Caron glanced at her watch. ‘I have to close up the gallery.’
‘Oh.’ Grant got to his feet. ‘I’m delaying you.’
‘No,’ Caron said. ‘I didn’t mean that. It would be nice to carry on talking about Emma and Leo. We just need to move on to a bar or get a bite to eat. If you haven’t got anything else lined up.’
‘No,’ Grant said. ‘Nothing.’
‘I know a good place just round the corner.’
‘Fine,’ Grant said. ‘That would be nice.’ He and Caron smiled shyly at each other.
‘I need to lock some things away,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ She grabbed her handbag and then scuttled out into the back office of the gallery.
Grant kicked back on his chair while he waited. Love was bad enough, but unrequited love was really bad news. It would be nicer to go out rather than to go home to an empty flat. An unexpected buzz of anticipation was tingling inside him. Caron was a very attractive woman. She seemed very genuine – so concerned about Emma’s well-being. With luck, she’d spare a little bit of that empathy for him too. Grant grinned to himself. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be a complete waste of time, after all.
Chapter Fifty-Six
‘So,’ Leo said. ‘This is an oak tree?’
Isobel barely nodded in acknowledgement. Leo was sitting on a grassy mound which was slightly damp with the evening dew and he was cradling Isobel on his lap. She was wrapped in a blanket, but she was still shivering. There was nothing to her. A slight breeze could blow her away from him and Leo hung on tightly to her as the wind stirred the leaves of the majestic oak beneath which they were sheltering. The tree felt strong and sturdy and as if it knew what was going on – that this could be a matter of life and death.
‘Will this make you feel better?’
She nodded again. ‘Oak trees have ancient restorative powers.’
Leo reached down and pulled out the flask from the hastily-assembled picnic he’d thrown together. It consisted of a packet of Nurofen, some Venos cough remedy – well, you never knew when you might need it – some out-of-date Twiglets and this, the flask of tea.
He poured some out for Isobel. ‘Drink this,’ he told her. ‘This has ancient restorative powers too.’
‘What is it?’
‘Good old, hairy-chested English tea. Typhoo.’
Isobel took a sip.
‘Better?’
‘Much,’ she said with a weak smile.
‘Good.’ Leo felt completely and utterly helpless and he cursed his gender for being so pathetic. He wished he knew what else he could do for her. ‘This is the cure for all human ills.’ He spoke in his most reassuring voice as he urged her to take another sip. ‘Emotional and physical.’
‘Then I’m in very good hands.’
She closed her eyes and sank into his arms. The cup of tea fell to the ground, soaking away instantly as if it had never been there. Isobel’s breathing was laboured. There was such a long gap between gasps, that Leo began to wonder after each one whether she would ever take another breath. Isobel was looking worse by the minute and Leo wished that this bloody oak would hurry up and do its stuff.
He wished, also, that he could have found an oak tree in a more salubrious location, but it was the closest he could find to the flat. Leo nursed Isobel to him and cradled her head, sheltering her from the noise. The rumbling of lorries and buses shook the roots of the oak tree and he hoped it didn’t mind. A few car horns honked and, if he’d had the strength, he would have given them the finger. Leo wondered what the drivers who circled them on this busy traffic roundabout – right in the middle of a major intersection, in the height of the London rush hour – thought about their plight. Did they think of them at all? Did they perhaps assume they were lovers overcome with passion? Or could they tell that they were two frightened beings and that one of them might be dying?
It had grown dark and, after the rush hour passed, the traffic had thinned and the noise dropped to a gentle hum. There was a full moon peeping through the branches at them and, surely, that must be a good omen. Weren’t full moons supposed to be auspicious or something? Leo regretted that he didn’t know more about these things. Isobel was fast asleep in his arms and he’d got cramp in his knees and a very numb bum. He couldn’t tell if she was any better or worse. Leo wished he had some useful caring skills or talents other than singing passable Karaoke renditions of 1980s’ hit pop tunes. A working knowledge of alternative therapies would come in particularly handy just now.
Isobel shifted in his arms as he picked her up and carried her home. She weighed nothing, so he didn’t even have to stagger up the stairs with her.
In the flat, he gently laid her listless body on the bed and pulled the duvet over her, tucking it in round her tiny frame. She stirred slightly and he kissed her on the lips, barely brushing them for fear of hurting her.
Leo then lit a lavender candle – a remnant from one of Emma’s frequent overnight stays here. He had never thought it would come in useful, but it was relaxing and healing, he was sure. Something like that. Emma would know. Could he ring Emma and tell her his troubles? Would she come over and help him? She was a great woman, and he was sure she’d know what to do, but he thought that might be pushing it too far. He didn’t know what to do and Emma was so good at sorting things out. She always had been – it was her forte. Even though she hadn’t got a wand she could act like she had. Leo wondered how she’d fare with a fast-fading fairy.
It struck him that he couldn’t phone his family. He wasn’t close enough to them to confide in any of them about what was going on, and that saddened him more than he could say. Leo realised that he’d spent years being too busy and too lazy to return their calls or to visit them. He was emotionally detached from all the people who should matter the most in his life. They had no idea who he was as a person. No more, indeed, than he had any idea who they were. It scared him that he had no one other than Emma who understood him as a person. And he wasn’t sure that she did, most of the time. He wasn’t sure that he did. Leo had relied on Emma too much, and he knew that now. Without her, he was lost and without a lifeline.
Isobel tried to speak and Leo bent down next to her. ‘Hush, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Just rest now. Go to sleep.’
And her eyes fluttered closed once more. Leo pulled up the leather chair from the corner of his room, pushing all the clothes piled on it to the floor and sat down. He was going to try to stay awake and watch over Isobel. He needed a shower and a shave and certainly a change of clothes. His suit was crumpled and smelled of damp grass and diesel fumes. Leo hadn’t eaten either, but he had no appetite. He’d go to get the bottle of brandy for succour, but he didn’t dare to leave her, not even for a moment. She was too good at disappearing and Leo couldn’t face coming back to find an empty bed. He let his head drop into his hands. The thought of Isobel leaving made him feel sick to his stomach. How would he carry on if she left him alone? Leo knew that whatever happened, he was going to have to try to sort this out himself. The thought terrified him. He was firmly ensconced in the generation that shirked their responsibilities – those who lived for today and didn’t save for their old age, ignoring the fact that the population of the country as a whole owed over a trillion pounds in debt – to which Leo made a significant contribution. They squandered their fertility until they were too old to reproduce and they pretended that they could conquer all illnesses, avoid ageing and even cheat death. And Leo had bought into all of it – until now.
If he’d believed in God, he’d pray now and he’d promise to give up all his wordly goods to save Isobel – but he didn’t because, of course, like everyone else, he was spiritually bereft. The nearest Leo had ever come to being spiritual was wearing holey underpants. Now he wanted to face his responsibilities, taking them head on like a speeding train. All he desired was to be happy and to settle down and have 2.4 children. Although he had always wondered what point four of a child would look like.
&n
bsp; Leo took a glance at the clock. This, in a very different way from the Thornton Jones party, was also going to be a very long night.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
This is proving to be a very long night. I gulp down my wine. It’s as good an anaesthetic as any. The weird thing is that I’ve wanted to come to this restaurant for ages – it’s the current ‘in’ place to go in London. Of course, that means it’s packed and over-priced and the service is terrible. Their stick-thin surly waiters are as legendary as their small portions.
I pick my way through my poussins. Little chickens. Nothing more grand than that, despite the posh name. I look up at Alec. He has been talking for a very long time about investments. I try, and fail, to stifle a yawn.
‘I find unit trusts so fascinating,’ Alec says. ‘Do you?’
‘Fascinating,’ I echo vaguely. For a man with great looks and a trendy name, Alec is proving to be a crashing bore. The only positive thing I can say about him is that he would fit in perfectly well at family parties that involve my sisters’ tiresome husbands, Dreadful Dickie and Awful Austin. He could become Atrocious Alec. Does he have to sit so absolutely upright? Perhaps he isn’t suave and sophisticated after all. Perhaps he’s just starchy.
We exhaust his knowledge of art in about ten minutes. He looks as if he knows what he’s talking about, but he’s a bullshitter. And he’s the worst type of bullshitter, because he doesn’t think he is one; he actually thinks he knows what he’s talking about. He didn’t buy anything from the gallery either, which automatically puts a black mark against him.
Alec works in the City in one of the huge financial institutions, like Leo. But unlike Leo, he’s enthralled by his work. And thinks everyone else should be. Whereas, the only head for figures that Leo has is for female ones.
I had a late and sleepless night last night, plus an early start at my shrink’s. It’s no wonder I’m exhausted. It isn’t yet nine o’clock and already I can feel myself sliding down my chair with fatigue. I’m still trying to fight sleep, when the waiter comes to top up our glasses. Alec puts his hand over his wine glass. ‘No. Goodness. Not for me thanks,’ he says with a disapproving look. ‘One glass is more than enough.’
‘Slug it in,’ I instruct the waiter. ‘One glass isn’t nearly enough.’ Through a rapidly developing drunken haze, I grin cheesily at Alec.
My date looks faintly alarmed. ‘I have an early start in the morning.’
I think Alec looks like the type who jogs. At six o’clock in the morning. He is a high maintenance boyfriend. The sort who wouldn’t appreciate waking up next to ancient sheep-patterned pyjamas. He’d want something filmy from Agent Provocateur on his woman.
I stare at him through bleary eyes.
‘I think I’ll get the bill,’ he says crisply, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Shall we split it?’
Uptight and cheap, I think bitterly. No dessert, no coffee. And, after my measly main course, I’m still starving. Yet, I know in my heart of hearts that it is definitely time to go.
Outside, on the street, the fresh air hits me. Suddenly, I feel very tired and very alone. My limbs are heavy and aching.
Alec is shrugging on his coat. It isn’t cold enough for a coat. My father will be the only other person in London who’ll be wearing a coat tonight.
I put two fingers in my mouth and whistle for a cab that’s passing – a very useful trick that Leo taught me. Alec doesn’t look impressed by my skill. Obligingly, the driver pulls up in front of me. The end of this interminable evening is in sight.
‘Well,’ Alec says tightly. ‘Thank you for a pleasant evening.’
‘Yes,’ I say politely. ‘It’s been very . . . very . . . Well. Thanks.’ We both know that it has been perfectly awful. ‘Come into the gallery some time.’
‘I will,’ he says. And we both know that he will never darken its door again.
He waves briskly and then marches off down the street – into the balmy summer night in his coat. If I’d turned round and looked again just a moment later, I would have seen that damn woman – that Isobel – in exactly the place where Alec had been, wearing a very oversized coat and a satisfied smile on her face. Then I would have realised that there is something very strange going on in my life. But I don’t. I’m so grateful to have hailed a cab, I climb into it without a backward glance and collapse back in the seat.
‘Where to, love?’ the driver wants to know.
Before I know what I’m doing, I rattle off Leo’s address – I blame the drink myself.
The cab swings out into the evening traffic.
‘Oh Leo,’ I wail loudly. ‘Why do I still love you?’
The cab driver, I note, closes his dividing window.
In the end, I had the taxi driver drop me at the bottom of Leo’s road when I see that the Doner Kebab takeaway is still open. I buy myself the biggest, greasiest kebab on the menu and it tastes a lot better than the scraggy poussins that I paid ten times the price for in the trendy, rip-off eaterie.
Now I’m sitting on the bonnet of Leo’s manky old car, Ethel, opposite his flat. And really I have no idea why – except that I know it’s another hundred and fifty quid of psychiatrist’s fees up in smoke. I also need to feel close to Leo – in distance if nothing else. It’s still relatively early and yet Leo’s bedroom light is on and the curtains are closed. They’re probably curled up in bed together having just made mad, passionate love, I think, and the chilli sauce from my kebab burns an acidic hole in my stomach. Thank goodness there aren’t any shadows moving against the curtains. That would have been too hard to bear. I might have been tempted to brick in Leo’s windows.
I seethe as I sit here. I want my boyfriend back and, make no mistake, I’m going to get him. By hook or by crook. All I have to do is come up with a foolproof strategy. How hard can that be? I’m an intelligent and resourceful woman. Intelligent and resourceful enough to know that it’s time I was going home. The walk back to my own flat isn’t too far even though it will be filled with only my lonely footsteps.
Jumping down from the bonnet, I brush the dirt from my skirt. It’s a shame that Leo never washes his car, but then the grime is probably the only thing holding Ethel together. Leo, with his usual scant appreciation of security, has left his car window open. Screwing up the paper that my doner kebab has been wrapped in, I push it in through the window. Punishment for Leo making me sit outside his flat without him. The car will stink in the morning. No doubt Leo won’t even notice.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
‘How did you get on with Emma last night?’ Lard asked.
‘I didn’t “get on” with Emma,’ Grant admitted. ‘I “got on” with her best friend, Caron.’ He gave Lard a sheepish grin.
‘What? Are you turning into Leo?’ Lard wanted to know as he crammed another chocolate croissant into his mouth. All this emotional turmoil was doing his diet no good at all.
‘I hope not,’ Grant said. ‘I just realised that it was a very bad idea to pursue his ex.’ The fact that Caron had been great company had certainly helped to persuade him of the fact. But it was more than that. He didn’t want anything to spoil his friendship with Leo. ‘I want to be his mate again, not his enemy.’
Grant looked at the clock. ‘Speaking of which,’ he said, ‘where is the Boy Wonder? This is very late, even for Leo.’ It was nearly lunchtime and they’d still heard nothing from him.
‘Perhaps he’s going for a personal best?’
Grant craned his neck and checked in Old Baldy’s office. A frown creased his forehead. ‘Isobel isn’t here either.’ He suddenly felt a frisson of worry. ‘Isn’t that odd?’
‘Seeing them fly across the sky on balloons is what I call odd,’ Lard said flatly. ‘This doesn’t even register as a blip.’
Grant scratched at his ear. ‘Something’s not right.’
‘He’s probably still in bed,’ Lard said. ‘Ring him.’
‘I can’t ring him,’ Grant puffed. ‘He’s still not talking to me. We
need a bit of time to make our peace. You do it.’
Lard tutted. ‘I hope you realise that all this falling out is giving me dyspepsia,’ he complained as he reached for the phone with one hand and another croissant with the other.
Leo could hear the phone ringing in the hall and realised that he must, after all, have dropped off in the wee small hours. Glancing over at Isobel, he was relieved to see that she was still here at least. But she didn’t look good. She was fast asleep, but her breathing was troubled and her face was contorted with pain.
Leo’s legs were numb where he’d been sleeping in the chair. Tiptoeing out to the hall, he closed the bedroom door so that he didn’t disturb Isobel and picked up the phone. When Leo heard Lard’s cheery, comforting voice he nearly passed out with relief.
‘Mate,’ Lard said. ‘Where are you? There are cakes here for the eating.’
‘Isobel’s sick,’ Leo replied. Even he could hear the panic and strain in his voice. ‘She’s very sick. I think she has to go back.’ His throat was so clogged with emotion that he could hardly speak. This was the first time he’d voiced his fears. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Leave it to Uncle Lard,’ his friend said and hung up.
As Lard hung up the phone he turned to Grant with a worried look. ‘Isobel’s sick,’ he said. ‘She has to go back.’
‘Go back where?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lard admitted with a grimace. ‘To where she comes from, I presume.’ He shrugged. ‘Leo sounded really screwed up. I think he might need our help. He doesn’t know what to do.’
‘Do we?’
Grant and Lard both turned and looked at the computer together.
‘Not yet,’ Lard said, flexing his fingers and cracking them in a decisive manner.
It’s a Kind of Magic Page 23