by Rachel Hore
‘For a whole hour?’ she asked severely, but he was already bounding down the steps and didn’t hear. She followed more cautiously in her high-heeled ankle boots. It was difficult to be cross with him for long.
‘Come on, cutting across Bond Street will be quickest,’ Matthew said, taking her arm. ‘We can look at the Christmas lights.’
Tonight’s event, the launch of a poetry anthology to which Matthew had contributed, was taking place in an old pub in Soho. Emily, who always felt guilty that she was earning a proper salary when he was managing on bits and pieces, bought drinks and crisps at the bar and they carried them up a narrow staircase to a spacious room at the top. The place was filling up fast. Whilst Matthew went to check his place in the running order to read aloud, she looked about uncertainly, feeling a bit on the sidelines.
The room must have been intended for night-time use. It was painted black from floorboards to ceiling, which in daylight would feel oppressive, but which now merely conveyed an impression of dark intimacy. She inspected the photographs that flanked the walls – bizarre shots of pets and farm animals in gothic costumes that made her feel uncomfortable. Above the hum of voices, electronic whistles and wailings assaulted her ears as someone tested the sound system.
Finally the racket ceased and Matthew reappeared. ‘I’m on first,’ he said, with a grimace, ‘so I’ll see you later.’
‘At least you’ll get it over with,’ she pointed out.
‘There is that,’ he replied with a smile, and disappeared into the crowd.
Emily moved over to a table where piles of the anthology lay on display. She’d already seen Matthew’s copy, of course, but she wanted to buy her own, though there was nobody to take her money. She picked up one of the books, studied the Contents page and turned to Matthew’s poems, taking a professional pleasure in how attractively laid out they were.
‘Sorry, I’m here now,’ came a light female voice and Emily glanced up to see a nut-brown wisp of a girl with gypsy-black eyes standing before her clutching a foaming pint glass. ‘The queues at the bar were really bad. I hope no one’s nicked any books. Did you see?’
‘I don’t think so. I want to buy mine.’
‘Only seven pounds tonight. Or two for thirteen, unlucky for some.’ She gave a little laugh. How perfect her white embroidered shirt looked against her complexion, Emily thought as she slid a banknote out of her purse. ‘I’ll have one. Do you have anything in it?’ she asked to be polite.
The girl managed to nod as she drank the head off her beer then licked foam neatly from her upper lip like a cat. ‘A photograph. Page nine. Lola Farrah, that’s me.’ Her smile revealed small, even teeth. She put down the glass and rummaged in her shoulder purse for change. ‘A group of us put the book together. It was Matthew Heaton’s idea. Do you know Matthew?’
‘I’m Emily Gordon,’ Emily said. ‘And yes, I do know Matthew.’
‘He’s lovely, isn’t he?’ the girl sighed. ‘I adore his poems.’
‘So do I,’ Emily said, feeling a touch possessive. She was wondering how to hint at her relationship with Matthew, when a voice came over the sound system.
‘It’s my pleasure to introduce the first of our readers this evening.’ The speaker was Matthew’s tutor, Tobias Berryman. Tall and balding, with piercing eyes, he commanded the room.
Matthew moved to the microphone and as he read, Emily tried to concentrate on the words, rather than the beguiling timbre of his voice. She knew the first poem by heart because she’d helped him practise: ‘No one tells the rain where it may fall’ was how it began. It was about the random nature of where we love, and she always found it very moving.
Tonight he was nervous and read a little too quickly, but the applause was enthusiastic. She watched with pride, seeing his pleasure at the response before he bowed his head and stepped down. As the next reader took his place at the microphone she sensed him return to her side. ‘You were great!’ she whispered in his ear and he smiled.
There were more readings, and lots more drinks, and the conversation grew livelier, the laughter louder, the room hotter. Standing on the fringes, Emily espied the slender brown girl, Lola, curl her arm round Matthew’s neck in a hug, but then the big, moleskin-jacketed figure of Tobias Berryman insinuated itself, blocking the view. ‘Emily it’s good to see you,’ Tobias said, in his warm, suave way. Now in his early forties, Tobias was a prize-winning poet. She’d met him before, at similar occasions, and Matthew often talked about him, sometimes with admiration, sometimes with fury, depending on how a tutorial or a workshop had gone.
‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ Emily told Tobias. ‘They’re a really talented bunch, your students.’
‘They are a strong group this year. And what do you think of our little book? Published on a shoestring, of course, but I don’t think Matthew and his team have done too badly.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘And you’re meeting a few of the poets, I expect. Anyone I can introduce you to?’
‘No, really, I’m here for Matthew. And Parchment doesn’t publish poetry, so I’m off-duty tonight.’
‘I know that, but I’ll bet you’re always keeping a look out,’ he said. His eyes twinkled like a roguish uncle. But suddenly he became more confidential. ‘In fact, I’m having a stab at a novel myself. I was wondering if I might send you my first draft.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, rather surprised. ‘May I ask what sort of thing?’
‘Oh, it’s very noir. Echoes of Marlowe. Anyway, see what you think.’
‘How intriguing.’ Emily wondered what on earth ‘echoes of Marlowe’ meant. ‘It sounds highbrow.’ She privately feared it would be unreadable.
He laughed. ‘I sincerely hope so. Of course, perhaps it won’t suit a commercial firm like Parchment.’ She realised that under the charm he was nervous.
‘I’ll happily take a look,’ she promised. ‘I can advise, at least.’ Tobias had shifted slightly and now she could see Matthew again, though his back was turned. Lola, she noticed, was still standing close, but they were part of a larger group of students all laughing and chatting as they signed each other’s books.
She tried to concentrate on what Tobias was saying – something about needing to acquire a literary agent – but now, out of the corner of her eyes, she became aware that she was being watched. Standing beyond Tobias, near the door, was a man she’d never seen before. He was a year or two older than her, thirty perhaps, with shoulder-length tawny hair and a certain ease of presence. He was standing on his own, but he didn’t look as though this bothered him. She met his eye and he smiled a secretive smile. She smiled back and for a moment it looked as though he was about to come over and speak to her, but then someone else touched his arm and he turned to speak to them instead.
‘. . . so do you have any hints about agents?’ Tobias was asking her, and once more Emily attempted to focus on him, but was still intrigued by the man who had smiled at her. She didn’t know why, there was just something about him. Later, she happened to glance up and saw him leaving. Interestingly, he was with Tobias.
It was almost midnight when they got home to Matthew’s flat. ‘I’m absolutely shattered,’ Emily said, resting against the peeling wallpaper of the upstairs landing, while Matthew wrestled with the lock. ‘And sooo hungry.’
‘Tea and sushi coming up, Miss,’ Matthew said, shoving open the door. They’d stopped at a takeaway bar near the Tube station.
After leaving the pub they’d argued amiably about whose home to go to – the two-room upstairs flat of this shabby Victorian cottage in South London, or Emily’s more up-to-date apartment in the better part of Hackney. Matthew had won because, although tomorrow was Saturday, he needed to get up early and work on an assignment.
Inside, he laid down his bags. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he told her. He went round the little living room switching on lamps and closing the curtains that never did quite meet in the middle, then took the takeaway int
o the kitchen where he could soon be heard clattering about with plates and cutlery.
Emily kicked her ankle boots off with relief and sank onto the sofa. She glanced about. ‘Mess’ was the right word. Everything spoke endearingly of Matthew. Random piles of books and paper covering every surface. A laptop left open on the floor by the telly, its blue battery light winking. Half-empty coffee cups. He used this room to work in when he wasn’t at college, supplementing his meagre grant by writing articles for newspapers and websites. Sometimes he drafted marketing blurbs for a small PR consultancy, in whose offices he’d been employed at one time; it paid better, though the work no longer engaged him. Emily knew he’d muddled along in this way for several years after university before deciding to return to his old college to take a part-time Creative Writing Masters. Poetry was his passion, it always had been, but he would be very unlikely ever to make a living from it. If he was good enough, he’d told her, and went on to make his name, he’d at least be able to stitch a patchwork career around poetry, doing bits of teaching, journalism or arts administration, and he’d be happy with that. Whatever he ended up doing, it would be vital to be able to fence off time to write.
She went to see what was happening. ‘I’ll make the tea if you like . . . My God, Matthew.’ She surveyed with horror the stacks of dirty plates and saucepans that littered the surfaces of the galley kitchen. Strands of sodden spaghetti snaked out of the pedal bin.
Matthew, opening plastic takeaway boxes in the only clear space, said sheepishly, ‘I didn’t have a chance to clear up.’ Two of his brothers, she remembered, had come round for supper the previous night to watch the match on the telly.
She sighed as she unplugged the kettle.
‘No, Em,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘I’ll deal with everything – you relax.’
‘I can wash up,’ she said brightly.
‘No, it’s midnight. I’ll do it tomorrow after you’ve gone.’ He went back to serving out food. ‘If I hadn’t been so busy . . . Tell you what, fancy swapping one of your temaki for my nigiri?’
‘Yes, OK,’ she said. ‘You are busy, you know.’
‘Busy is what I do at the moment,’ he said, turning to switch on the kettle. ‘I have to get through the next ten months and then it’ll be easier.’ September was when he had to hand in his final dissertation.
‘It’s a shame if it gets in the way of us.’ Ten months seemed an age.
‘Hey, you’re not still cross about last weekend?’ he asked gently. ‘I thought we’d got over that one.’
‘It’s not that.’ It was in part, though. She bit her lip as she recalled their argument – well, it wasn’t an argument, she told herself, more of a disharmonious episode. The previous Saturday, her sister had turned thirty and their parents had organised a family dinner in a hotel near their home in Hertfordshire. At the last moment Matthew had said that he couldn’t come, since he had a long newspaper article to research and write. Her mother and father were quite put out, and so was she. When she’d tried to talk about it, Matthew had been defensive and now she sensed it wouldn’t do to dwell on it. After all, they hadn’t known one another very long.
It was only five months ago that they’d each found themselves out-of-place singles at a supper party given by some very smug married friends and had stuck together all evening. When he’d described what his life was like, she’d thought it marvellously bohemian. Now she saw the reality, and she couldn’t expect him to change everything for her. After all, her work commitments were formidable, too. So many evening events and copious reading at weekends.
‘You do look fed up, love.’ He put down the fork he was holding and drew her into his arms. She closed her eyes, feeling herself melt against him. How right this always was. He pushed back her hair and kissed her eyelids then his mouth found hers. She loved his tenderness, the way he held her.
‘Cheer up, Little Bird,’ he said, when they came up for air, and his nickname for her brought a rush of happiness. ‘Please cheer up. I know things aren’t easy. We’re both trying to establish ourselves at the moment, working at what we love. You’re doing what you like, right?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Emily loved her job, had been thrilled when Parchment had headhunted her from another firm.
‘We’re both very lucky then.’
‘Yes,’ she sighed, as he released her. ‘Sorry, I’m tired, that’s all. And hungry.’
‘So let’s eat,’ he said, picking up the plates. ‘Can you bring the tea?’
Emily cleared a space on the coffee table and they sat together on the sofa, half-watching a late-night stand-up on the television as they ate. Soon she began to feel better.
That was delicious,’ she said, putting down her plate. ‘I did enjoy tonight,’ she added.
‘It was cool, wasn’t it? We sold a few books, too.’
‘I’ve got mine here.’ She took it from her handbag and flicked through it. ‘I loved your reading, Matt. You were great, you really were.’
‘I sounded nervous,’ he said, slurping his tea. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t know many people there.’
‘I was fine, honest,’ she said vaguely. She’d stopped at a full-page photograph. It was by that girl Lola, the one who’d sold her the book. The picture was effective in a chocolate-boxy way, she had to admit, a soft-focus shot of a rumpled bedsheet, scattered with rose petals. She remembered Lola flirting with Matthew, tactile, vivid, laughing. She closed the book, pushing the memory from her mind. ‘I talked to Tobias,’ she told him.
‘Oh yes? What did he have to say?’
‘Only guess what, he’s writing a novel. It’s hopeless being a publisher at parties. People either ask you to recommend a good book, however you define that, or tell you about one they want to write.’
‘I suppose it’s better than being an investment banker or a policeman.’
She grinned. ‘A doctor’s got to be the worst. Everybody telling you about their aches and pains.’
‘Seriously, anything Tobias writes is likely to be good.’
‘We’ll have to see,’ she said, yawning.
After they’d made love into the big bed that filled the whole of the tiny bedroom, Matthew fell asleep immediately, but despite being tired Emily was wakeful. The throb of party music came from somewhere down the street. Anxious thoughts spooled through her mind. She felt dissatisfied, but couldn’t for the life of her think why. She tried to rationalise her feelings, which her best friend Megan, who was heavily into therapy, was always telling her to do. The new job wasn’t going badly, though she ought to prove herself by acquiring one or two promising new authors soon. She was going out with this gorgeous man sleeping beside her, but she had no idea where the whole thing was going, indeed if it was going anywhere. Somewhere there lay the truth of the matter. She sensed that Matthew lived for the moment. He was concentrating on his studies and happy not making plans for the future. He wasn’t interested in making money, not that she minded that in itself, but he lived like a student and although she’d at first been enchanted by this unworldliness, now it was beginning to get to her. She had never thought about the business of settling down before, but recently, something within her had begun to change.
The night was chilly and she snuggled up more closely to the slumbering Matthew, breathing in the salty scent of him, but she was still hopelessly wide awake. She thought of all the reading she had to get through that weekend, and wondered whether Matthew had any of Hugh Morton’s books on his shelves. She ought to look at The Silent Tide again and had forgotten to hunt for a copy in the office. At least she’d got Coming Home in her bag, his first novel, it must have been. She wondered where home was for her. Her comfortable Hackney bolthole, perhaps, though that could be lonely sometimes. She loved returning to her childhood home in semi-rural Hertfordshire, but it wasn’t home for her any longer, not really, she’d grown beyond it. And Matthew’s flat was too chaotic to feel homelike.
The boom boom boom of the party cut off
suddenly, and then there was only the distant drone of traffic that in London never ceased.
Chapter 4
Isabel
1948
It was Audrey, the secretary with the gamine looks and the upturned nose, who answered the door of McKinnon & Holt on the morning of Isabel’s interview. Her smile was condescending as she led the girl through the shabby room, from which the detritus of the party had been cleared away. Leading off it was a small, book-lined office, where they found Stephen McKinnon reclining in his chair, feet up on the desk, talking on the phone. He removed his feet smartly when the women entered, and waved Isabel to a chair. Audrey departed, leaving the door ajar. Sitting across from him, she listened while he argued furiously with someone at the other end of the line in a mysterious language of profits and percentages, and scribbled figures on a pad. She glanced about the office, noticing the books, the scattered piles of manuscripts, the posters on the wall about book launches and art exhibitions. On the windowsill was propped a photograph in a frame of a fair-haired woman in a wedding dress. It had faded somewhat. Finally Stephen McKinnon put down the receiver, scrawled a circle round one of the numbers on his pad, and sighed heavily. He looked up at Isabel and had opened his mouth to speak, when the phone began to ring. ‘Get that, Audrey, will you?’ he roared. Audrey must have heard for the ringing stopped. He stared at the phone, as though it might burst into flames, then smiled at Isabel and said in a friendly tone, ‘Well now.’ There was something boyish about him; it was that frank, eager kind of face, and again she thought how much she liked him.
‘You look as though you have too much to do,’ she said.
‘It’s always a madhouse, this time of year,’ he replied, rumpling his hair. ‘The shops want their Christmas orders, and we’ve the spring list to prepare.’ There was a knock and Audrey put her head round the door. ‘In heaven’s name, what now?’
