by Adele Geras
Nessa didn’t add that she’d found herself a little hurt at the ease with which her daughter had adapted to Melanie. Mostly though, she was pleased, of course she was. She wanted Tamsin to be happy more than she wanted any other single thing. And besides, she and Mickey didn’t need a weepy, distressed, anxious kid around when what they wanted (Nessa wasn’t in the habit of deceiving herself) was freedom from responsibility so that they could spend as much time together as possible. For one reason or another, including Mickey’s trip to Prague for a trade fair, it had been more than two weeks since they’d managed a night together. Nessa had to stay behind because of the finalizing of the divorce and various meetings with Gareth that she’d arranged, and while Mickey was away she’d tormented herself so thoroughly with visions of other women in her lover’s arms that she found it hard to sleep, and rang and texted Mickey so often that her bill was going to be astronomical. Never mind, it had been worth it to hear her, to hear her saying things … Now, looking across the table at Mickey, Nessa felt so overwhelmed with desire that it was all she could do not to lean over and kiss her, then and there, in front of everyone. The table was small enough. She could easily have done it. She contented herself with taking Mickey’s hand and holding it between both of hers.
‘Mickey – darling Mickey. There’s something I want to ask you …’
Mickey still said nothing, but nodded. Nessa wondered if she knew what was coming. Could she have had the same thoughts herself, and not dared to say anything? Better to get this over quickly. She took a deep breath and stared down at Mickey’s hand in her own. ‘I want you to marry me. A civil partnership, or whatever it’s called. I just … I want us to be together for ever.’
‘Me too. That’s what I’ve been thinking.’
‘You have? Honestly? Why didn’t you say?’ Nessa wondered if the frantic beating of her heart was audible.
‘I was waiting for the divorce. I didn’t want to ask you before I knew about that. We’re done here, Nessa. Shall we get the bill?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Nessa could scarcely contain her joy. Mickey had said yes. I want to get to the hotel, Nessa thought. I want her to make love to me. Now. She turned to find the waiter and signalled him to bring the bill. Her eye was caught by a couple sitting near the window. Was that – could it be? It was. It was Lou and some man. Have they noticed us, she wondered. Me and Mickey? She didn’t care if they had. She had nothing to hide. She presented her credit card to the waiter and said to Mickey, ‘There’s Lou, in the window. Amazing coincidence, isn’t it? I’ll have to say hello. We’re going to pass very near her table.’
‘Who’s that she’s with?’
‘Never seen him before in my life. Nothing to write home about, really.’
‘Just not your type, Nessa. I think he looks sweet.’
‘Who needs a man who looks sweet? Who needs a man, period?’
This struck them both as hilarious and they started to giggle. ‘Control yourself, Nessa,’ Mickey said. ‘You don’t want Lou to think you’re a drunk as well as a dyke.’
‘She’ll never put two and two together. She’ll just reckon we’re having some sort of office lunch, or something. Let’s go and say hi.’
They made their way to the table at which Lou and the unknown man were sitting. Nessa adopted her polite social voice. ‘Hello, Lou. What an amazing coincidence! How lovely to see you – it’s been weeks and weeks, hasn’t it?’
‘Hello, Nessa. Yes, it is a coincidence. I noticed you and Mickey – hello, Mickey – over there but I didn’t … Anyway, how are you? Oh …’ She blushed, realizing she ought to be introducing the mystery man. Nessa stepped into the slightly awkward pause.
‘I’m sorry – I’m Vanessa Williams. Lou’s sister – well, sort of. It’s complicated, but I’m sure she’ll explain if you ask her nicely. And this is Mickey Crawford, my partner.’
‘How d’you do?’ The man rose to his feet and shook hands with her and with Mickey. ‘I’m Jake Golden. Good to meet you.’
American, Nessa thought. I wonder where she met him. They exchanged a few more words and then she and Mickey said goodbye and left. She looked back at them, sitting in the window and tried to work out how long they’d known one another, but they weren’t giving anything away. What was that Lou had said? That she’d noticed them, her and Mickey. Did she see me take Mickey’s hand? I don’t care if she did, Nessa thought. In fact, I’ll phone her when I get back home and tell her – tell her everything. That might be an excellent way of breaking the news to Matt and Phyl.
They’d reached the edge of the pavement. The traffic lights were against them. As they waited, Nessa turned to Mickey and kissed her on the lips. The kiss went on rather longer than was decent in a public place. Nessa reflected that she used to have strong views about people – anyone – kissing in public but that had all, it seemed, gone out of the window. She clung to Mickey and the London traffic roared and surged around them and she didn’t give a damn who saw them.
*
‘What did your sister mean, it’s complicated?’ Jake Golden asked. He might look shy and quiet, Lou thought, but he was clearly both nosy and outspoken. She put it down to his being American.
‘Well, her mother used to be married to my father. We’re not related by blood but we were brought up together. My parents made a point of referring to the three of us as brother and sisters. That’s me and Nessa and her brother, Justin. But we don’t see very much of one another now that we’ve grown up. Just birthdays and funerals and so on. My dad’s birthday will probably be when I see her next.’
Jake said something non-committal and turned his attention to the menu. Lou felt too nervous to want to eat anything, but had decided she’d ask for a mushroom omelette. La Bergerie was exactly the kind of restaurant she’d imagined she’d be going to in Paris with Harry. Small, panelled in dark wood, with checked cloths and baskets full of French bread on each table. Proper French advertisements on the walls. There were also, she noticed, framed photographs of famous people everywhere: Jonathan Miller, Alan Bennett, and a good few others who looked as though they dated from ages back and whom she didn’t recognize. Still, it was obviously a place approved of by a certain kind of celeb. She’d refused wine because she wanted to keep a clear head and they were sharing a bottle of sparkling water.
The waiter came to take their order and while Jake was giving it, Lou gazed out of the window. Was that Nessa and Mickey? Yes, they were on the pavement, waiting for the lights to change. Nessa suddenly turned and so did Mickey and they were kissing. Could it be? She craned her neck to see better and sure enough, there they still were, clinging together, kissing passionately. The traffic lights changed and they went on standing there, with their arms around one another. Lovers. It was obvious. Lou blinked and then they’d crossed the road. Jake had finished the ordering and was saying something to her, so she tore her thoughts away from what she had seen. Nessa and Mickey. How long had that been going on? She’d heard from Phyl about Gareth’s other woman, but had it been Nessa’s affair with Mickey that made Gareth turn to someone else? Lou was determined to find out. I’ll ring her later, she thought. I have to concentrate on Jake Golden and what he’s saying. I have to think of Grandad’s book.
‘I’m sorry …’ she smiled. ‘I was miles away.’
‘It’s okay. I was just asking whether you knew about us. Golden Ink, I mean.’
‘Everything it’s possible to know from Google,’ Lou said. ‘But I noticed that you don’t publish very much fiction.’
‘No, that’s right. Mostly memoirs, travel, a bit of poetry … that kind of thing. And always things from the past that have been allowed to go out of print. I guess I’m not a great lover of fiction. One of the reasons I liked Blind Moon so much was because it struck me as thinly disguised memoir. D’you think it was?’
‘Really? Did you think that? It never occurred to me till recently when someone – well, my long-lost great-great-aunt – told me the same t
hing. That Dulcie was just another name for Grandma Rosemary. She really did adopt him and bring him back to England after the war. And in the book, Peter makes it clear that Dulcie is responsible for his mother’s death. But I’ve been thinking about it and wondering: Would he have lived with his own mother’s murderer? Because if it’s true, then she did murder her, didn’t she? I mean, Peter’s mother might have died anyway, but Dulcie made sure of it. How could something like that happen?’
‘John Barrington may not have had an option. He was all alone with no one to take care of him. I don’t think he had a choice. He knew – he must have known – that Rosemary? Is that her name? was offering him a chance of survival, of education, of life.’
‘He could have left her later on. When he was older. If she really was a murderer, that is. If he didn’t invent that to make things more dramatic. No, I’m going to tell my father what Mme Franchard, my great-great-aunt, told me, but I think it’s fiction. A novel. After all, other things in the camp truly were horrible. So many people died. And his mother had just had a baby – she must have been very weak, weaker than many of the others. She could easily have died from natural causes and Grandad might have simply made it more dramatic by inventing a murder.’
Jake had nearly finished his bowl of onion soup. ‘What about that baby? Was that true? Could he have invented that as well?’
‘No, that was true. I remember him speaking to me about his sister – to me and to my father.’
‘None of it matters, actually. Whether it’s true or not. It works as a novel. A very truthful-sounding novel. And I want to bring it back. Reissue it. If you’ll give your permission. You’re the copyright holder, right? I’m afraid I can’t offer a very big advance … we’re such a small operation. How does £2000 sound to you?’
It sounded to Lou like an enormous amount of money. Most of what I’ve had till now, she reflected, hasn’t been mine at all, but Dad’s. This would be the most I’ve ever earned in one lump sum. Jake was still talking. ‘You could have £1000 now and £1000 on publication. D’you have an agent?’
Lou shook her head. ‘Should I get one?’ Where did one begin to look for an agent? She was starting to feel a little giddy. All this was happening much too fast. She said, ‘I’d like some time to discuss this with various people. My father … he doesn’t know much about books, but he’s a solicitor. And my boss.’ Harry would know about agents, she was almost sure. He’d help her, and she wouldn’t mind. She’d put aside her personal feelings towards him for this, because it was important to get it right.
‘You don’t need an agent at this stage,’ Jake said. ‘I won’t cheat you, I promise. And you can always join the Society of Authors and let them have a look at the contract for you. I’d want to publish next year. I’ll consult you about how the book should look but I have to warn you, I’m a bit stubborn where things like typefaces and covers are concerned.’
He smiled and Lou thought: His whole face changes when he smiles. She’d recognized him at once when she arrived at the restaurant, not only because he resembled his Google image but also because he was sitting in the window clearly on the lookout for someone. He had a long thin face, with fair hair cut very short. His horn-rimmed glasses were those ultra-modern ones that were the same shape as 3-D goggles and his eyes behind the glass were a sort of pale greenish-blue. You couldn’t exactly call him handsome, but when he smiled his face was completely transformed and you just wanted to smile along with him. He dressed in a way that Lou wasn’t used to, more plainly than anyone she’d ever seen before: a white shirt and dark grey trousers and brown loafers. Perhaps the garments were amazingly expensive but Lou couldn’t tell when it came to mens’ clothes. And how old was he? He could be a very young-looking thirty-five or still in his twenties and making himself seem older by what he wore. Could he be as old as forty? She doubted it, but she was a very bad judge of people’s ages. His voice was the best thing about him. He did sound like Clint Eastwood and Lou would have been happy to have sat there for ages just listening to him.
‘There’s something else,’ Jake said, and Lou stopped thinking about what he looked like and concentrated instead on what he was about to ask. ‘I’d love it if you could write an introduction. I’d pay you £500 for that, a straight fee. What do you think?’
‘I couldn’t … what would I say? I’ve never written an introduction before, how long would it have to be?’ Her heart was suddenly pounding. She didn’t know whether she was terrified or excited. Perhaps a bit of both. She’d just written a whole screenplay, but this was a proper commission.
‘I thought you could write a piece about how you remember your grandfather. Personal stuff. Nothing too intellectual. Just what he was to you. It’s the sort of thing our readers love … Would you consider it? About two thousand words.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. Anyway, how do you know I can write?’
‘I’ll take a chance. If it doesn’t work, we’ll think again. Can you?’
‘Write? Yes, I think I can. But it’ll be a challenge. I’ve never done anything like this before. D’you think it would make the book better?’
‘I do. And there’s something else. You’d have your name on it. Have you considered that? Can’t I appeal to your vanity?’
There was that smile again. ‘Okay. I’ll try. I’ll write something and email it to you.’
‘Great. Let’s have a pudding, okay?’
Suddenly, Lou felt hungry again. The book would be there, in the bookshops with her name on the cover, under Grandad’s. For an instant she wished more than anything that he were alive to see it, but this was still fantastic. Blind Moon by John Barrington with an introduction by Louise Barrington. She said, ‘Yes, I’d love something. Thanks.’
When the waiter arrived, Jake said, ‘Tarte au citron for me.’
‘And for me, please,’ Lou added.
‘Coffee?’
She nodded. She didn’t really feel like coffee, but it seemed the right thing to have at this moment. Sophisticated. A writer’s drink.
‘Now,’ Jake said, ‘that we’ve dealt with business, I’d like you to tell me about yourself.’
He sounded as though he meant it. Lou folded her napkin and laid it on the table.
‘I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since I can remember,’ she began and saw him lean forward. He was interested. He wasn’t pretending to be. He really, truly was.
*
Nessa sighed into the phone. ‘No, Justin, I’m not at home. I’m in London.’
‘That’s amazing. So am I. Please tell me where you are, Nessa. I need to talk. I’m in a car. I’ll come straight round to wherever it is.’
How irritating was this? Why did he need to talk? Surely it could wait. Everything had to be immediate with Justin. He was the Emperor of Instant Gratification – now, now, everything now. She glanced sideways to where Mickey, stark naked, lay on the bed with the satin coverlet wrapped round her. They hadn’t even got as far as getting in between the sheets, but then it was only four o’clock. She could hardly say it was too late … she did some quick mental calculation. If he came round now, they could get rid of him reasonably quickly. She could make some excuse. They’d still be able to have another swim and then supper and then come back to bed. Thank God for small mercies. Justin might have phoned fifteen minutes earlier. She wouldn’t have been able to answer the phone. Wouldn’t have wanted to. Just thinking about what they’d been doing only a few moments ago, she and Mickey, made her feel aroused all over again. Now she had to concentrate on her silly brother who was obviously in some trouble.
‘You haven’t done anything stupid, have you? Drugs or something?’
‘God, Nessa, give me credit for some sense!’
Sense was precisely what Nessa did not give him credit for, but she said only, ‘Okay. Be in the lobby of the Devere Lodge Hotel in fifteen minutes. Can you do that? It’s in Mayfair, just round the corner from the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square.’
‘No, as a matter of fact. Not that it’s any of your business. I’m getting ready now and I’ll see you soon, okay?’
She snapped the phone shut before he could ask any more questions.
‘Bloody nuisance, my brother,’ she said to Mickey. ‘Do you want to come down with me and see what he wants?’
‘No, it’s okay. I’ll wait up here. He might not want to confess whatever he has to confess in front of me.’
‘Maybe you could come down later. Give me half an hour or so and then just appear. Okay? Will you do that?’
Nessa was at the dressing-table mirror with a good view of Mickey on the bed behind her.
‘Okay, no problem. I’ll be down soon.’
Nessa made her way to reception. It would be a pleasure to sit here for a while and wait for Justin. This hotel was complete bliss. The sofa she chose was red velvet and sinking into it was like burying yourself in the petals of a rose. Justin would spend the entire time till he saw her wondering How come Nessa’s in London? Who’s she with? What’s the story? He knew about the divorce of course, but not in detail. For a moment, she felt a little nostalgic about how they used to be, she and Justin, when they were kids. Close. Telling one another everything. She dismissed this vague feeling of regret as nothing but sentimentality. The truth of the matter was she’d adored her little brother when that was all he was, but when he grew up into a rather selfish and, in her opinion, not terribly intelligent man, she’d gone off him. As simple as that. She wondered how many siblings, parents – relatives of one kind and another – went on pretending to love one another because of convenience, what was expected and so forth, when in truth love had disappeared out of the equation long ago. She’d have put good money on it being most people. For instance, she asked herself, how much love does Phyl have for us now that we’ve left home? We’ll all troop down there next week to celebrate Matt’s birthday in the traditional way, but I bet if I cancelled and Justin cancelled it would make not a jot of difference to our Non-Wicked Stepmother. Lou was a different matter. Where Matt and Phyl were concerned she was the bee’s knees and little Poppy of course could do no wrong. So maybe it was the blood is thicker than water thing, but that wasn’t entirely it, because how to account for her not really loving Justin any longer? She sighed. The love she felt for Mickey had pushed most other emotions into a small corner of her being. And she’d go to the dinner in Haywards Heath because Matt, oddly enough, did genuinely seem to want to keep in touch. He does love me and Justin, she told herself, and wondered fleetingly whether it was because they reminded him of the blissful days when he was married to Ellie … that was a possibility. The drag about this particular birthday was the fact that Matt insisted on Gareth coming too, and Tamsin. She’d asked him why on the phone, pointing out that a divorce was a divorce. He’d replied, mildly but firmly, that Gareth was still Tamsin’s father and it was a family event.
