‘Lorna?’
She opened her eyes to find a fleshy man with wispy brown hair standing in front of her. He extended a hand. ‘I’m Toby Redmarsh.’
He led her up a grand staircase, where the portraits of long-dead legal grandees hung in gilt frames. Their footsteps were soundless on thick carpet. His office was palatial and overlooked the square. Coffee and biscuits had already been arranged on a low walnut table. Lorna took the proffered cup – real porcelain – while Toby Redmarsh brushed imaginary crumbs from his immaculate suit.
‘Graeme Bryce tells me you might be interested in joining us,’ he said. Like the receptionist, his voice was clipped and accentless. Unlike Suzie’s dad who went jogging and loved sailing, Toby Redmarsh was softer and more rounded. He was wearing half-moon spectacles that winked in the overhead light. Lorna supposed that his hobbies extended no further than the golf course.
She said yes, her eyes travelling round his huge office. Like the main staircase, the walls were hung with bewigged men in legal robes wearing stern expressions. Lorna felt oppressed by their history, still not convinced that she really did mean yes.
‘Think of Wilson’s as a kind of family, Lorna. We look after our people, our family, because we choose only the very best. Among the many, only a few are chosen to work here. That could be you, Lorna.’
‘I’d like that,’ she said, inclining her head.
‘Graeme, of course, speaks highly of you. Of your fortitude,’ he said, although Lorna could only guess at what he meant. ‘I’ve also taken the liberty of speaking to your faculty. I hope you don’t mind,’ he added, looking over his glasses. ‘They too speak highly of you. Excellent grades and several distinctions. To fortitude, that also suggests application.’
‘I’ve always worked hard,’ she offered.
‘Wilson’s isn’t just a legal practice,’ continued Toby. ‘Oh, no, that it most certainly is not. The firm dates back to the reign of Charles II and over the centuries we have advised governments and kings. Nowadays, we have offices and associates across the globe. Our clients have colonised the world and brought great wealth to Britain’s shores. We are therefore not merely part of Scotland’s legal history; we have played a part in the history of the nation.’ Toby smiled. ‘I am led to understand that you are a closet socialist. Is that true, Lorna?’
The chat on the golf course seemed to have touched on quite a few subjects. Lorna shifted uncomfortably in her seat, again feeling oppressed and out of place. ‘Socialist, maybe. Pragmatist, certainly.’
Toby laughed. ‘An excellent answer, if I might say so! Here at Wilson’s we need all kinds of people because our task, Lorna, is to understand the political and economic landscape from all possible angles. Only then can we best advise our clients.’ He paused, his glasses down his nose, appraising her. ‘So why do you want to join us?’ he asked.
She had all sorts of answers prepared. To earn enough to buy my own Porsche; to buy a house with Joe and raise dozens of children; to help her parents financially; to escape their life; to do something useful, something that might change the world just a little bit, because marching through Edinburgh had achieved nothing. Little Miss Clever took a deep breath.
* * *
The plane pushed back from the stand, and she instinctively grabbed Joe’s hand, then gripped tighter as the engines started. Joe was looking out the window, seemingly lost in thought. He didn’t look worried; he obviously didn’t think they were going to die in a fireball. Lorna looked at him and wondered: do you love me? Finally he looked round. They were approaching the runway. Lorna had begun to sweat.
‘You don’t like flying very much, do you?’
‘Planes crash, Joe.’
‘Never one I’ve been on.’
‘Well, this might just be the first.’
She had insisted that they got to the airport ridiculously early. Joe, who seemed convinced that their aeroplane would stay glued to the clouds, had sighed and scratched his head and ordered a taxi. ‘Anyway, thanks for coming,’ he now said, smiling stupidly, his lock of hair over one eye.
The engine note changed, becoming a screech. They jolted down the runway, picking up speed.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Lorna.
The in-flight film was an action thriller, with lots of running about and gunfire. It seemed to involve good guys becoming bad guys and bad guys becoming good guys, until she couldn’t make out which was which, and instead flipped through the airline’s magazine and was amused to see that a forthcoming film would be School’s Out!
The summer before, she had emerged into raw heat. Now it was barely warm, with a scent of rain. Before, the sky had towered over them; mountains precisely etched. Now, the sky was ochre, the mountains indistinct. Simone and Nico were in Arrivals to meet them. Simone was jumping up and down with excitement to see her brother; Nico, in white T-shirt, black jersey, and jeans, shook her hand rather formally. Simone kissed her on both cheeks like an old friend.
Nico drove with Lorna and Joe in the back seat. He drove rather like the boys on the Greek beach had played volleyball. It wasn’t simply an exercise in getting from A to B, it involved bravado. On a precipitous road, Nico would drive with one hand on the steering wheel, look studiously at Simone, and light a cigarette at the same time. To Lorna’s surprise they came to a stop outside the same hotel that she and Suzie had stayed in.
Nico only spoke limited English, but was learning. Simone spoke limited Greek, but was also learning. ‘We speak only love,’ said Simone, slamming the car door shut. She was only just pregnant; no bump yet. ‘It means he doesn’t have to listen to my crap opinions and I can’t understand his. Maybe once we understand each other a bit better, we’ll get divorced.’
In the hotel’s reception was the same dowdy Greek woman who Lorna remembered from her last visit. Now, she was introduced as one of Nico’s aunts, and actually smiled. Before, she’d shrugged at the idea of a sea view; now, their balcony looked over the Mediterranean.
Lorna slept alone for the rest of the afternoon. Joe and Simone had a lot of catching up to do. Later, he came back to the room and made love to her. He tasted of warm salt; he’d been swimming.
She stretched, sleepily happy, then went down to the empty beach. Joe wanted a nap, and Lorna fancied a swim, despite the lowering sun and tugging breeze. She lay on her back in the sea, her ears under the water, listening to the tug and pull of sand, a winter sun on her face and the mountains dimly silhouetted against the sky.
***
The party was at the beach bar, which had closed for the winter. Several antique relatives had been transported by boat from town, then carried onto the beach by other relatives. Joe explained that some of them had flown in from Athens, a cousin had come from New York. The Greeks, he explained, value family more than we do.
The taverna’s wooden tables had been pushed into a U-shape and covered with white paper tablecloths. Huge mushroom-shaped gas heaters were sprinkled around the table, and a bonfire was blazing on the beach. The litter that Lorna remembered from the year before, gathered under the olive trees, had been cleared away. Music was playing from speakers strapped to the awning and a torn plastic corner still flapped in the breeze.
There was a scent of distant rain, clouds crowding onto the mountain peaks. Despite the gas heaters and bonfire, everyone was wearing warm clothing.
Plates of food had been laid out on the tables. One of Nico’s brothers was in charge of the barbeque; Nico had his arm around Simone. They were whispering in one another’s ears. How much they understood was anybody’s guess.
After the food there were toasts and, after the toasts, dancing. The antiques looked on, clapping. Old ladies in black smiled and catcalled. Old men with stained teeth and rosaries between their fingers leaned on sticks. The youngsters on the dancefloor, arms around one another, swayed left and right.
‘Hi, how’s it going?’ Simone flopped into a chair beside Lorna. Joe was in another corner of the bar talking to one o
f Nico’s sisters. Joe could talk to anyone, even if they couldn’t speak English.
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Nico says I shouldn’t be dancing in my condition,’ said Simone, extracting a paper napkin from a silver dispenser on the table. She mopped her brow then discarded the napkin on the wooden floor. She was drinking orange juice and held out the glass. ‘The bastard’s banned me from drinking alcohol,’ she said, casting a not-unfriendly glance in her husband’s direction. Nico was at the centre of the dance, a handkerchief in one hand, one end of which was held by the next dancer, one of his brothers.
Lorna was watching Joe, who seemed to be communicating with the young Greek girl in sign language. She was laughing. Lorna had also noted how beautiful the Greek girl was. Simone saw the direction of Lorna’s gaze.
‘He’s a good boy, usually,’ said Simone. ‘But keep a close eye on him, Lorna. He’s a bit of a rogue.’ Simone was smiling. ‘He’s got his life mapped out. Right now, it’s all about having a good time. Then, it’s back home and into radio. He’s very single-minded. OK, maybe that doesn’t make him a rogue, but he always gets what he wants.’
‘That just makes him ambitious,’ said Lorna. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’ She knew that Scotland wasn’t going to be Joe’s permanent anchorage, despite reminding him repeatedly that Scotland also had radio stations. ‘We’re just enjoying being together,’ she said, lying through her teeth.
Simone saw that Nico’s back was turned and quickly gulped back some of Lorna’s wine. ‘I don’t know why I listen to the bloody man,’ said Simone, wiping one hand across her mouth. ‘A few drinks never harmed anyone.’ Simone took another surreptitious swig from Lorna’s glass. ‘I just don’t want to see you hurt when he eventually ups sticks. Even if he is my brother,’ she added.
‘I won’t be,’ promised Lorna, refusing to think about it.
They were interrupted by Nico asking Simone to dance, having temporarily forgotten what condition she was in. Lorna watched them for a while, distracted. She had come back to a place she didn’t think she’d ever visit again. Time and space seemed to have fused together; she now had a blue trouser-suit hanging in her wardrobe and had worn it several times in the intervening weeks, meeting Toby and other colleagues. Joe was still waving his hands around; the Greek girl was still laughing.
Lorna walked down to the sea. Behind her, she heard a door close, a voice raised in laughter. The sea hissed and foamed at her feet. She was wearing a cream cardigan and she wrapped it more tightly round her shoulders. A cool breeze was coming off the sea. By accident or design, she realised she was standing on the exact spot where she’d made love with Leo. The same waves were flopping onto the shore; the same sky framed against the mountains. The conversation with Simone had saddened her; made everything seem temporary.
She heard footsteps behind her and knew who they must belong to.
‘Lorna, I saw you wandering off. What’s wrong?’
She shook her head, not speaking.
‘You’re crying.’
‘I’m not crying,’ she replied, trying to make light of it. ‘It’s just that my eyes are leaking.’
Joe put a hand on her shoulder then gathered her to his arms, and she stared over dark water. ‘I used to have a teacher called Mr Sullivan,’ she said softly, not caring if she was making sense. ‘He had just got divorced and he had problems. Up here,’ she said, releasing a hand to tap her head. ‘I’ve realised that, in me, he saw a kindred spirit.’
Joe had one arm around her middle and she leaned into him, grateful for his strength. ‘Toby Redmarsh phoned this afternoon,’ she said. ‘He was phoning to offer me a job. Actually, a provisional job, until I pass my finals.’
Joe stroked her hair.
‘I said yes,’ she told Joe, wondering how Suzie would react.
Lorna waited for Joe to say something, to tell her she’d made the right decision, but he said nothing. Instead, he continued to stroke her hair. She remembered him saying that he only told people the truth, and if he couldn’t be truthful he didn’t say anything. Through his silence, Lorna didn’t know what he was thinking or what he really felt about her. Behind them, she could hear baleful Greek music. Ahead, the dark sea had trapped reflected lights from the taverna and drowned them.
Love
They were only in Greece for four days, but long enough for Lorna to be added to Nico’s family. His brothers took her to the ruins at Knossos; his sisters, including the sultry beauty who had captivated Joe at the beach party, took her on a shopping spree to Heraklion. Lorna bought a revealing cream dress she doubted she’d ever wear and Nico’s sisters bought her an enamel pendant on a leather thong. It wasn’t something she would have chosen. It had an eye motif. For good luck, she was told. An elderly aunt drove them to their family farm in the hills above the town. Under a trellis festooned with vines, Lorna drank homemade wine and dipped warm bread in olive oil. On the coast, with its tourist developments, was one Crete; a few miles inland, away from the sea and beaches, another. The older Greeks didn’t much like what was happening to their island. It was being transformed into a place devoted to other people’s pleasure. People even make baby on the beach, said the elderly aunt, making Lorna blush. At the same time, they told her, other people’s pleasure gives jobs for our sons and daughters. It means they can stay here, with us.
They swam every afternoon, even though it had grown even colder, and even on the two days when it rained. After swimming, they would go back to their hotel and make love. That for Lorna was the best time of day; lying in Joe’s arms, feeling complete, watching the sun sink to the sea, listening to the rhythm of his breath.
One afternoon, Lorna cut her big toe on a shard of glass on the beach. Simone was with them and she took her to see the old woman in their hotel. She washed the cut and pressed on a bandage seeped in blue-grey liquid.
‘It’s a herbal thing,’ said Simone. ‘It’s something that only grows here in Crete. The old folks use it instead of disinfectant.’
Lorna stood up tentatively; the old woman now washing her hands and saying something to Simone.
‘She says that the plant is called eronda,’ said Simone.
On their last night, bags packed, Lorna woke from a bad dream and, wrapping herself in a towel, soundlessly padded out to the balcony. It was almost dawn and first light was rising from the horizon. It was cold. An aeroplane that inexplicably hadn’t crashed, carved a vapour trail across the morning sky. She’d been dreaming about Joe, but he hadn’t been in her dream. She’d been looking for him, searching through her flat, but he wasn’t there. Yet she could smell him, feel that he was around, if only she could remember where. But it wasn’t that which had made her suddenly wake up. Something was wrong, something she couldn’t put a finger on.
Without thinking, she lit a cigarette, brow furrowed. Then she peered back into the bedroom to make sure that Joe was still there. He was lying on his side, facing away from her, a sheet wound round his legs. His back was slightly arched and in the morning light Lorna could see every knot in his spine.
She ground out the cigarette. She supposed it was just pre-flight nerves and the emotion of departure. This time tomorrow, she thought, I will be back in Scotland. At this, she felt a lump in her throat, remembering her dream and how she’d frantically searched through endless rooms for a person who was no longer there.
Lorna slipped back into bed and put her arms around Joe. He stirred against her, still sleeping, and they lay still for a while; then she kissed the nape of his neck until he woke up.
They made love, without words, as the sun rose. She studied his face as she kissed him, running a hand down the contours of his forehead, eyes, cheeks, and chin. When he smiled, which was often, a small dimple would appear on his chin. Lorna held him tight, feeling languid and warm in his arms. But her brow was still furrowed; she had a sense of something. Perhaps it was the aftermath of making love, or the end of their holiday, but it felt like something else was end
ing. She didn’t know and absently ran a finger down his spine, feeling its sinuous contours. He was feigning sleep; Lorna could sense tension in the muscles on his back. His eyelids were closed and for some moments she examined his face, shadowed in the early light, like a Greek god, strong yet vulnerable: his sculpted chin, the curl of his eyelashes, the pale pink of his lips.
‘Say something, Joe.’
There was a short silence. ‘Like what?’ he asked, his words slurred into the pillow. She knew she had chosen precisely a wrong moment to start a conversation.
Instead, she bumbled on, trying not to sound needy or pushy. ‘I don’t know. Something. Anything.’
He reached to his chin and scratched. It made a sound like sandpaper and his eyes momentarily opened. She was watching him but couldn’t see what he was thinking. ‘It’s the middle of the night,’ he told her, extracting himself from her arms and turning over, excluding her, making her feel stupid, like a limpet that has been chiselled away.
The Things We Learn When We're Dead Page 33
