‘You’re worrying unnecessarily, Eamonn. Let me reassure you that there’s page after page in the manual concerning compensation for innocent victims. We would naturally feel it our obligation to rebuild your lovely home, brick by brick, recreating a conservatory Maggie would be proud of and a garage large enough to house all your cars. However, if we were to spend that amount of taxpayers’ money, we would have to ensure that the house was built on one side of the border or the other, so that an unhappy incident such as this one could never happen again.’
‘You’ll never get away with it,’ said Eamonn, as a heavily-built man appeared by the Chief’s side, carrying a plunger.
‘You’ll remember Mr Hogan, of course. I introduced you at my farewell party.’
‘You put a finger on that plunger, Hogan, and I’ll have you facing inquiries for the rest of your working life. And you’ll be able to forget any ideas of becoming Chief Constable.’
‘Mr O’Flynn makes a fair point, Jim,’ said the Chief, checking his watch, ‘and I certainly wouldn’t want to be responsible for harming your career in any way. But I see that you don’t take over command for another seven minutes, so it will be my sad duty to carry out this onerous responsibility.’
As the Chief bent down to place his hand on the plunger, Eamonn leapt at his throat. It took three officers to restrain him, while he shouted obscenities at the top of his voice.
The Chief sighed, checked his watch, gripped the handle of the plunger and pressed down slowly.
The explosion could be heard for miles around as the roof of the garage – or was it the conservatory? – flew high into the air. Within moments the buildings were razed to the ground, leaving nothing in their place but smoke, dust and a pile of rubble.
When the noise had finally died away, the chimes of St Mary’s could be heard striking twelve in the distance. The former Chief of Police considered it the end of a perfect day.
‘You know, Eamonn,’ he said, ‘I do believe that was worth sacrificing my pension for.’
A WEEKEND TO REMEMBER*
I FIRST MET Susie six years ago, and when she called to ask if I would like to join her for a drink, she can’t have been surprised that my immediate response was a little frosty. After all, my memory of our last meeting wasn’t altogether a happy one.
I had been invited to the Keswicks for dinner, and like all good hostesses, Kathy Keswick considered it nothing less than her duty to pair off any surviving bachelor over the age of thirty with one of her more eligible girlfriends.
With this in mind, I was disappointed to find that she had placed me next to Mrs Ruby Collier, the wife of a Conservative Member of Parliament who was seated on the left of my hostess at the other end of the table. Only moments after I had introduced myself she said, ‘You’ve probably read about my husband in the press.’ She then proceeded to tell me that none of her friends could understand why her husband wasn’t in the Cabinet. I felt unable to offer an opinion on the subject, because until that moment I had never heard of him.
The name-card on the other side of me read ‘Susie’, and the lady in question had the sort of looks that made you wish you were sitting opposite her at a table set for two. Even after a sideways glance at that long fair hair, blue eyes, captivating smile and slim figure, I would not have been surprised to discover that she was a model. An illusion she was happy to dispel within minutes.
I introduced myself by explaining that I had been at Cambridge with our host. ‘And how do you know the Keswicks?’ I enquired.
‘I was in the same office as Kathy when we both worked for Vogue in New York.’
I remember feeling disappointed that she lived overseas. For how long, I wondered. ‘Where do you work now?’
‘I’m still in New York,’ she replied. ‘I’ve just been made the commissioning editor for Art Quarterly.’
‘I renewed my subscription only last week,’ I told her, rather pleased with myself. She smiled, evidently surprised that I’d even heard of the publication.
‘How long are you in London for?’ I asked, glancing at her left hand to check that she wore neither an engagement nor a wedding ring.
‘Only a few days. I flew over for my parents’ wedding anniversary last week, and I was hoping to catch the Lucian Freud exhibition at the Tate before I go back to New York. And what do you do?’ she asked.
‘I own a small hotel in Jermyn Street,’ I told her.
I would happily have spent the rest of the evening chatting to Susie, and not just because of my passion for art, but my mother had taught me from an early age that however much you like the person on one side of you, you must be equally attentive to the one sitting on the other side.
I turned back to Mrs Collier, who pounced on me with the words, ‘Have you read the speech my husband made in the Commons yesterday?’
I confessed that I hadn’t, which turned out to be a mistake, because she then delivered the entire offering verbatim.
Once she had completed her monologue on the subject of the Draft Civic Amenities (Landfill) Act, I could see why her husband wasn’t in the Cabinet. In fact, I made a mental note to avoid him when we retired to the drawing room for coffee.
‘I much look forward to making your husband’s acquaintance after dinner,’ I told her, before turning my attention back to Susie, only to find that she was staring at someone on the other side of the table. I glanced across to see that the man in question was deep in conversation with Mary Ellen Yarc, an American woman who was seated next to him, and seemed unaware of the attention he was receiving.
I remembered that his name was Richard something, and that he had come with the girl seated at the other end of the table. She too, I noticed, was looking in Richard’s direction. I had to confess that he had the sort of chiselled features and thick wavy hair that make it unnecessary to have a degree in quantum physics.
‘So, what’s big in New York at the moment?’ I asked, trying to recapture Susie’s attention.
She turned back to me and smiled. ‘We’re going to have a new Mayor at any moment now,’ she informed me, ‘and it could even be a Republican for a change. Frankly, I’d vote for anyone who can do something about the crime figures. One of them, I can’t remember his name, keeps talking about zero tolerance. Whoever he is, he’d get my vote.’
Although Susie’s conversation remained lively and informative, her attention frequently strayed back to the other side of the table. I would have assumed she and Richard were lovers, if he had given her as much as a glance.
Over pudding, Mrs Collier took a hatchet to the Cabinet, giving reasons why every one of them should be replaced – I didn’t need to ask by whom. By the time she’d reached the Minister of Agriculture, I felt I’d done my duty, and glanced back to find Susie pretending to be preoccupied by her summer pudding, while actually still taking far more interest in Richard.
Suddenly he looked in her direction. Without warning, Susie grabbed my hand and began talking intently about an Eric Rohmer film she had recently seen in Nice.
Few men object to a woman grabbing their hand, particularly when that woman is graced with Susie’s looks, but preferably not while she is gazing at another man.
The moment Richard resumed his conversation with our hostess, Susie immediately released my hand and dug a fork into her summer pudding.
I was grateful to be spared a third round with Mrs Collier, as Kathy rose from her place and suggested that we all go through to the drawing room. I fear this meant I had to miss out on the details of the Private Member’s Bill Mrs Collier’s husband was preparing to present to the House the following week.
Over coffee I was introduced to Richard, who turned out to be a banker from New York. He continued to ignore Susie – or perhaps, inexplicably, he simply wasn’t aware of her presence. The girl whose name I didn’t know came across to join us, and murmured in his ear, ‘We shouldn’t leave it too late, darling. Don’t forget we’re booked on the early flight to Paris.’
&nb
sp; ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Rachel,’ he replied, ‘but I’d prefer not to be the first to leave.’ Someone else who had been brought up by a fastidious mother.
I felt someone touch my arm, and swung round to find Mrs Collier beaming up at me.
‘This is my husband Reginald. I told him how keen you were to learn more about his Private Member’s Bill.’
It must have been about ten minutes later, although it felt more like a month, that Kathy came to my rescue. ‘Tony, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to give Susie a lift home. It’s pouring with rain, and finding a taxi at this time of night won’t be easy.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ I replied. ‘I must thank you for including me in such charming company. It’s all been quite fascinating,’ I said, smiling down at Mrs Collier.
The Member’s wife beamed back. My mother would have been proud of me.
In the car on the way back to her flat, Susie asked me if I had seen the Freud exhibition. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I thought it was spectacular, and I’m planning to see it again before it closes.’
‘I was thinking of popping in tomorrow morning,’ she said, touching my hand. ‘Why don’t you join me?’ I happily agreed, and when I dropped her off in Pimlico she gave me the sort of hug that suggests ‘I would like to get to know you better.’ Now, I am not an expert on many things, but I consider myself to be a world authority when it comes to hugs, as I have experienced every one – from a squeeze to a bearhug. I can interpret any message from ‘I can’t wait to get your clothes off’ to ‘Get lost.’
I arrived at the Tate early the following morning, anticipating that there would be a long queue for the exhibition, and giving myself time to pick up the tickets before Susie arrived. I had been waiting on the steps for only a few minutes when she appeared. She was wearing a short yellow dress that emphasised her slim figure, and as she climbed the steps I noticed men glance across to follow her progress. The moment she saw me, she began to run up the steps, and she greeted me with a long hug. An ‘I feel I know you better already’ hug.
I enjoyed the exhibition even more the second time, not least because of Susie’s knowledge of Lucian Freud’s work, as she took me through the different phases of his career. When we reached the last picture in the show, Fat Women Looking Out of the Window, I remarked a little feebly, ‘Well, one thing’s for certain, you’ll never end up looking like that.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,’ she said. ‘But if I did, I’d never let you find out.’ She took my hand. ‘Do you have time for lunch?’
‘Of course, but I haven’t booked anywhere.’
‘I have,’ said Susie with a smile. ‘The Tate has a super restaurant, and I booked a table for two, just in case . . .’ She smiled again.
I don’t recall much about lunch, except that when the bill came we were the last two left in the restaurant.
‘If you could do anything in the world right now,’ I said – a chat-up line I’ve used many times in the past – ‘what would it be?’
Susie remained silent for some time before replying, ‘Take the shuttle to Paris, spend the weekend with you and visit the Picasso exhibition “His Early Days”, which is on at the Musée d’Orsay right now. How about you?’
‘Take the shuttle to Paris, spend the weekend with you, and visit the Picasso exhibition “His Early Days”, which . . .’
She burst out laughing, took my hand and said, ‘Let’s do it!’
I arrived at Waterloo some twenty minutes before the train was due to depart. I had already booked a suite in my favourite hotel, and a table at a restaurant that prides itself on not being in the tourist guides. I bought two first-class tickets and stood under the clock, as we’d agreed. Susie was only a couple of minutes late, and gave me a hug that was a definite step towards ‘I can’t wait to get your clothes off.’
She held my hand as we sped through the English countryside. Once we were in France – it always makes me angry that the trains speed up on the French side – I leaned over and kissed her for the first time.
She chatted about her work in New York, the exhibitions that were a ‘must’, and gave me a taste of what I might expect when we visited the Picasso exhibition. ‘The pencil portrait of his father sitting in a chair, which he drew when he was only sixteen, was the harbinger of all that was to come.’ She continued to talk about Picasso and his work with a passion one could never gain from merely reading a book on the subject. When the train pulled into the Gare du Nord, I grabbed both our cases and jumped off to make sure we would be among the first in the taxi queue.
Susie spent most of the journey to the hotel staring out of the taxi’s window, like a schoolgirl on her first visit abroad. I remember thinking how strange this was for someone who had so obviously travelled extensively.
When the taxi swung into the entrance of the Hôtel du Coeur, I told her it was the sort of place I would love to own – comfortable but unpretentious, and offering a level of service Anglo-Saxons are rarely able to match. ‘And the owner, Albert, is a gem.’
‘I can’t wait to meet him,’ she said, as the taxi came to a halt outside the front door.
Albert was standing on the steps waiting to greet us. I knew he would be, as I would have been if he had accompanied a beautiful woman to London for the weekend.
‘We have reserved your usual room, Mr Romanelli,’ he said, looking as if he wanted to wink at me.
Susie stepped forward and, looking directly at Albert, said, ‘And where will my room be?’
Without blinking, he smiled at her and said, ‘There is an adjoining room that I’m sure you will find convenient, madame.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Albert,’ she said, ‘but I would prefer to have a room on another floor.’
This time Albert was taken by surprise, although he quickly recovered, called for the reservations book and studied the entries for a few moments before saying, ‘I see we have a room available overlooking the park, on the floor below Mr Romanelli’s room.’ He clicked his fingers and handed the two keys to a bellboy who was hovering nearby.
‘Room 574 for madame, and the Napoleon suite for monsieur.’
The bellboy held the lift open for us, and once we were inside he pressed buttons 5 and 6. When the doors opened on the fifth floor, Susie said with a smile, ‘Shall we meet in the foyer just before eight?’
I nodded, as my mother had never told me what to do in these circumstances.
Once I’d unpacked, I took a shower and slumped onto the redundant double bed. I flicked on the television and settled for a black-and-white French movie. I became so engrossed in the plot that I still wasn’t dressed at ten to eight, when I was about to discover who had drowned the woman in the bath.
I cursed, quickly threw on some clothes, not even checking my appearance in the mirror, and rushed out of the door still wondering who the murderer could possibly be. I jumped into the lift and cursed again when the doors opened at the ground floor, because there was Susie standing in the foyer waiting for me.
I had to admit that in that long black dress, with an elegant slit down the side which allowed you a glimpse of thigh with every step she took, I was almost willing to forgive her.
In the taxi on the way to the restaurant she was at pains to tell me how pleasant her room was and how attentive the staff had been.
Over dinner – I must confess the meal was sensational – she chatted about her work in New York, and mused over whether she would ever return to London. I tried to sound interested.
After I had settled the bill, she took my arm and suggested that as it was such a pleasant evening and she had eaten far too much, perhaps we should walk back to the hotel. She squeezed my hand, and I began to wonder if perhaps . . .
She didn’t let go of my hand all the way back to the hotel. When we entered the lobby, the bellboy ran over to the lift and held the doors open for us.
‘Which floor, please?’ he asked.
‘Fifth,’ said Susie firmly.
> ‘Sixth,’ I said reluctantly.
Susie turned and kissed me on the cheek just as the doors slid open. ‘It’s been a memorable day,’ she said, and slipped away.
For me too, I wanted to say, but remained silent. Back in my room I lay awake, trying to fathom it out. I realised I must be a pawn in a far bigger game; but would it be a bishop or a knight that finally removed me from the board?
I don’t recall how long it was before I fell asleep, but when I woke at a few minutes before six, I jumped out of bed and was pleased to see that Le Figaro had already been pushed under the door. I devoured it from the first page to the last, learning all about the latest French scandals – none of them sexual, I might add – and then cast it aside to take a shower.
I strolled downstairs around eight to find Susie seated in the corner of the breakfast room, sipping an orange juice. She was dressed to kill, and although I obviously wasn’t the chosen victim, I was even more determined than before to find out who was.
I slipped into the seat opposite her, and as neither of us spoke, the other guests must have assumed we had been married for years.
‘I hope you slept well,’ I offered finally.
‘Yes, thank you, Tony,’ she replied. ‘And you?’ she asked innocently.
I could think of a hundred responses I would have liked to make, but I knew that if I did, I would then never find out the truth.
‘What time would you like to visit the exhibition?’ I asked.
‘Ten o’clock,’ she said firmly, and then added, ‘if that suits you.’
‘Suits me fine,’ I replied, glancing at my watch. ‘I’ll book a taxi for around 9.30.’
‘I’ll meet you in the foyer,’ she said, making us sound more like a married couple by the minute.
After breakfast, I returned to my room, began to pack and phoned down to Albert to say I didn’t think we’d be staying another night.
‘I am sorry to hear that, monsieur,’ he replied. ‘I can only hope that it wasn’t . . .’
The New Collected Short Stories Page 17