The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted

by William Coles

  ‘I love you,’ I said.

  I heard her sigh, but I didn’t know what it meant. ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ she said.

  I stared, unsatisfied, at the phone in my hand. For a moment I stood, locked in position as I replayed that sigh over in my head, looking for nuances, wondering what I had said, analysing the whole conversation from start to finish. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew that it would have been better by far if the conversation had never happened at all.

  Thoroughly unsettled, I walked back up the concrete pathway to my room. There were small scuffs of bright orange paint outside my room, but I barely paid attention to them. Inside, there were other little dabs of orange on the floor and on the bedding. I wondered if I had trodden in some orange paint and then tramped it into the room.

  I flung off my tunic and lay down on my bed, and stared up at the ceiling. What was I going to do?

  My natural inclination was to take action, any sort of action; to go straight round to Cally’s house and have it out in person. I thought about Cally’s voice on the phone; I remembered how downbeat she sounded. It had sounded like she was steeling herself to swing the axe, and if she were, then I wanted to know sooner rather than later. And then there was Louise.

  A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. I tugged at my T-shirt and opened the door.

  It was Anthony, very serious; behind him, a police officer.

  ‘Anthony?’ I said. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning, Kim,’ he said. His eyes were searching my face.

  ‘How can I help you?’ I said.

  Anthony hemmed for a moment. I could see that he found the whole thing most unsavoury. ‘I, we, have had a tip that, uh…’

  The police officer, who had been standing slightly behind Anthony, stepped in. Shaven headed, peaked cap, middle aged; the plodding face of the law.

  ‘We just want to search your room if that’s all right, son,’ he said.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Be my guest. It’s a bit of a state. I wasn’t really expecting guests at this time of the morning.’

  I stepped aside and the two men went into my room. And as soon as they had entered, I knew exactly why they were there.

  I wondered if there was anything I could do, but somehow already knew that nothing could be done. I felt very calm. My heart rate steadied. I was done for and I knew it. I’d been stitched up.

  It took them less than a minute to find what they were looking for: a great pile of ten and twenty pound notes stuffed under my mattress. The notes were traced with orange dye.

  ‘Oh, Kim.’ Anthony gave a mournful shake of his head as he quit my room.

  The police officer put the notes and a pair of orange-stained socks into a clear plastic evidence bag. ‘You better come with us,’ he said.

  Anthony led the way and we trooped back to the police car. Waiters and waitresses were craning their heads to look at me: the thieving miscreant who had finally been nailed.

  Oliver, though, immediately came over. He walked along with us as I was taken to the police car. ‘What has happened?’ he said. ‘Where are they taking you?’

  ‘Off to the cop-shop,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid somebody’s done for me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Somebody’s stuffed a whole load of loose cash under my mattress.’

  ‘So that’s your line is it?’ the policeman said. He held open the car door.

  ‘It’s not a line.’ I got into the car. ‘I’ve been set up.’

  ‘Got a lot of enemies at the Knoll House have you?’ he asked.

  ‘One or two,’ I said.

  The rest of the morning was filled with the tedium of procedure. The drive to Swanage police station, the dull interview, and my repeated assertions that I hadn’t got the first clue how the stolen money had ended up under my mattress.

  ‘So somebody just put it there?’ the police officer said.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘And then probably tipped you off that the money was in my room.’

  ‘And how did they get into your room?’

  ‘I guess they just opened the door. It’s never locked.’

  We continued to trudge round the houses. It was all so unutterably wearisome.

  ‘So how did the orange dye get onto your socks?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘If somebody was going to set me up by putting money under my mattress, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to put dye on my socks.’

  After about an hour, we had reached an impasse. I was bored and just wanted to get the hell out of the police station.

  I should have asked for a solicitor as soon as I’d been arrested. For some reason I hadn’t bothered. What difference would it make?

  ‘Tell you what,’ the officer said. ‘We’ll give you a caution and that’ll be the end of it. Your boss, the manager—’

  ‘Anthony.’

  ‘Yes, he doesn’t want to press charges. So if you accept a caution, you’re free to go.’

  I was an idiot. I did not even pause for a moment. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll take the caution.’

  ‘Well done, son,’ he said. ‘It’s the best thing.’

  Immediately, the police officer was very happy. I signed a release form and was driven back to the Knoll House. Anthony was waiting for me in his office. My bag and my rucksack had already been packed and were sitting by the door.

  Anthony, now in his dark suit, was sitting behind his desk. He looked both annoyed and perplexed.

  ‘It’s a real shame,’ he said. He was playing with a cup of coffee on the desk, flicking the handle backwards and forwards.

  ‘I’ve already told you,’ I said. ‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t steal anything. It’s a set-up. I’ve been set up.’

  ‘Why did you sign the caution then?’ he asked. ‘You’ve admitted that you did it.’

  ‘You know what?’ I said. ‘I just couldn’t be bothered to go through the whole palaver. If I continued denying it, there was going to be the court case and everything else, and whatever happened, my time here was finished. I thought it was best just to take the medicine.’

  ‘Just take the medicine?’ He continued to pat the cup back and forth. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Really. I’m not a thief. I’m not interested in money, and I certainly wasn’t going to steal from the hotel wages.’

  ‘So,’ he mulled this over. ‘Who do you think set you up?’

  ‘Well…’ I paused. I knew perfectly well who’d done for me. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Anthony stood up and came round to me. ‘Promise you didn’t steal the cash?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Why on earth did you sign that caution?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, and I really didn’t. ‘I think I was done. Thank you for having me here. I’ve enjoyed it.’

  At the door we shook hands and he gave me a pat on the shoulder. ‘I don’t know what to make of you, Kim,’ he said. ‘You always were a strange one. But I’ll miss you.’

  A few of the waiters were just settling down for their lunch. I gave them a wave. ‘Goodbye,’ I said, ‘and thank you.’

  Oliver and Roland followed me outside. Roland shook my hand and Oliver gave me a hug. And as ever we parted with a quip.

  ‘I thought I warned you not to steal from the hotel’s wages,’ he said.

  ‘You know me,’ I said, ‘never been very good at taking advice.’

  He rumpled my hair, his Adam’s apple quivering in his throat. ‘Would you like me to get Darren?’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother.’

  I cuffed him on the elbow, and with a wave I was on my way.

  It was a very abrupt end to my career at the Knoll House. It wasn’t even yet lunchtime. And as I walked down the drive for the last time, I felt a burning wave of exaltation. I had no idea what I was going to do next or where my life would take me. But the thought of this open road that stretched before me was quite thrilling.
/>   I was in two minds whether to go straight to the ferry, but in the end I decided to pay a last call to Cally’s house. If she was in, then all well and good; if she was not, then I would leave her a fond note.

  I found her in her morning room. It was filled with light from those huge windows that stretched to the ceiling. Leaning against the wall by the door were a stack of paintings. Cally was sitting on the sofa, with a box of Kleenex beside her. She had been crying and she looked drawn, the sunlight etching out the lines around her eyes and her mouth.

  I had left my bags by the front door. I did not kiss her or touch her, but sat down on one of the armchairs. For a while, we just looked out through the window.

  It’s funny what happens when there is so much that ought to be said. You end up saying practically nothing at all.

  I wanted to tell her that I was sorry. Even though I already knew the answer, I wanted to know if it really was over. I suppose, too, I wanted to thank her for everything that she had brought into my life.

  I wondered if we could still make a go of it; should I at least try?

  But in my heart, I knew it was hopeless.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ I said at length.

  She looked at me with tired, puffy eyes and picked up her packet of cigarettes. She studied them for a moment and then just tossed the packet over her shoulder.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I came to say goodbye.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She started to cry again, the tears trickling down her nose. I could feel the tears starting to stab at my own eyes. ‘I’m not very good at goodbyes.’

  ‘Neither am I.’

  We looked at each other, almost shyly, and then smiled.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, getting up. ‘Thank you. You’ve been wonderful. You are wonderful.’

  Cally got up, and suddenly, and for the first time that I had ever known her, she looked frail. It was as if the last week had sapped the very life out of her.

  She followed me out of the room and we stood in the passageway clinging to each other. ‘Please don’t get in touch,’ she said. She was crying and the breath was catching in her throat in great sobs. ‘Please don’t call. Please don’t write. I don’t want to see you again – I can’t see you again. Otherwise…’ She trailed off.

  I kissed her. Her lips were cracked and dry. ‘It’s been difficult enough bringing it to this,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I could ever resist you again.’

  She was clutching onto my arm as I walked to the door. ‘I love you,’ she said. Her face was wet with tears.

  ‘Goodbye.’ I shouldered my Bergen. It was hot outside, the sun beating down. I walked across the yard.

  When I had crossed the yard, I turned to look back. The door was already shut.

  I was once caught up in an avalanche.

  I had been skiing off-piste with four friends in the Three Valleys. I was second in line and we were skiing just below a ridge. The snow was thick and deep, almost a solid block. The last skier in the line schussed straight along the ridge, cutting through the snow like a cheese wire. There was a crack and the whole slab of snow jolted downwards. At first, it started quite slowly, but within seconds it was a solid wave of snow, sweeping away all before it.

  Immediately, instinct and adrenalin took over. At first I was skiing along at the edge of the avalanche, heading straight downhill, riding my luck. But the snow was starting to break up. I skied flat out to the side, heading hard for some rocks that were perched above the pounding snow.

  I hit the rocks at full tilt. One ski snapped in half and the other spiralled off into the roiling river of snow that seethed beneath my feet. I banged my head and was rolling away to the side when I snatched at an outcrop. I clung to the rock as the avalanche thundered into the valley below.

  For a minute, two minutes, I stayed there listening to the distant roar and watching the clouds of powder puffing up through the trees.

  The adrenalin began to ebb. I had bitten my tongue and could taste the metallic tang of blood. I was still numb. Very gradually I sent probes out around my body, checking to see if anything was broken. Would it be hospital for me? Or would it be just bed rest? Maybe I wasn’t hurt at all and in a few minutes I’d be hitting the bar with my friends and toasting the loss of another of our nine lives.

  And that is how I felt in those first few minutes after the end of our relationship. I stood in her driveway, my ears buzzing with the roaring rumble. For a few minutes it felt as if I had been thrown violently in all directions, my guts and my heart in total turmoil. Then I turned and walked up the driveway, and slowly my brain was met with silence. Just as I did lying on that rock in the Alps I could feel myself sending out probes, trying to work out how badly I’d been hurt.

  As I wandered along the road to catch the ferry for the last time, my numbed brain was in tailspin.

  I slouched along the road, hands in my pockets. I looked out to the sea. I wished that I had skinny-dipped more. It was one of those things I’d always planned to do; I felt like I had missed my chance.

  I was vaguely aware of a white car coming towards me. It was going too fast and I heard its engine screaming. The car weaved and sped past and I caught a brief glimpse of a driver and a passenger.

  Ahead of me the car stopped. The engine revved, and I could hear it coming back towards me again. The car roared past in reverse. It was a white golf GTi. In the driver’s seat was Greta, wearing a frilly purple top. By her side was, of all people, Darren.

  I stopped walking and stood by the side of the road. I wondered what she was going to do next.

  Greta reversed ten or fifteen yards behind me. Then, with a slight crunching of the gears, she began driving past me for the third time.

  The car glided past at no more than walking pace, and as she passed, Greta blew me a kiss, lips puckered and hand outstretched.

  I looked down into the car; Darren had his hand on Greta’s knee. He watched me through the window, his face a mask of the most perfect indifference.

  Greta’s GTi disappeared into the distance and for some time I remained rooted to the spot. Greta and Darren, together at last. Was there ever a couple that was more beautifully matched?

  Very soon I had done my sums and had come to the only logical answer. Darren had seen me kissing Louise. Obviously, he would have shared this succulent gossip. These two facts led ineluctably to the following deduction: Greta would have not wasted one single second in telling Cally that her so-called boyfriend had been spotted kissing a beautiful woman in the snug of the local pub. Which was to be demonstrated. Quod erat demonstandrum.

  CHAPTER 17

  I was surprised. I had not expected it, but I was enjoying myself.

  We had had a gin and tonic, and he had ordered a bottle of Chateau Musar. I didn’t know much about wine from the Lebanon, but it was one of the most extraordinary wines that I had ever tasted. To this day, it is the only red that I could recognise in a blind tasting. But in the late eighties, Chateau Musar was still a cult wine and had yet to be established as an absolute classic.

  We were at a corner table in the Royal Automobile Club in Pall Mall. My host had his back to the wall, so that he could monitor every person in the room. Not that he did though. In fact, it seemed as if all his attention and considerable charms were focused entirely on me.

  He was telling me stories of derring-do, outrageous stories so downright bizarre that they were beyond fiction. He was like a favourite uncle, with an endless fund of the most extraordinary anecdotes, yet at the same time riveted by my every word.

  I was utterly enthralled, captivated. I had never heard the like. It was a glimpse into a weird new world, of which I had heard tale, but had never before experienced. After just half an hour, I knew with every fibre of my being that this was the world in which I wanted to immerse myself.

  Mike Hamill was red in the face and laughing. His jowly beard and thick thatch of brown hair were juddering in syncopated rhythm with his belly. He certainly didn’t
look anything like how I imagined a red top reporter would be. I’d thought he might be some hatchet-faced reptile in a cheap suit and the classic reporter’s trench coat. But instead, he was immaculate. It is one of the oddities of Fleet Street that the more downmarket the newspaper the smarter the reporters. Tabloid reporters will, without exception, wear smart suits. On the other hand, the reporters on the Guardian or the Independent will usually be found in jeans and a black leather jacket. Mr Hamill was wearing a perfectly tailored single-breasted blue suit, a white silk handkerchief in his top pocket, gleaming black lace-ups, a double-cuffed cream shirt set off by classic gold cufflinks.

  The RAC was also not really the sort of place that you’d expect to be meeting a Sun reporter. I’d thought we might be meeting in some dingy pub, but this opulent dining room could have held its own against any dining room in London. It was spacious and airy, with high ceilings and flooded with light. The carpets were thick, the chairs comfortable, while the staff were easy-going and fun. It didn’t have any of the stuffiness that you expect to find in the London clubs.

  ‘So tell me one more time, dear boy,’ he wheezed. ‘What happened with the pudding? Don’t miss out one single detail! I want it all!

  I want everything!’

  I smiled and brushed my tie. I was looking as smart as I knew how, and was wearing a grey suit, white shirt and a blue tie that I’d filched from my father.

  Mike had already heard the story once, but, as I was beginning to realise, the best stories are always worth telling twice. So I repeated the tale of how Pat the TV star had been covered in trifle and cream after shunting into Oliver.

  ‘What a picture that would have been!’ he said. ‘Still! As regards pictures, we didn’t do too badly, did we now?’

  Indeed not. In fact, the pictures had turned out just about perfectly.

  The Sun’s photographer must have been lurking in the dunes practically before dawn and had got the most tasteful shots of Pat the soap star striding naked into the Studland surf with his new girlfriend. She looked great; Pat, perhaps not so much.

  They had made the front page and had a centre page spread, though a couple had been carefully pixelated. As I was quickly learning, the Sun had a number of unwritten rules, not least that bums and breasts were fine, but that full frontal nudity was most definitely not fine.