Viv hasn’t yet worked out the precise number of children living in the house. The revolving-door policy works against an accurate head count. Joy has two teenagers, but younger kids wander in and out and there is at least one baby.
When Viv first joined the group the front door (painted a psychedelic rainbow) tended to be left unlatched. Since one memorable visit from someone’s ex-boyfriend, however, the rainbow has been painted out and the door kept securely locked and equipped with a spy hole. Viv is scrutinised through this when she arrives late, after an unscheduled stop between stations on the Victoria Line (a suicide, she suspects). The door is thrown open by Riley, the dishiest of Joy’s residents. It was Riley’s thuggish boyfriend from Yorkshire who broke in and caused havoc. The whitey from hell, Hull and high water, Joy called him.
Nineteen-year-old Riley was pregnant with her second child at the time, the caramel-skinned charmer she’s now carrying on her hip. Viv asks after her older child, a boy in kindergarten.
Hoisting her carpet-bag into the cavernous hall, she steps around coats, brollies and kids’ sporting equipment, and a baby sleeping soundly (the same one as last week? she can’t be certain) in a fold-up stroller. The circle is well patronised today. She counts eight others, including Joy’s talented illustrator Yasmin.
‘Listen up, y’all.’ Joy has been waiting for Viv’s arrival to make an announcement. A newbie is coming to join the group next week. A Mr Jackson Adeyemi. He’s a rookie, right, so be nice to him, okay?
Mr? A current passes through the double drawing room. A ripple of surprise, and disapproval.
Yes, a nice, manly Nigerian gentleman they will all like. A security guard who works round the corner. Very quiet and well behaved. Ondine knows him. Ondine is gay, Joy has told Viv, but tends to be non-functioning, although she goes to clubs.
Everyone is aware that Joy’s former husband, now vanished off the face of the earth, also happened to be a nice (initially) and manly Nigerian gentleman. Joy adds, ‘We’re not into discrimination round here, right?’ A sly glance at Viv. ‘We’re multi-cultural.’
Viv thinks Joy probably made a similar announcement before she herself was invited to join the circle. She’s older than the others by a considerable margin, as well as whiter, but she has never felt awkward. She hopes, rather fervently, that this new initiative won’t imperil things. The quilting circle is powerfully feminist in its sensibilities. But it is not physically powerful, and nor is the household. She suspects that Mr Jackson’s night job may have weighed heavily in his favour. Riley’s ex is not the only disaffected dad to have shown up uninvited; there was another fracas only last week. A tame security guard down the road might have his uses.
Viv spreads a section of her quilt-in-progress on her knees. She unwraps the simple tools of her trade: needle and thread, thimble, embroiderer’s hoop. With everyone hard at work the room assumes an atmosphere she has not encountered anywhere else and finds addictive. She has tried to describe the phenomenon to Geoff, but floundered in the face of his scientific scepticism. Jules, though, caught on completely. She says the same elevated mood happens in the rehearsal room.
Joy is a touch on the defensive when Viv shows her the text from Dev. She’s still pumped after her controversial announcement, and not in the mood for dissecting spelling or punctuation.
‘Just reply to the poor sod – he’s only asking for a meeting. He’s not proposing holy bigamy.’
‘But he’s years younger than me, Joy.’
‘Half your luck, girl. Check out his credentials. If you don’t,’ a canny look, ‘he’ll think you’re racist.’
This is persuasive. Viv thinks perhaps she has been a bit precious. She dashes off a reply, ignoring Dev’s questions about hairstyle and outfits, but saying she will carry the improving book she’s reading – Clive James’ Cultural Amnesia. After pressing send she has a nasty feeling that this message qualifies as pretentious, which is arguably worse.
Still, it doesn’t discourage Dev, evidently. He shoots back a cheery: OK hope i can read the title! Look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning Vivien!!
Joy thinks Dev sounds like a bit of a pet, full of beans like the big frisky puppy in her new book. Anything like your Mr Adeyemi? queries Viv. Ever since the collapse of her marriage Joy has dallied with a succession of men, while contriving to keep them at arm’s length. But it is a given that she will not disclose anything until she is good and ready.
Viv’s mobile rings. Daisy wants to come over tomorrow morning at eleven with stuff. They can have coffee. ‘Sorry darling, I’ve got an eleven o’clock appointment I can’t change. And the afternoon’s no good either – I’m filling in at the Red Cross.’ A rapid calculation. ‘I could probably do an early lunch, just. Or what about dinner tomorrow? Or tonight?’
‘Jules said you’re going to the theatre tomorrow – the Almeida. Ghosts.’
‘Oh yes, that’s right, of course we are, I forgot. Why don’t you try to get a ticket?’
‘I’ve seen it. It’s great. Tonight’s no good. So, what’s the unbreakable appointment?’
‘Appointment?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh, that. Doctor. Just Nerida. But there’s no reason you couldn’t come over and dump stuff, of course.’ Viv catches Joy’s eye. Joy is following the conversation with undisguised interest while stitching her wadding.
‘Is something wrong, Mum?’
‘Wrong? No, absolutely nothing. Routine, you know. Only a prescription.’
‘What for?’
‘Oh, nothing special.’
‘Well, couldn’t you change it, then? Make it another day? It doesn’t matter which day it is, does it?’
‘Another day?’
‘The appointment, Mum, Jesus. Concentrate.’
‘Ah, no, I’m afraid I can’t, not really. You know how booked up she gets.’ Pause. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Mum?’ Daisy’s voice is studiedly casual.
‘No, of course not, darling.’
‘It’s nothing to do with your—’ Viv hears Daisy hesitate. But her daughter is nothing if not forthright. ‘You’re not worried about your memory, are you, Mum?’
Viv laughs, with a scintilla of unease. ‘No, of course I’m not. Well, I shouldn’t say of course, everyone I know is worried about their memory. Including Joy here,’ she says, with a pointed glance, ‘but I don’t think I’m any more worried than anyone else. Listen, forget that, tell me how you’re feeling. Have you made any decisions?’
But she can tell her daughter’s keen antenna has picked up something. It was an unwise thing to say, that she had an unbreakable doctor’s appointment. Joy agrees that it was a very foolish thing. And quite unnecessary.
I suppose I could have said I had to meet a suicidal friend, Viv says.
Such as the person who jumped in front of a train on the Victoria Line this afternoon? That’s a dumb idea, Joy scoffs, because she wouldn’t be able to meet you. And you’d already know that, right? Joy is nothing if not practical.
Next morning Viv is discomfited to find herself feeling distinctly apprehensive. She considers not going through with this nonsense and cancelling the meeting with Dev. If it weren’t for that excuse of an unbreakable doctor’s appointment, she could have told Daisy she was free after all.
What do I think I’m doing, she asks herself, not for the first time, proposing to meet a man who is twenty years younger than me and who uses copious exclamation marks? Proposing to meet a strange man, to get down to the nitty-gritty, with the object of possibly having sex? Isn’t this a rather preposterous course of action for a woman my age to be considering?
But there is an inescapable problem. Joy was right. Dev may well feel insulted if she cancels, even if she insists it is because of his age. Viv has an ingrained horror of racism. She feels she can’t risk such an outcome. And wouldn’t it be one in the eye for Geoff… This thought tips the balance.
She’ll just have to go through the
motions with this one. Next time, she will be more assertive with Martin Glover. She’s paid the piper; next time she will call the tune. Always assuming there is a next time.
She will treat Dev as a dry run. She’ll be in and out of that coffee shop in twenty minutes flat.
8
DEV
All Viv’s doubts and preconceptions become irrelevant the moment she walks into the coffee shop and locks eyes with the man sitting alone under the window. She is knocked sideways, she will relay later to Julia, left breathless. Both reactions, Jules will point out, were most likely on account of being late, and having just lugged her weighty tome down several blocks of soulless Bishopsgate in pouring rain, when there was a perfectly good cafe at the station.
The inescapable fact is that Dev is one of the most jaw-droppingly attractive men Viv has ever set eyes on. He is dark-complexioned and, equally plainly, only in his mid-forties. She was expecting that. She wasn’t expecting him to be such an unmitigated knockout. Never in a million years, she will tell Joy, was she prepared for that.
She realises that she is standing mutely in front of him – slack-jawed, quite possibly – while he remains seated, openly inspecting her in turn. Not standing up, not even pretending to identify the dripping volume wedged under her left arm.
Viv gives a nervous laugh and immediately regrets it. She drags off her raincoat and drops the book on the floor, together with her scarf, bag and umbrella. She feels uncoordinated and burdened with a mountain of paraphernalia, all of it wet. The simple operation seems to take forever, and for its duration Dev continues to watch her intently, his handsome features unreadable.
She slides into the chair opposite him. Breathe normally, she tells herself, and don’t let nerves cause you to avoid eye contact. Then, when this is patently not working: for fuck’s sake, woman, get a grip.
Dev is dressed in a conservative dark suit with a white shirt and plain blue tie. Viv is wearing jeans and a bright-red cardigan, long and rather baggy, over a white cheesecloth shirt. She didn’t pay much attention this morning because she hadn’t taken this appointment seriously. She is feeling insecure enough already; this only adds another layer of discomfort.
Her hair is damp and windswept. She had forgotten to wield the firm-hold, high-gloss hairspray Ramona had urged her (successfully) to purchase. And her cheeks and nose will be red and shiny from the cold. She must look like a bag lady. Dev is probably thinking she’s a gauche ageing hippy. But perhaps that’s just what I am. Although I wouldn’t say I was gauche, exactly …
‘I am very pleased to meet you, Vivien,’ he is saying politely. ‘Very pleased indeed.’
The formal cadence sounds genuine to Viv’s sceptical ears. She’s on an all-systems alert for any suggestion of distaste or (horror of horrors) pity on his part. He has thick black hair, glossy without the aid of product, full sensuous lips and the kind of soulful brown eyes often described as melting. Viv has read the description many times, dismissing it as a cliché, but never before has she sat so close to someone whose eyes cry out to be so described.
Dev extends a smooth hand across the table. He looks dry and unruffled. Did it start raining after he arrived? How long has he been sitting here – is she very late? Not more than a few minutes, surely. Ten? She takes a surreptitious glance at her watch. No, twenty. How did that happen? She sees an empty coffee cup in front of him.
‘I’m sorry I’m so late, and so bedraggled,’ she says. She wipes her cold wet hand on her cardigan and belatedly shakes his, introducing herself, giving her full name without a qualm, even though Martin had stressed this was not obligatory. She’s finding it hard to equate the rather immobile person facing her with the chirpy texter. It shows how misleading punctuation marks can be.
‘Yes, I had been looking through the window,’ Dev says, still on his former train of thought. He is keeping hold of her hand longer than is normally considered best practice. ‘I knew it was you, Vivien, even before you opened the door.’ His voice is deep and resonant. Viv has a swift mental picture of the still depths of remote rock pools in the Kakadu National Park, which Jules has promised to show her someday.
‘I knew it was you too, Dev, oddly enough,’ she murmurs. ‘Not that there were many other—’
‘And even though,’ he interrupts with emphasis, ‘you had left me in the dark. You gave me no information about your clothing, or your hairstyle. Luckily this turned out to be quite unnecessary, because you were self-explanatory, Vivien.’
What was it Ramona called her hair? Headstrong. She tries to pat it down. Self-explanatory? What does that mean? Could it be a joke? No, Dev is unsmiling. Martin Glover must have given him some kind of description. If so, it might be cause for concern. But – here’s another thing – Dev thinks I am only in my late fifties. Perhaps he thinks this is how Englishwomen of my age just are …
Dev, her new template of male beauty in its prime, is still holding her hand. His large and seriously melting eyes are fixed on her face. ‘Your hand is very cold, by the way, Vivien.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. It’s very cold outside.’ How feeble is this?
‘Sorry? You must not keep saying that. The English are very fond of saying sorry. Too fond of it. Cold hands mean a warm heart. That is how the English saying goes, I think.’
‘Yes, it does go like that. It’s probably rubbish, though.’ Might this be construed as belligerent? ‘Not,’ she adds hurriedly, ‘that I would want to cast aspersions on your choice of English saying.’
The humour sounds clunky to her ears, and it elicits no detectable response. Almost certainly a misjudgement. She casts around for something to say but finds that her capacity for conversation seems to have flown out the window. What could Martin have been thinking, introducing her to this paragon of pulchritude?
And Dev himself must be fuming, planning to give the Discretion Agency an earful the moment she leaves. Should she leave now? No, that would definitely be taken as rude. And probably racist as well. Which could not be further from the truth.
Awkwardness must not be allowed to set in. But she has never tried to make small talk in such an unlikely setting with such an unlikely man, with a subtext they both know but cannot mention: the reason they are here. The reason being hardly credible. We are checking each other out to see if we want to go to bed together, of all things. Of all the lunatic, deluded things. Of all the unlikely things.
Her eyes alight on an object on the floor. ‘That’s my weight-lifting done for the day,’ she says, indicating her book, Cultural Amnesia. ‘You must have thought I was striving to impress. When the truth is, I was trying to absorb reams of arcane knowledge by osmosis.’
This is worse still. Smart-arse. Perilously close to inanity. Present me with a young and ridiculously gorgeous man and I fall to pieces. Dev’s expression hasn’t changed. He is still expressionless. Could it be horror-induced paralysis?
Then he says, ‘Vivien, do not feel you have to make conversation in order to entertain me, please. We must relax together, in each other’s company. This is an important first step for us.’
First step. Could this mean he is envisaging a second? Dev leans forward. He has dropped her hand but hasn’t once taken his intent eyes off her. ‘That is a very beautiful pendant you are wearing.’
Her hand moves to her necklace. ‘Do you like it? It was given to me by my—’ It was a present from Geoff, when Daisy turned twenty-one. A sinuous, sterling silver pendant from Tiffany, set with an exquisite natural pearl. By far the most expensive piece of jewellery she owns.
‘Yes, it goes with everything, no matter how ratty, so I tend to wear it all the time without thinking.’
It partners another favourite, the Mexican bracelet of beaten silver she clasped on her wrist, also semi-automatically, this morning. Geoff always had excellent taste in jewellery, and in the latter part of his career the means to indulge it a little. Viv feels a small pang in the pit of her stomach.
‘Don’t you
think it is very strange indeed, Vivien,’ she hears Dev ask, ‘that I knew immediately who you were?’
‘Well, there aren’t many people in here …’ It’s not a very appetising cafe. Of course, it’s made more alluring by—
‘But even if there were a great many customers arriving, there was something about you, as you came through this door. Something that—’ He breaks off. He has the most luxuriant dark eyelashes Viv has ever seen. There is another abrupt, alarming pause. It stretches out disconcertingly. She is struck by his statuesque stillness.
‘Something that?’ echoes Viv, faintly. She swallows, feeling herself wilt (melt?) under this steady beam of scrutiny. The male gaze, she thinks. I’m thrown by it. It’s something to which I have become unaccustomed. I don’t know how to read it anymore.
She imagines they are being filmed. They are in a scene from a movie, a comedy but not one of the witty, Cary Grant–Katharine Hepburn variety. A peculiar one, with two decidedly odd protagonists. This conversation, if you could call it that, has a distinctive, stop–start rhythm of its own. Dev is still waiting. Does he want her to finish his sentence?
‘Was it something about me you recognised?’ she says at last. ‘Did I look like someone?’ But who could it be? ‘People have said I remind them—’
He shakes his head emphatically. ‘No, not at all. Not at all, Vivien. You do not remind me of anyone. On the contrary. But, as I was just saying, there was something – something very hard to put into words.’ He is frowning in concentration, but hasn’t shifted his gaze.
‘Could it have been – you felt – something that connected?’ Viv can’t quite credit she is saying this. Daisy would explode. But it seems she has struck a chord. Dev exhales a long breath.
‘That is it, yes. You are right. I cannot define why this should be, but I felt an emotional connection.’
The Age of Discretion Page 9