always thought about me first, herself second. She was so good-natured it was beginning to irritate me.

  After that, the weekly game at the Diplomatic became an accepted fixture in my life. I tried to make up for it by being – as I thought – extra helpful in the restaurant. Then Emma caught me taking two hundred pounds from the till just as I was about to set out for an evening’s card play. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and there was no one else in the front of the restaurant except the two of us. Our current chef was organising himself in the kitchen and the other staff were not in yet.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, Dick?’ Emma asked when she saw me filling my wallet with twenties.

  ‘I just need some stake money for tonight,’ I explained. ‘It’s all right, I’ve put an IOU in the till to keep the books straight. I’ve only taken two hundred pounds.’

  Emma looked appalled.

  ‘Two hundred pounds? But that must be practically all the money in the till. We won’t have any cash float left.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Anyway, most people pay with credit cards, don’t they?’

  I started towards the kitchen, intending to let myself out through the fire exit, but Emma hadn’t finished with me.

  ‘Two hundred pounds?’ she repeated. ‘What kind of money do you play for in that place?’

  I didn’t want to admit to Emma that I was over a thousand pounds in debt, and that the two hundred pounds was meant to help me get back into the game and recover some of my losses.

  ‘Oh, the stakes vary,’ I said vaguely. ‘Nothing sensational.’

  ‘But that’s more money than we have to live off for an entire week.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said rather more snappishly than I intended. ‘I’m not going to bankrupt myself. I thought you didn’t mind me having a bit of fun now and again. I can’t hang around this place six days a week, even if you can.’

  The sound of someone rapping on the glass door at the front entrance interrupted the beginnings of a nasty row. Emma went and opened the door, and Giulia came in. Emma had already complained about the shortness of her skirts and the amount of cleavage she sometimes displayed, but I told her it cheered up the customers. She certainly cheered me up. She brushed against me as she walked past on her way to the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, good evening, Giulia,’ said Emma rather curtly, then turned back to me. But I already had my hand on the door.

  I went out saying: ‘Don’t wait up for me, darling. I might be a little bit late tonight.’

  That night I recouped most of my losses and returned home feeling rather virtuous. In the morning Emma brought me a cup of coffee, as usual, and then sat on the edge of the bed. That meant we were going to have A Talk. I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, or for pouring my heart out to Emma, or for listening to her pour her heart out to me. But it was her flat, her bed and her coffee.

  ‘How did you get on last night?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, quite well. I won a bit. It wasn’t a bad evening. I’ll put the two hundred pounds back in the till when we go in this afternoon.’

  Emma fiddled with the edge of the bedspread. She wasn’t really listening.

  ‘Was it busy in the restaurant last night?’ I asked.

  ‘So-so.’

  I sipped some coffee.

  ‘Darling, what are we going to do?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the restaurant. About us. About our life together.’ I thought for a moment.

  ‘Well, while the restaurant isn’t that busy, I suppose I really ought to try to find another job and bring in some extra income.’

  ‘Doing what, exactly?’ asked Emma. ‘Do you have anything in mind?’

  ‘I’d need to give the question some thought,’ I said, and smiled. Emma didn’t smile back. She wasn’t even looking at me.

  ‘You know, I used to think we would be married by now. After all, we’ve been engaged for nearly three years.’

  ‘I do want to marry you,’ I said quickly. ‘You know that. But I didn’t want us to be married until I came back home and got my promotion.’

  ‘But you’re not in the army now. No one’s going to promote you. You have to do it yourself.’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘So what’s the plan now, Richard? When will we get married? Next year? In ten years’ time? I’m twenty-seven, Richard, and I’ve been waiting a long time for you to decide what to do with your life. I’ve put nearly all my savings into this restaurant, and taken out a mortgage. Now the restaurant might go bust if business doesn’t pick up. And as far as I can see, we’re no more likely to get married than we were the day we met.’

  I could see her point. But the trouble is, when someone speaks to you like that, it doesn’t exactly encourage you to get down on your knees and make a declaration of undying love. That’s what I thought at the time, anyway. Since then I’ve often wondered whether – had I done just that – things mightn’t have turned out differently. I tried to explain how I felt.

  ‘It’s just that since I came out of the army, I’ve been feeling very unsettled. It’s not you, darling. I just can’t seem to get my life together.’

  This was truthful, as far as it went. Emma was unimpressed.

  ‘Some of my friends think you’re just using me. You live in my flat, you get free meals and drinks at the restaurant, and you get me. All for nothing.’

  ‘I’m sorry if some of your friends think that,’ I said stiffly. ‘I can’t help what they think.’

  ‘Is that all you can say? Dick, I really worry about us. You know I love you. The trouble is, I don’t know if you love me any more. I used to be so sure, but you’ve changed. You used to be so straightforward and fun to be with. Now I don’t know who you are. I feel shut out of your life. I’m not sure how much longer I can cope with this.’

  I set my coffee cup on the bedside table and tried to put my arm around her, but Emma shrugged me off.

  ‘I’ve got to get dressed,’ she said. ‘I need to go to the market and buy the meat and vegetables for tonight.’

  Presently I heard the front door of the flat slam as Emma went out. I tried to discern what I felt about Emma, about what she had just said. I knew it was important. I knew I had to reply to her somehow, to say or do something, and soon. But I couldn’t concentrate on the problem.

  That evening at the restaurant I was determined to be helpful. First of all I put the two hundred pounds back in the till, making sure that Emma saw what I was doing. Then I went and got the stock file from behind the bar.

  ‘I’m just going to do a stocktake in the wine store, see what needs reordering.’

  She was moving across to greet a customer as I spoke. She simply gave a brief nod and said, ‘Fine.’ Then I heard her saying hello to the customer, as if they were her oldest and best friend. She was good at that. Her warmth was quite genuine, too, which was why I had fallen for Emma in the first place. I went into the wine store and started checking off bottles against the list and making notes of what we were about to run out of. I became absorbed in the task, and almost jumped when the door suddenly opened and Giulia came in. She was, as usual, wearing clothes at the limit of what Emma would tolerate in a waitress: a short black skirt and a tight white blouse. She carried a napkin in one hand, to dust off the wine bottle she had come to find. She gave me a smile.

  ‘
I need a bottle of the’ – she looked at her notepad – ‘Château Méaume.’

  I pointed to the top rack.

  ‘It’s up there. Shall I get it down for you?’

  ‘No, Mr Reechard, I can manage.’

  She stood on tiptoe and stretched.

  ‘Oh, I can’t manage after all,’ she said. I thought she could have if she’d tried a little harder, but I stood next to her and reached for the bottle. She brushed against me and I was suddenly very conscious of the curve of her breast inside the blouse, and the way her already short skirt was riding up on the back of her thighs. I was instantly aroused, as if I had slipped into an erotic dream. But this wasn’t a dream: something was happening and I needed to be very careful.

  ‘You know, Giulia, you really ought to wear longer skirts,’ I said.

  ‘Do I? But I am wearing something underneath. See?’

  She flipped up the back of her skirt with a wicked smile. I saw her bottom, its nakedness emphasised rather than concealed by a pair of knickers not much bigger than a thong. I remember thinking: I can back out of this, it needn’t happen, all I have to do is tell her to get on with her work.

  Then I thought: why not?

  The coupling that followed was almost instantaneous and so intense that I lost consciousness of everything except the physical act that took place. It was achieved standing up. Somehow no bottles were broken, and we made very little noise, although Giulia bit my shoulder in order to conceal a muffled cry of pleasure. Then it was over. With absolute composure she used the napkin to clean herself up, then straightened her clothes and picked up the bottle she had come for.

  ‘That was very nice, Mr Reechard,’ she said. ‘You can do that again some time, if you like.’

  Then she was gone. The whole thing, from start to finish, had been a matter of minutes. I stared at the door as it closed behind her with absolute dismay. What had I just done? How was I going to conceal what had happened from Emma? I couldn’t believe my own behaviour: the knowledge that I had betrayed so many years of goodness for a moment of – what? Not even real pleasure, but the act of an animal. I stayed in the wine store for a moment or two longer, trying to compose myself and making sure that there was no visible trace of what had just happened in the room or on me. Then I went back into the restaurant, hoping that Emma would not notice anything.