by Isabel Wolff
‘Yeah, perfect.’
‘Plus, I wasn’t that busy—as it turned out.’ I looked at him. ‘So, well, right, then.’ He gave me an awkward smile. ‘I’ll…leave you to it.’
He went up the narrow stairs to his office on the top floor, and I carried on working, lifting the reference books off the shelf, and flicking through them for suitable questions.
What breed of dog is named after the largest state in Mexico? (Chihuahua.) The letter Delta comes where, in the Greek alphabet?’ (Fourth.) What, in Russian culture, is a ‘Dacha’? (A country house.) Where is my husband? (I simply don’t know.)
I became aware that my mobile was ringing. I scrabbled in my bag.
‘Laura, it’s me.’ I glanced at my watch. It was already half past seven.
‘Are you on your way back?’ ‘Well no—that’s why I’m phoning. I’m really sorry, because I was hoping to see you, but I can’t leave yet.’ ‘Why not? You’ve been there since lunchtime. It’s my turn now, Luke.’
‘But Phoebe’s not well—’ he dropped his voice—‘and Magda’s in a bit of state about it and she wants me to stick around a bit longer for moral support in case the vet has to be called.’
‘I see,’ I said blankly.
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Never mind,’ I said breezily. ‘I’m getting used to all the disappointments.’
‘I’m sorry—it’s only temporary—I love you, Laura—ALL RIGHT MAGDA!!!!—I’llringyoulater.’
As the line went dead, I heard a sudden creak on the stairs.
‘Still here?’ said Tom gently.
‘No. I left an hour ago.’ He flinched. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘That was rude. I’m just a bit…tired. Anyway,’ I sighed. ‘Have you finished what you had to do?’
‘No, but I’ve broken the back of it. So…I guess I’ll be off then…’
‘Right. Well…I’m on a roll, so I think I’ll keep at it.’ I wasn’t going to admit that I’d been stood up for a goat.
‘Unless…Can I ask you a very serious question, Laura?’
‘Hm?’ I looked at him.
‘Do you fancy a drink? If you’re not going anywhere, that is.’
‘No. I’m not,’ I said sourly. ‘A drink would be nice—if there’s anywhere open.’
‘Smitty’s is always open.’
‘That’s true. Smitty’s will be open on Christmas Day—’
‘And probably Judgement Day too.’
‘Smitty’s it is then…’ I picked up my bag.
‘I thought you’d be having a nice romantic weekend away,’ Tom said as we sat in Smitty’s Caribbean diner in All Saints Road a few minutes later.
I sipped my Red Stripe. ‘No such luck.’
Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights…sang Bob Marley.
‘Aren’t you seeing Luke?’
Get up, stand up, don’t give up the fight…
I shifted on my chair. ‘Well, it’s been a bit difficult this weekend because, being Easter, he’s got—’
‘Don’t tell me. Family commitments.’
I nodded. ‘That’s why I’m in a bad mood actually.’
‘I guessed. Not easy is it?’
‘Well…it’s rather tricky.’ I fiddled with the table-cloth.
‘Tricky’s an understatement.’
‘Yes—you’re right. To be honest, this weekend’s been a wash-out.’
Tom gave me a wry smile. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘You too?’
He nodded. ‘The frustrations of dating someone with kids.’
‘You have to be understanding, don’t you?’
‘Not understanding, Laura. Saintly.’ He ordered another couple of beers. ‘I’ve put myself forward for beatification because I have to tolerate so much crap.’
I snapped a banana chip in half. ‘Like…what? Not that you have to tell me.’
‘I don’t mind telling you at all—in fact I’d like to. You don’t mind do you?’
‘No. Of course I don’t mind. We’re friends. ‘
‘We are.’ I looked at him. ‘And I think you’d understand…’
He told me that when he’d first met Gina she was a single parent, her husband having left her six months before for another woman. But now he was trying to make a comeback.
‘Gina hadn’t seen him for dust. But then he heard I was around—plus his affair hadn’t worked out—and now he’s trying to play the devoted family man as though I’m some interloper.’
That sounded familiar. ‘What does he do?’
‘He phones up all the time, especially late at night or disgustingly early, to see if I’m there. He tries to come round unannounced. I have to be over at Gina’s flat, obviously, because of Sam, but I refuse to hide because I’m not doing anything wrong.’
‘Does Gina let him in?’
‘No—she talks to him on the doorstep.’
‘And what about his contact with Sam?’
‘This is the problem. Gina says he can see him every Sunday—but not at his flat, because she doesn’t think he’s responsible enough. Which means he has to see him at her place.’
‘Which means that you can’t be there.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And that they’re spending time together.’
‘Correct.’
‘Which you don’t like.’
‘Who would? She was single when I met her, but now they have all this family time which I can’t stand.’
‘Well, it’s very difficult,’ I said. I could feel my jaw tense.
‘They’ve gone to her parents today. That’s why I came in to work, because I was so pissed about it and I needed to distract myself.’ I smiled bitterly. ‘Gina says that it makes Sam feel more secure to see his parents being friendly to each other but it’s not on.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ I said feelingly. ‘Can I ask you a very serious question, Tom?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Why are you with Gina?’
‘That is a serious question. Well…I…like her. She’s nice, she’s very smart—and she likes me. And then…I don’t know…’ he fiddled with his beer mat. ‘I’ve become very fond of Sam. I’d really miss that little boy if it didn’t work out…’
‘And Gina, presumably?’
He looked at me. ‘Well yes—of course. But I have a problem with her ex being around so much. But then he needs to be around because he’s Sam’s dad.’ He shrugged. ‘And I’m not.’
But you are father to another little boy, I wanted to say. What about him? Don’t you miss him? You must surely regret what you did? Isn’t that the real reason why you’re dating Gina?’
Tom had another sip of beer. ‘It’s…not easy.’ He looked at me. ‘And how about Luke’s ex? I saw that piece about her yesterday. More crap, I presume.’
I nodded bleakly. ‘Of the first ordure. She left Luke ten months before I set eyes on him again.’
‘Have you ever met her?’
‘No.’
As I sipped my beer I thought how strange it was that a woman whom I had never actually seen should be able to exert such an influence over my life. She was like God—invisible, yet omnipresent, and seemingly all-powerful.
‘Do you think you will be meeting her?’ I heard Tom ask.
I grimaced. ‘Not if I can help it.’
He looked puzzled. ‘But you said yesterday that she’s okay.’
I fiddled with my beer mat. ‘That was a lie. The truth is she’s anything but. She left Luke, but doesn’t want me to be with him. She’s banned me from having anything to do with Jessica—she has no idea that I have actually met her. She deliberately takes up all his spare time—like today—in order to show me that she still “owns” him. She’s got Luke by the balls because she’s the mother of his child. She’s a huge problem.’
‘But she isn’t the problem. Luke is. He should be setting boundaries.’
‘He knows that,’ I sighed, ‘and he wants to be tougher with her, but he
’s worried that if he does he’ll end up seeing less of Jessica.’
‘If he doesn’t, he’ll end up seeing less of you. He should be worrying about that too, Laura—I know I would be.’ I looked at him. ‘And he pursued you, didn’t he? He came on the quiz. He asked you out. We all saw him. So, however tricky his situation, he has to strike a balance.’
‘How do you strike a balance with an unbalanced person?’ I asked. ‘Magda’s slightly…unhinged. But in one way, I can’t criticize Luke, because it would be like criticizing him for being too devoted to his child. And I’d rather he was like that, than not spending enough time with her. I mean, when you think of all the men who just walk away from their families and who abandon their children and their responsibilities, or who just give up the second the going gets tough and never even see their kids it’s—’ A red stain had spread across Tom’s throat. ‘Like…Gina’s husband did. That’s all I mean. But it’s…hard for Luke. It’s very hard.’
Tom nodded. ‘I understand. Anyway,’ he picked up the menu. ‘I’m starving, and there’s nothing in my fridge. I’ve got to eat. Will you keep me company?’
‘Okay. Why not? I’ve had nothing since this morning.’
‘What do you feel like?’
I pondered the pumpkin soup, the yam casserole, the fried jerk chicken, and the peas and rice.
‘How about the fish fritters?’ I heard Tom say. ‘Or the red snapper—that looks good. So…what’s it to be then?’ He waved at Smitty. ‘Have you decided?’
‘Yes. I think I’ll have the curried goat.’
NINE
On Sunday night Hope called from Seville. They’d just had dinner in a tiny restaurant near the Cathedral. ‘I’m putting on a convincing show,’ she whispered. ‘Mike hasn’t a clue that I know.’
‘What’s his behaviour like?’
‘Normal, although he seems a little…on edge. There was an awkward moment this evening when he started saying something—I thought he was about to confess—but then he stopped, as though whatever it was, was too painful to talk about…‘ She paused, then I heard a quiet sniff. ‘It’s awful to think that this is probably our last holiday together.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Hope?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I am. I could bury my head in the sand—keep the life I’ve got—but he could end up leaving me anyway. I’ve got to know, Laura, so I can plan.’
‘So you still want me to follow him on Tuesday?’
‘I do.’
‘And you’ll take the consequences?’
I heard a sigh. ‘I will.’
‘And you swear that you will never ever blame me—whatever I find out—or hold it against me in any way?’
‘I swear.’
‘However unpalatable?’
‘However unpalatable.’
‘All right, then. What’s his work address?’
‘It’s Tower 42—the old NatWest Tower—at 25 Old Broad Street—you can’t miss it.’
‘And what time does he normally leave?’
‘At about six thirty. There’s a café on the ground floor that you can lurk in.’
‘Won’t he spot me?’
‘No—because it’s tucked away at the back, behind the escalators—but you’ll see him as he leaves. And the walls of the building are glass so you’ll easily spot which way he goes.’
So on Tuesday evening I got the tube to Liverpool Street, then walked out on to Old Broad Street, moving against the steady flow of City workers making their way home. There was an early heat wave, so I didn’t feel too self-conscious in my sunglasses. To my left was the massive green-grey Gherkin and, ahead of me, Tower 42 soared into the sky, its windows flashing bronze and gold in the late afternoon sun.
I went inside and crossed the foyer to Café Ritazza, from where I kept a discreet watch on the two revolving doors. I sat there sipping my coffee, profoundly wishing that I could be anywhere else—preferably at Luke’s private view. I’d phoned him at five-thirty to say I was caught up in something, but would try and get there later. I couldn’t tell him the truth, but I didn’t want to lie.
According to the leaflet I’d picked up about the building, Tower 42 was so called because it had 42 floors, of which Kleinwort Perella occupied the top four. I’d arrived a good twenty minutes early, so I put my mobile on mute—I didn’t want it advertising my presence—and as I sipped my latte, I passed the time, as I often do, idly thinking up questions we could use on the quiz. What is the tallest building in the world? (The Sears building in Chicago). What is the name of the national relationship counselling service? (Relate.) Name the great Dane who designed the Sydney Opera House (Jörn Utzen.) How long is a normal human pregnancy? (Forty weeks.)
I glanced at my watch. It was six fifteen. In front of me, departing staff were floating down the glass-sided escalator and exiting through the two revolving doors. As they spilled out on to the pavement, some turned right towards Liverpool Street, while others stood there, waving at cabs. From where I was sitting I had a good view. As I looked at them in their charcoal suits and silk ties and Hermes scarves, I tried to decide on a collective noun for bankers—an ‘interest’ maybe, or a ’stripe’, or a ‘credit’. Suddenly my heart skipped a beat. There was Mike. Just stepping off the escalator. I’d already got to my feet, pulse racing, when I realized I’d made a mistake. I sat down again, feeling jittery, like a sprinter after a false start. I glanced round the café, hoping no one had seen me, but it was almost empty. I calmed myself with deep breaths.
Hope was right. There were a lot of attractive women working in the building. Twenty- and thirty-somethings mostly, uniformly slim, well-groomed and glossy-looking. Tempting. I wondered if Mike had strayed before. I felt angry with him for letting Hope down—and angry with her for involving me.
By now it was six twenty-five. I imagined Mike clearing his desk for the day, putting on his jacket, then picking up his briefcase, in which would be—what? Something skimpy from La Perla? Tiffany earrings to go with the bangle? I imagined him heading for the lift. By now the volume of people leaving had increased. I scrutinized the men through narrowed eyes. No, I thought. No. Not him. Or him. Not him either. No…No…No…Definitely not…No. I was watching both doors, my eyes darting back and forth between them; then I looked at the escalator again, down which another large knot of people was descending. No…no…no…no…Yes!
I scraped back my chair. There he was. No mistake. I saw him step off the escalator, walk smartly across the foyer and spin through the revolving door and now, through the glass walls I saw him turn left out of the building. I followed him outside. I was so alert I felt radioactive. Adrenaline burned through my veins. I was pursuing him down Old Broad Street, half running now to keep up as he crossed the road, oblivious to my presence thirty yards behind him. A bus passed in front of me, obscuring him. Panicking that I’d lose him, I stepped off the pavement without looking, and a black cab hooted.
‘You stupid cow!’ a lycra-clad cyclist shouted, as he swerved to avoid me. Across the road I could just see Mike’s dark head in the crowd as he walked down Threadneedle Street, past Pavarotti’s sandwich bar and the Royal Bank of Scotland towards the Palladian splendour of the Stock Exchange. As I followed, trying to keep a neutral expression on my face, despite the tension I felt, I saw him going down into Bank tube. I felt like an assassin as I pursued him down the black and white-tiled tunnel, dodging commuters.
‘Excuse me!’ a woman snapped as I accidentally barged her. I muttered an apology, then saw the sign to the Central Line. But why was Mike getting on the Central Line at Bank, when Liverpool Street tube would have been nearer? Then I realized that he was following the signs for the Waterloo and City line—the ‘Drain’. I rounded a bend, and saw him taking the stairway down to the platform—a long, wide, tunnel of shallow steps which gave me a clear view of him all the way down. As I followed forty feet or so behind, aware of my rapid breathing, I wondered why he was going to Waterloo. Pr
esumably he was going to get a B.R. train out to the suburbs—or perhaps he’d get off at Clapham Junction, or Barnes. I wondered how old this woman Clare was, and what she looked like. I saw her as a twenty-five year old red-head—wild and abandoned. The opposite of Hope.
I had reached the foot of the stairs. And there was Mike, walking to the end of the short platform. I could hear his footsteps snapping across the marble tiles. If he turned round now, he’d spot me, so I stood behind a tall, fat man in a beige raincoat. There was a distant rumble, a rush of warm air, and now the train was pulling in. The doors drew back, the passengers spilled out, and we all surged forward.
Mind the gap, intoned the automated guard. Mind the gap…
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mike board the adjacent carriage to my own. As the train rattled off I could see him through the glass, standing by the middle door. He didn’t look happy or excited. If anything, he looked rather sad. Perhaps he felt filled with shame at his betrayal—or perhaps the affair was coming to an end.
Now we were pulling into Waterloo and I felt the knot in my stomach harden as I realized how difficult it would be to keep track of him here in the rush-hour crowds. The doors trundled back, and I saw that the Way Out sign was to the right, so I lingered in the carriage for a few seconds to allow Mike time to pass down the platform in front of me. He walked past, quite unaware that I was standing just a few feet away, then I followed him along the platform and up the steps. He was only about fifteen feet in front now as I passed the signs for British Rail, then went up the stairs, watching him pause at the automatic gate, as he fumbled for his ticket. Now he was on the escalator, rising slowly above me as I stepped on, the glass roof of the station overhead, daylight flooding through. I felt a welcome cool blast of fresh air.
Please keep your baggage with you at all times… I heard over the tannoy.
As I pursued Mike across the station concourse I was dimly aware of the Eurostar entrance to my left, and then the British Rail platforms to the right, and I was just worrying that I didn’t have a train ticket and in any case had no idea where Mike was going, when I realized that he wasn’t heading for the platforms at all. He was walking towards the main station entrance. He was leaving. Side-stepping the milling commuters, I followed him as he passed the Body Shop and Delice de France, then went through the huge, stone archway, and down the front steps. I saw a sign for the National Theatre. Perhaps he was meeting Clare there.
