‘Oh, yes.’ The moist, gimlet eyes are gleaming. ‘Exceptionally productive. You know, Vivi my dear, after I married Stefan I was hardly ever unwell. Neither of us was, when I think about it, and physical satisfaction was almost certainly the reason. Having regular relations boosts the immune system. The link will be proven eventually if it hasn’t already. Whereas when I was with your poor father I always seemed to be ill with something or other, and it wasn’t as if he knew nothing about medical matters, was it?’
There are more photographs of Stefan and Judith in the ground-floor apartment than there are of Stefan’s children or of Daisy, Viv and Geoff. The two of them are often rumpled, always laughing or pulling faces, and Viv has long suspected that most were taken post-coitally on a camera with a timer. A large headshot of a beaming Stefan, his hair mussed, stands on the TV close to Judith’s chair.
One of several photos of their wedding, an extended family group, has pride of place on the mantelpiece. But the wedding picture beside Judith’s bed is of the then middle-aged pair, and Viv thinks anyone would be hard-pressed to find a just-married couple looking more aroused. She has even wondered if this one too might have been taken post-orgasm. Could the photographer have caught them emerging from a cloakroom, or a lavatory?
‘Have I ever told you how I met Stefan?’ The conversation is following an arc that has become increasingly familiar on recent visits. Her daughter finds it impossible not to indulge her when she is in full flight like this. Viv could recite word for word the story of Stefan coming round to rewire a brass Arts and Crafts standard lamp, a job that stretched over several days. Once this terrain has been reached, the cascade of tumultuous memories will soon tire Judith out. The way she suddenly crumples into a state of exhaustion reminds Viv of Daisy as a toddler.
But before she retires for the night she surprises her daughter a third time this evening by revisiting the earlier topic. She is leaning heavily on her stick and looking exhilarated but drained, which Viv puts down to having stayed up later than usual, as well as the reminiscent excitements of the subject matter. ‘The agency hasn’t distinguished itself thus far with its offerings, has it?’
‘Not thus far, no. But it’s early days, we shouldn’t panic,’ Viv says. ‘Or not overmuch.’
‘Perhaps you ought to think about having a little chat to – what was the name of the nice guru who runs it?’
‘Martin Glover. What makes you think he’s nice?’
‘From the way you talk about him.’
‘What kind of a chat should I have?’
‘Ask him whether he has a certain type on his books. You don’t want to waste time with any more tedious also-rans, do you?’
‘I don’t think a reliable screening system has yet been devised, Mum. Even for tedious random byways. What particular type did you mean?’ Viv poses this question to please her mother, although she has a perfectly good idea of the qualifications she has in mind.
‘The kind you haven’t found in your first marriage.’ Judith likes Geoff, but has never quite forgiven him for the six months Viv and the baby spent with her and Stefan, early in both marriages. She’s not averse to (or too tired for) a final serve. ‘What you really need now, Vivi, is the type of man who is capable of boosting a woman’s immune system.’
You have to hand it to her, Viv thinks as she soaps herself down in the shower. She may be advanced in years and frail of body, but she’s still capable of sending herself up. And me in the process.
The walnut sleigh bed Viv will sleep in tonight was her surprise sixteenth birthday present. She came home from school to find that her mother had moved her single bed into another room and installed this handsome piece. Double beds were nicer to sleep in, Judith said, and much more versatile. It had a pretty patchwork quilt, factory-made, as Viv now has no problem identifying, probably in India.
The bed was brought downstairs when her mother divided the house not long after Stefan’s death from a sudden coronary (on the job, Viv has always suspected), creating a self-contained ground-floor flat for herself with two bedrooms and two bathrooms. Daisy was the last to stay here overnight, her presence betrayed by a tortoiseshell hair clip on the pillow and several bronze-tinged hairs in the shower. Judith’s cleaner, who is forty years her junior but behaves more like an elderly retainer, knows not to bother changing the sheets when it’s just family.
Viv and Geoff have shared this bed over the years. It has the comfort of long familiarity, and she usually sleeps well here. There are faded colour photos of them with Daisy on the chest of drawers. It’s early for her, and Viv intends to read for an hour or more. But tonight she has trouble concentrating.
It’s not true that I didn’t find the right type in my first marriage. My present and only marriage, to be exact. By any account Geoff and I have had a pretty good innings. Mum might be surprised to know, although on second thoughts she’s far too shrewd not to have known, that our sex life was perfectly satisfactory too, for a very long period. Until it wasn’t. And now, presumably, never will be again.
She gives her husband a call on the house phone. It rings through to the message machine. His voice is still energetic, she thinks. Still virile? ‘You’ve reached Vivien Quarry and Geoff Mayberry. Leave us a message.’ She hangs up without leaving one, and dials Geoff’s mobile, with the same result: ‘It’s Geoff Mayberry but I’m not here. Leave me a message.’
He’s out. He’s been out a fair bit lately. She says, ‘Hi, it’s me. You must be out, I didn’t think you … It’s all fine here. Mum’s fine. Well, she’s much the same. She knew all about Adrian, I guess Daisy must have told her. She took it in her stride. Or I suppose Jules might have … Anyhow, give me a call if you get this in the next hour or so. I’ll be back late morning. See you then.’ And she hesitates, before making a kissing noise into the phone.
Perhaps she may have hesitated too long, she thinks afterwards. It’s quite possible Geoff will miss the little sound at the end of the message. Isn’t that life all over? Destinies can hang on such delicate threads. Outcomes that were possibilities, changed into probabilities. Changed into inevitabilities.
Not that this is such a thread, most probably. But, she says to herself, you know what I mean.
17
ON THE HOME FRONT
Geoff did not call back. It’s not particularly unusual, either for him to go out or to be uncommunicative on the subject in advance. But it taps into the conflicted mood Vivien always experiences when she drives away from her mother’s house. Is it right for Judith to live alone at her age? Should she move into some form of assisted housing? Should she be in London, with them?
Where Judith is concerned, there are no easy answers; there never have been. Viv always arrives at the same conclusion, which is more of a stalemate. Basically her mother is continuing to do as she’s always done: exactly what she wants. And what she wants is to stay put.
A text arrives, but it’s not from Geoff. Viv is driving cautiously through the rain-lashed streets of Oxford towards the M4, heater on high, windscreen wipers at full blast, the overture to Tannhäuser on the radio. She glances at her phone lying on the passenger seat.
Hi V. Up to an update? M. She decides to put off responding in detail to Martin until she can give him her full attention in a more relaxing setting, and texts back, Driving, will call later, V.
Piotr, the good-looking Polish plumber, is back at work today tiling the shower recess in the en-suite. His paternity leave has left him visibly punch-drunk. There are dark smudges under his red-rimmed eyes. Viv admires his baby pictures and hands him a present of a musical mobile of dinosaurs, wrapped in paper covered with dinosaur cartoons. She sympathises with the sleep deficit.
‘Tell Eva it’s impossible to imagine when you’re caught up in it, but this period does pass, trust me. And then it’s gone and you can’t remember it at all.’
Apart from Piotr and the cat, the warm house is empty. And the bed is unmade. ‘Did you see Geoff?’ she asks.
‘Yes. He was here. He went out.’
She pulls the bed up with a feeling of irritation. Then makes coffee for them both, adds some biscuits for Piotr, and takes hers up to the shed. She puts on a favourite CD of old French film music that includes accordion and harmonica. Martin’s number is engaged, so she texts Geoff: I’m back. Where you?
The agency phone is engaged for the next ten minutes. She texts Martin: Ring when/if you ever get off phone, V. Before any call can come through, Geoff texts back: In a meeting. This is curious. She writes: What kind of a meeting? then decides not to send it.
After another quarter of an hour her phone rings. Martin’s voice. ‘Sorry about that, V. Clients of an anxious disposition can be, shall we say, a little needy.’
Viv settles into the comfortable armchair and puts her feet on an old pouffe acquired on a Moroccan holiday. ‘No worries, M. A little wordy too, I expect.’
‘That’s very insightful. Now, I’m curious to hear your verdict on D. Be as concise as you like, or as wordy. I promise not to categorise you as needy or anxious.’
‘Is that binding? My verdict on D?’ Dev? Of course, the Bulldog. ‘Well, Drummond and I had lunch. He was … it was …’
‘You were struck all of a heap, I gather. You knew each other from another life.’ This is a relief. She had been unsure whether or what to reveal. ‘Never happened before,’ he says. ‘Groundbreaking. An agency first.’
‘Yes, amazing, wasn’t it?’ What did the Bulldog tell him? ‘I was in the car when you texted. Coming back from visiting my mother in Oxford.’
‘You have a mother? I’m envious. Mine’s been gone for twenty years.’
‘Mine’s ninety-one and as obdurate as ever. Still insists on living alone in her house.’ She hears Judith scoffing: I’m fully compos mentis and I’m perfectly all right, Vivi. Don’t nag.
‘One of the obstinate regiment? Independent mothers who refuse to bend to one’s will?’
‘You’re so right, mules have nothing on them. Although I’m not sure what my will is, in this case.’
‘You shouldn’t feel guilty then,’ he says. ‘It sounds like she’s doing what makes her happy. Keeping calm and carrying on, even if not in mint condition.’
This is comforting. ‘Yes, she’s not at death’s door, thank heavens. Or wasn’t this morning.’ There’s a perfunctory knock and the door flies open. A windswept Geoff looks in. She waves the phone at him. He turns away, leaving the door open. She hears him clatter down the stairs.
‘Sorry, my husband just barged in, looking very bedraggled. But it’s okay, he’s gone again.’ She gets up and closes the door.
‘Ah. So the coast is clear. We can drop names?’
‘With impunity. The real name of the relevant party is not Drummond, incidentally.’ This, she hopes, is permissible.
No, Martin thought as much when Drummond signed on. There’s a client subset, usually professional, that prefers to pay cash and remain incognito. The names they choose can be a bit of a giveaway. They tend to be somewhat over-egged, like our Mr Drummond Cornwallis. Or else they’re more down to earth, like John Brown.
‘I see.’ So, Martin is not so naive after all. ‘Do they usually give a fake occupation too?’
‘That depends. For some people there’s a strong fantasy element. Others are more strongly motivated,’ a smile in the voice, ‘by caution.’
‘They could also be worried that their real profession might work against them. If they were a funeral director, for instance, or a forensic pathologist. Or a gynaecologist.’ Hastily, ‘Not that Drummond is any of these, by the way.’
Viv reflects uneasily on Mr Blake’s ruddy countenance. Martin would enjoy knowing he was a periodontist, but it doesn’t seem right to give him away. ‘There’s no pressing need-to-know basis here, is there, Martin?’
‘I wouldn’t think there’s anything pressing. Shall we agree to keep mum? Let him hang on to his cover.’
Viv is relieved on Mr Blake’s account. She feels protective of him.
‘What I think I’m hearing from you, and don’t hold back if I’m wrong, is that we don’t have a tick against his name. Or rather, his pseudonym.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t. I do feel warm towards him, but not warm enough, if you know what I mean. Having known him in another life, as you said. It complicates matters. And then there’s …’ And then there’s the lugubrious Bulldog himself.
‘The missing x factor. Yes, I know. Well, it won’t come as a surprise, he thought you were going to give him the thumbs-down. No matter, I’m massaging what looks like a promising newcomer for you.’
‘For Drummond too? I was his ninth intro, I think he said. Not an outstanding success rate, is it?’
‘That’s not unusual,’ Martin says firmly. ‘Some people are harder to match up. It can take up to two years. Three, in extreme cases. We can chalk you up as his first approval, though.’
‘Except that I wasn’t a favourable outcome, was I? In terms of achieving the preferred result.’
‘He was philosophical about it.’ Martin sounds cheerful. ‘That’s the way the cookie crumbles, he said, when you’re of homely aspect and past your sell-by date.’
This strikes a chord. ‘Oh dear. Did he really say that? It sounds so very – it sounds so poignant. I can relate to it.’
‘Please don’t relate to it for a moment, Vivien, it’s got nothing to do with you. And don’t worry yourself on Drummond’s account, I have more introductions for him. I’m confident of achieving the preferred result in the end.’
‘It’s like pulling rabbits out of a hat, isn’t it?’ She hears Geoff shout from downstairs. How about a spot of lunch, hon? ‘I’d better go, Martin. Geoff’s getting restive.’ Now I’ve outed him. He’s named and shamed.
‘Roger. I’ll text you when the next rabbit comes through, V. Over and out.’
She puts the phone down with a touch of regret. She is expecting Geoff to be in a bad mood because his croquet game has been stymied by the weather. But he seems sanguine. They make up a salad with hard-boiled eggs.
‘You’ve only just had coffee. I bet you had a jam doughnut,’ she says. She pictures the sugary doughnut she consumed fairly recently. ‘Where did you have this meeting?’
‘The Scurvy Knave.’
‘The Scurvy Knave? But that’s a pub. Why on earth did you go there? It’s so dark and dingy. And all that grunting-peasant decor.’
‘They turn the lights on in the daytime. The coffee’s perfectly drinkable with a dash of cognac.’
‘With a dash of cognac? In the morning? What sort of meeting? With?’
‘With Elizabeth Gray.’
The name rings a bell, to be followed up directly. One of Geoff’s science-fiction lot. The little posse he goes to conferences and films with, the mob of crackpots as Jules calls them. ‘And what were you up to last night?’
The group went to a new pizza joint in Greek Street. Good value. Authentic, white tablecloths, candles, Neapolitan music. Nice and cosy too. Proper pizza oven. Wines from Puglia and Sicily.
‘You’re waxing unusually enthusiastic. White tableclothes? A pizza joint? Authentic? You don’t even like pizza. Or Neapolitan music.’
‘That’s an exaggeration. It all depends. These were superior. The wine, the women and the song.’ He grins at her.
Was it Richie’s pick? Richie is, in Viv’s estimation, the only group member resembling a person interested in good food. No, he says, Elizabeth’s. Her ex-boyfriend works in the kitchen. Good cook, the ex.
Viv is now retrieving from her memory an evening in the summer when the group gathered at their house for dinner. The sister of one of the crackpots came as a guest. A young, light-hearted New Zealander who laughed a lot. ‘Was she the long-haired one who seemed to find everything hilarious? The young one?’
Geoff grins. That sounds like Eliza. Andrew’s younger sister.
Hasn’t been in London long. She’s a very vivacious girl
, it’s true.
‘But she’s so unlike Andrew. He’s nothing if not turgid.’
‘He’s only turgid if you’re not on his wavelength. He’s got a brilliant mind.’
Wasn’t the name Elizabeth?
Yes, but she prefers Eliza. Suits her better, too.
‘Well, it’s snappier, isn’t it? Très on trend, as Daisy would say.
Pygmalion was so ahead of its time. What does she do again?’
She’s a web designer, says Geoff. Very bright, very talented, and stuck in a dead-end job with ridiculous hours. No security, no sick pay, no holidays. No money in it at all, needless to say. Full-time work for part-time pay. The poor girl’s on her beam ends.
‘And now no boyfriend either. It just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?’ I ought to tone this down. ‘I must say she seemed almost excessively cheerful in the face of such adversity. You have to admire it.’
Overlooking this, Geoff says he’s looking into finding her a position in the IT department of his old firm. That’s what they were doing this morning, going over her CV.
‘That probably didn’t take too long. Was it light enough in there to decipher it? While distracted by coffee and cognac?’ Geoff gives her a tolerant look.
‘How old was she again?’
‘Oh, over thirty. Thirty-one or two.’
‘Not a girl, then.’
‘All right. A young woman.’
‘You know how Daisy hates being called a girl, it’s so demeaning. You don’t call a man in his thirties a boy, do you? It’s not as if this is very difficult to remember, Geoff. Men of your generation just can’t seem to get their heads around it. They’re respectful distinctions, for heaven’s sake. Nothing less or more than that.’
‘Don’t get heated, sugar plum,’ Geoff says mildly. ‘It’s your generation too.’
‘Yes, and that’s the whole point in a nutshell. Women of a certain age – and we know what that is – seem to be able to retrain themselves out of bad, outdated habits, and men don’t. Either because they can’t be bothered or they won’t take them seriously. Which adds up to the same thing.’
The Age of Discretion Page 19