She glowered at him. ‘You–’ She gave the word special emphasis. ‘–have no idea.’
Patrick grinned at me, unabashed. ‘I have no idea,’ he informed me. ‘How are you, Darrell? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘Darrell,’ said Clare before I’d even opened my mouth, ‘is going to borrow a dress. A dress I used to fit into. A dress I used to look sexy and desirable in. A dress that will be going to Oxfam after this thing is out because of all the sagging fat folds I will be left with.’
I saw Patrick wince a little at the use of the word ‘thing’. But, in tones that were obviously meant to be hearty and reassuring, he said, ‘You’ll be back in shape in no time. You’re young. You’re fit.’
Clare’s look would have reduced a lesser man to a small smoking pile of ash. ‘Oh, so I’ll need to get back in shape, will I? Because you wouldn’t want a fat wife, would you now? No, I’ll need to slave for hours in the gym each day, won’t I, stopping only to plug the baby to my breast at perfectly timed intervals because God forbid I should do anything as un-maternal as bottle feed! And then, after all that, me and my toned arms will be put to work making you a three-course gourmet dinner, which I will serve wearing a glamorous dress unmarred by baby spit or breastmilk leakage, because that’s what real women do!’
Patrick said, ‘You forgot a couple of details. When I come home, I’ll expect the house to be spotless and the fridge well stocked with beer.’
Then he burst out laughing, drew his wife to him and tenderly kissed the top of her head.
‘I hate you.’ Clare’s voice was muffled by his shirt.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
He kissed her again. And for a moment there, I thought I was going to die. Literally expire from the pain that ripped through me. I suppose I could be grateful it was only the second grief bomb that had struck me in Patrick’s presence. Now, just like at the café, I froze up but I did not cry. A grief bomb never resulted in tears. It was as if they stripped me of even that small release. When they hit, it felt as if everything that kept me warm and hopeful and alive was extracted from me abruptly and all at once, leaving me shivering in a skin that was now paper thin and unable to protect me.
Clare and Patrick. So different from Tom and me. But the love – that was exactly the same. And I missed it so badly, I did not think I could bear it.
Patrick released his wife from his embrace and she turned to me, her face smiling and relaxed and happy.
‘So? Shall we go and raid my wardrobe?’
I once heard a comedy skit on the radio, in which a British journalist in the Antarctic kept stating how glad he was of his Harris tweed. As I sat on a tall chair at the bar at the Anderson, which was less than half full at this early hour, I was very glad of Clare’s Matthew Williamson pleated georgette cocktail dress. I had no idea what it had cost her, but suspected that two hundred and fifty pounds didn’t even come close. The dress was not proper black but I thought Michelle would approve. The filmy fabric had a black ground, covered by a swirly, feathered pattern in the shimmery colours of oil on water. It had a high, straight-across neckline, softened by ruffle-edged short sleeves. Clare had leant me a wide, black patent belt that cinched in my waist. The skirt fell above the knee, which I was afraid might be a deal-breaker. But Clare pooh-poohed my fear of bulging knees. ‘Wear it with opaque black stockings,’ she said. ‘They suck in everything. Add black high heels, and you’ll look as though your legs go on forever.’
That wasn’t quite the case, as I saw when I looked in the mirror. But the rest of my reflection definitely passed muster. Someone who knew more about fashion than I did would probably be able to point out how the superior cut led the fabric to fall in such a flattering way, and how the overall look was so ‘now’ and yet also so classically timeless, blah, blah. All I could do was be very, very grateful.
Still, I wished that Marcus and/or Claude had offered to pick me up from my house rather than meet me at the bar. Clare was spot on – this was a glamorous place, for glamorous, socially confident people. The walls were covered in white gauze curtains. The long, wide bar did indeed glow, lit artily from within. The tall chairs around it were silver and white, and on each rounded back was painted a single large eye. It was as if the bar itself were assessing you as you came in. I wondered what would happen if you were found wanting. Would the eyes close slowly, as if in pain?
I had arrived just after eight, hoping like hell that Marcus and Claude would already be there. They weren’t. I’d found a chair and, doing my best not to touch the painted eye, I’d managed to get up onto it with reasonable grace. Clare had offered me another dress – a tight black Karen Millen sheath. I was glad I hadn’t been able to wrestle my way into it; I would never have made it onto the chair, let alone been able to sit down.
A barman coasted over to greet me and presented the cocktail menu. I hoped no one saw my eyes bug out as I clocked the prices. There was nothing under eleven pounds! The dress I’d been planning to buy from the high street only cost fifty-five! And I’d have been able to keep that!
But I couldn’t sit there and take up space. I ordered something called a Lady Killer. It was twelve pounds – I didn’t want the barman to think I was forced to go for the cheapest drink on the menu. I paid with my incredibly low-rent green Visa, but the barman took it without a second glance, instead of, as I’d feared, carrying it off by one corner as if it were a dead mouse.
As I waited for the drink to arrive, I worked hard to give the impression that I was perfectly at ease sitting here on my own. That required me to seem cool and aloof, completely uninterested in the bar’s other patrons. In truth, I was dying to gawk. But being unable to, I had to settle for a peripheral sense of what type of people were here. The buzz of conversation was animated and familiar, as if most people here knew each other. Body language was assured. Perfume smelled expensive. There were no flashes of garish colour; clothes were clean and stylish. I was not aware of anyone taking the slightest bit of notice of me. That was either a good sign – I was fitting in – or a bad one – I wasn’t interesting or pretty enough to draw attention.
As the minutes dragged, I found it harder to keep up the aloof act. My cocktail had long since arrived and though I had sipped at it slowly, it was nearly gone. Surreptitiously, I checked my watch. Eight-twenty. Past the point of not quite on time, and into the category of undeniably late.
I have never been purposefully stood up by a date. There had been a few times where he’d been delayed, or we’d cocked up the venue and missed each other – but those had been genuine mistakes. I had never been left alone by someone who had no intention at all of turning up. My heart started to beat faster. All the trouble I’d been through today! All the worry and effort! The humiliation of borrowing another woman’s dress! And I’d just spent twelve bloody quid on a drink I didn’t even want!
I bet it was Marcus’ fault. Claude would no more be unpunctual than he would wear unpressed trousers. I decided I’d give them five minutes, and then I’d leave. And I knew I’d be angrier at myself than at Marcus. What was I thinking, accepting an invitation from an arse? I should have known.
‘My God, you look amazing.’
He was standing at my shoulder, his head on a level with mine. Before I could say anything, he kissed me on the corner of my mouth, and for a second I went all weak and woozy. Until I glanced over his shoulder and failed to see his brother.
‘Where’s Claude?’
‘Ah–’
‘What do you mean Ah? Ah is not good, in any circumstance.’
‘Even when doctors ask you to say it?’
‘Especially then!’
‘Mm …’
‘And Mm is worse!’
My resentment intensified a hundredfold as I watched Marcus take a seat. Whereas I’d had to clamber, he sort of flowed onto the tall chair beside me. Then he offered me a brief apologetic smile. ‘Claude couldn’t come.’
‘Why couldn’t he? Did you actually ask him? And
what kind of time do you call this?’
‘Any preference for which question I answer first?’
But then the barman slid over and asked Marcus what he’d like. He said, ‘Peroni.’ And the bar man slid away again.
‘That’s a beer,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s not on the menu.’
Marcus shrugged. ‘I’m a beer man.’
‘It’s not on the menu,’ I said again.
He eyed my cocktail. ‘Would you prefer a beer?’
My glass was empty but I had too much pride to order another. And not enough money, of course. Which helped with the pride thing. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘But I didn’t know I had a choice.’
His mouth twitched, as if I amused him. ‘You look amazing,’ he said again. ‘That dress is superb.’
‘Greaser.’
‘Guilty. But I do mean it.’
He looked pretty darn superb himself, I reluctantly had to admit. He was wearing a grey wool jacket with a faint white stripe. Under it he wore a shirt in a lighter grey, and a chunky tie just a shade darker. The trousers were dark grey and quite slim fitting. With all that grey on grey, it could have looked dull, but it all came together to make him look rather like a raffish schoolboy. One who was risking a caning for the unacceptable length of his hair.
However, I would sooner order another twelve pound cocktail than tell him he looked good. ‘Why couldn’t Claude come? You didn’t ask him, did you?’
He was no longer smiling. ‘Actually, I did. Look–’
His beer arrived, with a glass. He ignored the glass and took a quick swig straight from the bottle.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Parched. Look, you can tell me it’s none of my business, but did you seriously have designs on Claude – or was that just a bit of banter between us? Sometimes I lose track.’
I could feel the humiliating rise of another blush. Yellow roses leapt to mind, which didn’t help. But this time the jolt was more one of embarrassment than disappointment. Deep down, I knew those flowers could never have come from Claude. Just as I wasn’t really surprised that he was not here with us tonight.
I avoided Marcus’ eye, but I did at least answer honestly. ‘They weren’t very serious …’
‘Good. Because Claude is as clamped tight as an oyster, and has not the least intention of being shucked any time soon.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
He sighed. ‘It’s what he demonstrates with every facet of his life! I’m not entirely convinced it’s what he really wants, but–’
‘What do you care about what he wants?’ I was feeling hard done by and it was making me spiteful. ‘All you do is wind him up.’
‘Because when I’m around him, I feel utterly deficient. And it manifests itself in very bad behaviour. It always has …’
‘You don’t think–’ I stopped.
Marcus gave me a look. ‘What? That Claudie’s a closet arse-bandit?’
Obviously, this evening would be one continuous blush-fest. ‘Well–’
‘He isn’t. Believe me, I’ve had enough passes made at me by the real deal to know the signs.’
I did believe him. Mainly because the fact that he was willing and more than ready for any kind of sexual activity was obvious to all but the blind. Even then, it was possible they could scent it. At that moment, he was taking the opportunity to check out the room. His appraisal was swift but comprehensive. I felt sure that he now knew where every beautiful woman was, who they were with, and what level of interest they had shown when he had ever so briefly locked eyes with them. I had no idea whatsoever why he was bothering to have dinner with me.
It suddenly occurred to me that I would have no problem asking him that exact question. Which was a surprise, as being forthright about that kind of stuff was not standard behaviour for me. Angsting and delaying about it, as I’d done with Claude, was much more typical. If Tom hadn’t been the one to speak first on that bus ride, then we might never have got together at all. I wondered why it was different with Marcus? Perhaps it was because he did always tell the truth?
I leaned closer to him. ‘The blonde chick over there, in the blue suede dress,’ I said in his ear. ‘She’ll ditch the fat bald guy she’s with in an instant if you give her the nod.’
He gave a shout of laughter. ‘No, she won’t. He’s rich as Croesus, whereas I’m only a sap on an annual salary.’
‘How can you tell that? He just looks fat and bald to me.’
‘He arrived the same time as I did. Only I came by cab, and he was chauffeured in his Maybach.’
‘Simon Cowell has one of those.’
‘There you are then.’
I eyed him curiously. ‘Were you not left any money?’
‘As it happens, I was. But I can’t touch it until I’m fifty-five.’
‘Fifty-five?’
‘Our father was of the opinion that if I came into it any earlier, I might never do a single productive day’s work.’ He upended his bottle and finished his beer. ‘He was, of course, absolutely correct.’
‘But Claude got his money?’
Marcus gave me an even stare. ‘Claude is the eldest son. There’s a protocol, you know.’
I risked a personal question. ‘Claude said your father wasn’t a very happy man.’
Marcus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Did he? Coming from Claude, that’s tantamount to a full and open disclosure. He does like you.’
I blushed yet again. ‘Not that much, it seems–’
He lifted a finger and touched me on the tip of my nose. It was a gesture that, coming from anyone else, I would have found repellently twee. From Marcus, it was delightful. It made me feel like a best friend, a co-conspirator.
‘He talks to you,’ he said, ‘so he must like you.’
I was not so sure Marcus was right. I also wasn’t sure how I felt about knowing that there was no point in pursuing Claude any longer. I was embarrassed that I’d made a bit of a fool of myself, definitely. But was I disappointed?
Marcus touched me on the arm. He clearly liked to touch, and as often as possible. ‘I’m starving. Let’s see if our table’s ready.’
He was about to get down from his chair, but I stopped him. ‘Why are you here with me?’
He blinked, taken aback. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Well …’ I screwed up my nose. ‘You could do better.’
He tilted his head to one side, unsmiling. ‘You know, you’re right. I could have that blonde in the blue suede dress if I wanted to. I could have that girl in the see-through silver thing, too. And there’s also a rather handsome young man eyeing me up across the way there.’ He let out a breath and leaned forward. ‘I could have all of them if I chose. But the thing is – I have already chosen. I’ve chosen you.’
The soles of my feet were tingling again. ‘Chosen me for what, exactly?’
‘To relax with. To have fun with. To have, as they say, a laugh. To talk rubbish with. To get pleasantly drunk with. To have a good time with. No pressure. No demands. Does that sound like something you’d like to do, too?’
‘Is that – it? That’s all you want?’
‘Absolutely not! Are you offering?’
‘No!’
‘There was a tiny wobble of doubt in that word. I heard it.’
I bridled. ‘I’m sure you hear exactly what you want to hear.’
‘Indeed I do,’ he admitted with a smile. ‘But usually because people are actually saying it.’
‘Do you ever do anything you don’t want to do?’
‘I’ll put my back into a hard day’s work when it’s required. But apart from that, no. Why should I?’
It was a good question. And such a tough question for someone like me, brought up where the choices had been limited by the bounds of duty and safety. Even Tom – he did aim for the things he enjoyed. But he was also prepared to work for them, to wait. I wasn’t at all sure Marcus knew the meaning of the word. So what was my choice here? What choice should I make? A safe one?
One that I wanted? Did I trust myself to know which was which?
I glanced around the bar. One thing I did know: this was not my kind of place.
‘Could we eat somewhere else?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘Anywhere you like.’
‘I don’t know anywhere.’
He stepped elegantly from his chair, and held out a hand to help me down from mine.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘there’s only one place for us to go.’
We were in a pub in Holborn, so small and packed that we were practically shoulder to shoulder with the people at the table next to us. I didn’t care – the food in front of me was too good. One scan of the menu and I’d decided I could always loosen Clare’s belt a notch, so I ordered a game pie and a glass of red wine that was a meal in itself. Marcus had hand-cut chips and a steak that, to my amusement, he’d ordered well done.
‘I thought that almost guaranteed the chef will spit on it,’ I said. ‘Isn’t rare more the thing?’
‘All that gore makes the chips soggy. And I refuse to waste a good chip.’ He picked up three with his fingers and shoved them in his mouth all in one go. ‘It may be months before I get to eat another.’
‘Why is that? Doctor’s orders?’
‘On the contrary, I am in the rudest of health. If I die young, it will be at the hands of some jealous husband or in a hijacking incident. No, it’s because I associate with people who don’t eat, and I want to ingratiate myself.’
‘Is it really that bad?’
He gave me a look. ‘No one in Los Angeles – not one soul, male or female – lets a food item of any kind cross their lips. Why California is the world’s fourth largest agricultural economy is a mystery. Thank God for cocaine and the local all-night 7-Eleven.’
I found myself jolted into a state of unease. Cocaine and people who didn’t eat were as foreign to me as the high street of Dar es Salaam. I had smoked a joint once. It made me hungry. Marcus was not only in another league romantic action-wise; he lived in a world so removed from mine it may as well have been Moonbase Alpha.
‘You did it again,’ he said.
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 13
