by Nick Thripp
Richard was not the only one of my peers to be settling down. The number who were still ‘fully operational’ was dwindling, making me feel older and lonelier, with the result I rarely went further than the pub.
It was on one of my rare visits to Jemima’s, as I was nursing an expensive bottle of gassy American beer and surveying the writhing mass of sweaty bodies, that I noticed Samantha in the middle of the floor with a tall slim black girl with a strikingly angular profile. They were dancing close together while looking over each other’s shoulders. I pushed through the crowds and into Samantha’s field of vision. She looked right through me and I thought she must be trying to ignore me, though the surprise she showed when I touched her arm seemed genuine.
She introduced her friend, an Ethiopian whose name I couldn’t catch. We walked to the side of the room where it was quieter, and I was taken aback to hear her relationship with John had petered out soon after my visit to the office.
‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘He made me feel like the most important person in the world, then suddenly lost interest and I didn’t see him again. What’s even odder is that he sent my mother a huge cheque, even though he’d only met her once. She was really embarrassed.’
I was intrigued. I’d formed the view that Beart was only interested in himself. He must have had an ulterior motive. I raised my eyebrow theatrically.
‘Yes,’ Samantha continued, ‘she was a bit broke and was going through a messy divorce from my stepfather. John insisted she hire a decent solicitor. She said she couldn’t afford it, and then, hey presto.’ She flicked a fine strand of hair away from her eye.
‘By the way, how’s Neil?’
‘Fine, couldn’t be better,’ I replied, though I hadn’t seen anything of him for some time. I made a mental note to contact him the next day. Conversation was difficult and I was conscious that both women were glancing around from time to time. I stayed just long enough to see Samantha and her friend dancing with a couple of Arabs and went home to bed feeling dejected. Life was not turning out as I’d wanted.
Chapter 11
Rachel, 1979
AP sent me on an advanced course on Trust Law, possibly the most boring topic ever studied. When qualifying, I’d scraped through a paper on it after two attempts and not thought about it since. Trusts, however, were coming into vogue again, and I’d been selected to be the specialist in this area. At least it meant a week away from the office.
The course was held in St Hilda’s, a hotel as dark and forbidding as a Transylvanian castle, and fog and driving rain made my journey through the Derbyshire countryside that Sunday afternoon perilous.
My new car, a second-hand Austin 1300 with eighty thousand on the clock, struggled up the steep hills. I arrived in the middle of a tumultuous storm which lit the sky every few minutes. A male receptionist with all the charm of Lurch checked me in and, in a gravelly voice, directed me to my room. We met in the bar for pre-dinner drinks and I scanned the fifteen other participants; thirteen males and two females, one tall and faintly reminiscent of Olive Oyl, the other small and blonde, although with rather a forbidding mien. We filed through to the icy private dining-room and six or seven of the men scrimmaged to sit next to or opposite the blonde. Those who lost out sat near Olive Oyl. I chose a seat at the other end of the long oak table, between an Australian whose only topic of conversation was rugby, and a thin man with bad acne scars, who confided in me that it had always been his dream to specialise in tax and, once he’d mastered Trust Law, he would study for the Taxation Institute’s exams.
The course was billed as ‘intensive’. We ate every meal together, spent all day in the same room, and if we wanted a break in the evening, we could go for a drink with each other, or worse still, with the lecturers, in the hotel bar. Trust Law was the topic of every conversation. We were in the middle of nowhere, and the weather remained consistently brutish.
I kept myself to myself. I found no kindred spirit among the men, and the women were continually surrounded by fawning admirers. Olive Oyl had already teamed up with a man with a Frank Zappa moustache and horn-rimmed glasses. While the small blonde was still unattached, she was clearly out of my league. She’d told us at the introductory session she’d been awarded a hockey blue at Cambridge and had won a prize in her final accountancy exams. She worked for one of the biggest, most prestigious practices, already attaining the rank of manager.
We’d spoken superficially a couple of times and I didn’t think it worth investing further energy in getting to know her, especially as Mike, one of the lecturers, followed her around like a lapdog, his tongue hanging out so far it brushed his knees.
By Wednesday evening, I’d had enough. I couldn’t abide the idea of spending any more time in my matchbox-sized room, nor bear the prospect of sitting in the bar listening to the others drone on. As soon as dinner was over, I said, ‘Excuse me, I’m going out. I’ll see you all tomorrow.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked the small blonde, following me to the doorway.
‘No idea, anywhere.’
‘Mind if I come?’
‘Course not.’ I looked back to see the group’s eyes trained on us. From their expressions, several around the table expected to be invited to join the excursion.
‘See you all tomorrow,’ I shouted into the room, waving. I turned to the blonde. ‘Ready?’
I knew one of the women on the course was called Teresa, the other Rachel, but now to my embarrassment, I couldn’t remember which was which.
We braved the horizontal rain in the hotel car park and I flung open the door.
‘Hop in, Teresa.’
‘I’m Rachel.’
‘Shit, sorry.’
‘We’re easily confused, what with her being a foot taller and dark haired.’
We drove through a torrential downpour, the windscreen wipers smearing and re-smearing the screen with every stroke. At last we saw a small thatched country pub at the other end of a narrow hedge-lined lane. We ran across the car park and collapsed in a fit of laughter in the pub’s porch. Breathless, I threw open the pub door and we toppled down an unexpected step into the saloon bar, just managing to stop each other from falling over. The cheery hubbub died instantly and a dozen faces stared at us, though the noise grew again when, drinks in hand, we positioned ourselves in a quiet corner near the smouldering log fire.
‘What do you make of our fellow participants?’ I asked.
‘Jerks,’ was her succinct reply. I was surprised. She seemed to get on well with all of them. ‘Half of them are besotted with themselves, the other half obsessed with Trust Law. I don’t know which is worse. And then there’s that awful Australian, Clive.’
‘What about Andrew?’ Andrew was the most self-opinionated of them, rarely letting you forget his double first in something useless from one of the crumbling piles.
She wrinkled her nose. Then without warning, she sucked in her cheeks, exposed her front teeth and swivelled her eyes in a passable impersonation of a rat, and a perfect imitation of Andrew.
‘I say, everybody!’ she exclaimed, catching his nasal intonation faultlessly.
‘And Mike?’
‘Walks as though he’s clenching a ten pence piece between his buttocks.’
‘Peter and Claude?’
‘Teresa calls them the body-space invaders. I think Claude had too much to drink at the opening dinner. In the bar afterwards, he put his arm around my shoulder and said, “I’d like to make love to you.” I whispered in his ear, “If you do” and his eyes widened so much I thought his forehead would split, “and I find out, I’ll be most annoyed.” I haven’t heard a peep out of him since.’
‘How about the others?’
She ran through all the others, mimicking their voices and mannerisms; she’d missed nothing.
‘What’s your impression of me?’ My heart was pounding.
<
br /> ‘You always seem to be in your room or asleep in class, so you’re our koala. They sleep twenty-two hours a day, probably slightly less than you.’
‘At least they’re cuddly’.
‘That,’ she replied, ‘is a myth. They only look cuddly. Anyway, I’ll give it some more thought now I know you a little better.’
‘Fancy another gin and tonic?’ I asked, pointing at her empty glass.
‘My shout.’ She picked up our glasses. I looked at her fondly as she headed for the bar. I love women who stand their round.
Back at the hotel, she invited me to her room for a coffee, where I discovered she was learning Trust Law by heart and had already memorised long tracts.
I positioned myself on a small sofa in the corner. Minutes later I found Rachel planting herself next to me, kissing me full on the lips and wrapping herself round me. As we kissed and undressed, she began to recite, in snatches, what she’d learned. It may well be the only time that anyone has ever found Trust Law erotic, but it certainly inflamed me, and we made love, with her still reciting extracts, more and more urgently and loudly, up to the point when we both climaxed and she fell silent.
Then she started to giggle, her body convulsing. Soon we were laughing uncontrollably, the tears streaming down our cheeks. After a few moments, she collected herself and said, ‘Ten out of ten; the only way to learn this subject. Let’s revise again together tomorrow.’
That night I lay awake, my arm around Rachel. The storm had temporarily given way to a clear sky and, with a full moon peeping through the half-open curtain, I thought I could make out a smile on her lips as she lay curled up beside me, breathing rhythmically. Rachel was so attractive, so amusing, so intelligent, and yet here she was, in my arms, her firm warm body lodged against mine, our breath commingling, our heads sharing her pillow. I stroked her hair gently and, for a moment she stirred, before readjusting her position and submerging herself more deeply in sleep. I couldn’t believe my luck. Surely, she would soon come to her senses? I didn’t dare ask what she saw in me in case it broke the spell, consigning me once again to my own lonely cell. The only thing I could think of was that I wasn’t like the others. I didn’t have a flash car to boast about, I didn’t own my own flat, I didn’t talk about myself all the time, and she seemed to enjoy my jokes. It wasn’t much to hang onto, but it was enough, for the moment at least.
The next day, she went early to the meeting room and rearranged the place names, putting mine next to hers.
Mike, realising what must have happened, tried to freeze me out. I didn’t care because I was the one with Rachel. On Thursday evening, after dinner, we went out and found a different pub, and we spent the night locked in a tight embrace listening to the roaring wind hurling rain and hail at her small iron-framed window.
Thanks to Rachel’s memorable recitations, I learned more about Trust Law in two days than ever before.
*
‘Bottom of the class,’ Mike growled as he threw my test papers on the table in front of me on the final afternoon. I picked them up gingerly, expecting to have done miserably and saw a score of 51% written in red ink. I couldn’t believe I’d passed.
‘Don’t know how you did it,’ he added. ‘The ignorance you displayed this week was astounding.’ The other course members chortled sycophantically.
‘Revision,’ I replied. ‘That’s my secret.’ I shot a glance at Rachel, who suppressed a grin.
He screwed his face into a sneer and continued to hand out the marked-up test papers. No one else had got less than 70%. Rachel, of course, passed with a near perfect score.
*
The ends of courses are strange affairs with people usually affecting a bonhomie they may not have felt during the preceding five days. This one was different. The women were held back for a few minutes on some pretext by Mike. Apart from Frank Zappa, who patted me on the back, the men ignored me as they went through the motions – shaking hands, exchanging business cards and promising to meet up again at some unspecified place and time – before spilling out onto the dark grey granite steps of the hotel. I followed them out, feeling like an outcast. Then I watched them, like a swarm of bees, surround Rachel and Teresa as soon as they emerged. I breathed deeply. The air was sweet. I didn’t care about any of them, apart from Rachel, of course. The sun had finally broken through from behind a mountainous bank of black clouds and, for the first time the wooded grounds looked inviting. Rachel and I hadn’t spoken about what would happen after the course, and I was wondering how she’d play it. Even if she weren’t in a relationship already, she must have a host of admirers.
The other participants gradually drifted off leaving only me and Rachel, her hair a golden halo in the sunshine.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Is that it? You’ve had your evil way with me, so it’s goodbye, is it?’
‘Er no.’ I still wasn’t used to her directness. ‘I’d love to see you again, if you’d like to see me.’
She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t. I’d be halfway to the station in a taxi.’
‘In a taxi? Haven’t you got a car?’
‘No, and if I stand around here much longer, I’ll be moved on by the hotel porters as a vagrant.’
‘Oh, right. Would you like a lift with me?’
‘Thought you’d never ask. Not that I’d want to put you to any trouble.’
*
I took Rachel back to her flat in Notting Hill Gate and let the engine idle, expecting to be invited in but not wanting to appear presumptuous.
She leant across and kissed me on the cheek.
‘Thanks for the lift. I’ve got a heavy day tomorrow and must get an early night. Otherwise I’d offer you a coffee.’
‘Tomorrow’s Saturday.’
‘Yes, a great chance to catch up.’
Bloody hell, I’m getting the brush off, I thought. All she wanted was a taxi service.
‘So now you’ve had your wicked way with me, it’s goodbye, is it?’ I said. ‘I’m history.’
‘No, of course not. I do want to see you again. It’s just that I’ve got a lot on, and I haven’t had much sleep in the last couple of nights.’ She flashed me a conspiratorial grin. ‘How about next Friday?’
Friday, a whole week from now, seemed an eternity away.
‘I suppose so.’
She must have noticed the disappointment in my face.
‘I don’t normally socialise in the week. I like to keep myself fresh for work.’
This was an idea that had never occurred to me and I wasn’t sure whether she was stringing me along.
‘How about Friday about eight thirty then?’ I ventured, thinking we could pop out to the pub I’d seen at the end of her road, a 1950s’ place covered in Virginia creeper and coaching lamps which was trying to look two hundred years old.
‘Well…’ she said, biting her bottom lip.
Perhaps the pub wasn’t a good idea. If I didn’t invite a girl to the pub, I would usually take her to the cinema or, if she seemed very special, to a little but basic trattoria I frequented for its large portions of pasta and its inexpensive wine. I had the uneasy feeling that Rachel might not be impressed with any of these options, so I cast about for other ideas. None came.
‘What would you like to do?’ I asked.
‘You choose. Theatre, concerts, opera? Whatever you fancy.’
I coughed to mask a gasp. That sounded like an expensive evening, especially with dinner first. I wondered whether to suggest meeting her at whatever venue we agreed on to keep the cost down, but abandoned the idea for fear of appearing miserly.
‘I’ll get some tickets. Let’s go for dinner first.’
‘That would be lovely.’ Rachel’s tone of voice was that of one accustomed to being indulged.
I jumped out of the car and opened her door with a flourish
, followed by a bow. Then I spread an imaginary cloak over a puddle she had to step over.
‘You are a fool,’ she said. I kissed her on the lips.
‘I’ll look forward to Friday.’ I got back in and drove off with as much of a roar as my car could muster while Rachel stood at the door of the house and gave me a brief, brisk wave.
At least I had a few days to acquire a Time Out, read up on what was on, and buy tickets. I finally managed to obtain some returns for a performance of Tosca at the London Coliseum, thinking the opera would impress her.
The week dragged slowly by. I borrowed a book on opera from the library. It was full of pictures of famous singers from the distant past and reproductions of posters of historic performances. I doubted whether I could steer the conversation around to Enrico Caruso or Dame Nellie Melba, and if I did so, whether I’d be able to sustain it for more than a couple of minutes.
*
We met outside the restaurant I’d booked in St Martin’s Lane. Though I watched closely for signs of coolness, Rachel seemed warm and friendly.
‘Good week?’ I asked.
‘Work, work and more work. Got lots done though.’
‘Sounds terrible,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you have any fun?’
‘Some of the work was pretty interesting. Apart from that, nothing.’ She attached herself to my arm as we walked into the restaurant. ‘So, let’s make up for it now.’
‘You must like Puccini?’ she said as we seated ourselves and took the menus from the waiter.
‘Mmm,’ I replied in what I hoped sounded like an affirmative way.
‘Which is your favourite Puccini opera?’
‘Well—’
‘Have you seen Tosca before?’
‘Er, no.’
‘Madam Butterfly?’
‘No.’
‘La Boheme?’
‘Not exactly.’
Rachel looked at me closely, a half-smile playing around her lips.
‘Have you seen any of his operas?’
