by Peter James
She did not laugh. ‘I’ll see you at one o’clock on Thursday, then.’ She paused and added sweetly, ‘Henry.’
‘What – what’s your name?’ he blurted.
‘Poppy,’ she said, and left it at that, without revealing her surname.
His heart sank, very slightly, at this tiny element of mistrust. He hung up the phone and watched across the road. She was replacing the phone and smiling – yes, smiling! She lay back. ‘Poppy,’ he said to himself. Yes, he liked that name. Suddenly he realized he was humming ‘Waltzing Matilda’; it was something he always did on the rare occasions when he was happy.
*
The tune deserted him at ten to one on Thursday, when he arrived at the restaurant. It was pleasant enough, yes, but not romantic. The tables were small and too close together, with hard wooden seats; it was too crowded and cramped. There was no mandolin player, either, although one of the waiters did occasionally sing a few bars of ‘O Sole Mio’ as he weaved his way to and from the chef’s hatch.
He informed a harassed man in an open-neck shirt of his reservation.
‘Ah, Signor Hairy,’ he said, finding the name amid a page of ballpoint scribblings. He guided him to a table at the back of the room. Henry sat, and began to rehearse his opening line.
‘Drink, Signor?’ Henry coughed with surprise, nearly swallowing his breath-freshener spray. What drink would impress her?
‘Vodka martini on the rocks, with a twist,’ he said, emulating his heroes, who always emulated James Bond.
‘A tweest, Signor?’ He looked anxiously past the waiter; she could appear at any moment.
‘Of lemon,’ he said.
‘Limonada?’ The man was infuriating him.
‘No, no, lemon; forget the lemon.’
‘One vodka martini, no lemon? Correct. Martini Rosso or Bianco?’
Struth, he thought. When Bond ordered that drink, the waiters always knew exactly what he wanted. ‘Dry white vermouth,’ he said patiently.
A short, dumpy girl was talking to the waiter in the open shirt. Henry looked beyond her at the street. A group of businessmen crowded in the door.
‘Onna the rocks?’ said the voice.
He nodded. ‘Yes, on the rocks.’ Then he changed his mind. ‘No, er, not on the rocks. Shaken – shaken, not stirred.’
The dumpy girl stood behind the waiter, patiently, smiling. The waiter moved and she stretched out a hand; it smelt of expensive perfume.
‘Henry?’
Henry stared at her. Who the hell was this, he thought? And would she please go away, he had an important date. Was she a fan? He did not want Poppy to come in here and see him talking to her. He wanted her to see him alone at the table, calm and suave, sipping his vodka martini.
‘I’m Poppy!’ The words did not immediately register; he was still willing her to go away, watching the door and not wishing to be discourteous to a fan, of whom he had far too few, all at the same time.
‘I’m Poppy.’ The words registered like a kick in the shin.
Mechanically, he stood up, shook her hand, found a smile from somewhere inside him, put it on his face and bade her to sit down. A joke, was his immediate reaction: Poppy must have chickened out and despatched a friend instead. But when she spoke, he knew that no, this was indeed the girl he had been talking to. Disappointment seeped into his body like rainwater into a leaky shoe. She was all wrong. He stared across at her, wondering whether to cut and run now and save himself the price of lunch. But no, he knew he was committed to it.
Perhaps she would offer to split the bill at the end? He chided himself for being so petty. It wasn’t her fault he had made such a ridiculous mistake.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Why not,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll have a spritzer.’
Henry looked for the waiter with one eye and studied Poppy with the other. Black blazer; open-neck white blouse; twinset and pearls; hair straight and short. Too short for her face. She had made a lot of effort over her appearance; she reminded him of a gift-wrapped box of chocolates. He caught the waiter’s attention and ordered the spritzer. The waiter knew what it was, which was more than Henry did. Poppy folded her hands and laid them in her lap. She smiled across. Too much weight, he thought; she would look much better if she was slimmer
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Hello, Mystery Man.’
Henry smiled. Might as well be cheerful, try and make the best of it. The menus arrived. They chose their food and he ordered a bottle of Barolo; he knew little about wine, but he knew Barolos were sturdy. He felt like getting drunk – drunk enough to forget the hopes he had cherished throughout this long week.
She raised her glass. ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘Henry Henry.’ Then she bit her lip, realizing from his expression that it was something about which he was sensitive.
‘It’s a nice name,’ she said, very quickly. ‘It’s elegant.’
They chinked glasses.
Henry knew his name would need explaining; it always did.
‘A christening joke,’ he said dully. ‘My father was a stand-up comic. He found life outside the stage so sad, he tried to carry on his routine the whole time; tried to make the whole of his life a joke. Now he’s dead and I have to continue the joke.’ He raised his glass and nearly drained it.
‘That’s sad,’ she said. ‘But you mustn’t think of it as a joke; it’s a very classy name; it’s unusual and it suits you.’
She smiled again.
Henry realized she was prettier than he had at first thought; he felt guilty about his hasty judgment of her. ‘What do you do?’
She was a kitchen planner, she told him. He wasn’t exactly sure what a kitchen planner did, but he suspected it was important in kitchen planning to appear slightly plump, to give the impression of a healthy appetite and the enjoyment of a good kitchen. ‘What do you do?’ she salvoed back.
Rather nervously, he told her. What would anyone think, he wondered, of a man in his thirties who wrote unknown romantic novels?
‘How wonderful! An author!’ She said the word slowly, relishing it, as though it were a piece of fine steak. She leaned forward a little, her eyes shining. ‘I’ve never met an author before.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not very well known.’
‘Henry Henry?’ she said thoughtfully.
‘No, I write under a nom-de-plume: Sebastian de Champlain.’
She allowed herself a slight giggle. ‘Sebastian de Champlain – how frightfully grand. But that does ring a bell. I love romantic novels, you see. I read them all the time.’
‘You do?’ He became aware that hope had crept inside him, quietly, when he was not looking.
‘Yes; tell me some of the titles of your books?’
‘Desire of the Heart?’ he replied. ‘Summer Wind? The Scent of the Orchid?’
‘Goodness!’ she squealed. ‘I’m reading The Scent of the Orchid at the moment! It is so – real – you must have spent a long time in Singapore researching it.’
Henry smiled and nodded. It was not appropriate, now, he thought, to tell her that he had not been to Singapore, but had gleaned the information from a film and a couple of books he had borrowed from the library.
‘Gosh!’ she said.
Halfway through their main course, Henry Henry ordered a second bottle of wine. He had never met a fan before, never been so flattered and complimented before.
He had forgotten all about the girl in the window opposite. Poppy and he had already made a date to go and see a film that evening, and a concert tomorrow. On Saturday, she would cook a very special meal for him at her flat.
‘Who’d have thought this could happen from a crossed line?’ She giggled.
He smiled back, almost too happy to talk.
‘Where was it you said you lived?’ she said.
‘Pembroke Terrace.’
‘It’s an extraordinary coincidence,’ she said, taking another long sip of her wine. ‘I have a friend who lives in Pembroke Terrace.
I was just dialling her number on Monday night when I got you instead. Incredible, isn’t it!’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Incredible.’
‘She’s quite a character, you know – I’ll introduce you one day. Some time ago, nine or ten months I think, she got absolutely drenched in a rain storm. She took off all her clothes and was trying to dry herself in front of the fire when she looked out of the window and saw some pervert leering at her from the other side of the street.’
‘Really?’ said Henry. ‘Good lord. I suppose there are some pretty peculiar people who live in that street.’
She giggled. ‘She’s wicked, you know. Do you know what she does now? Every evening, she takes all her clothes off and lies in front of that same window; and every evening, bang on cue, this fellow appears and gawps at her. You really must meet her some time, she’s a hoot.’
‘Yes, I’d enjoy that,’ said Henry.
‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers!’ he replied, raising his glass.
‘To our crossed line,’ she said.
‘Yes, to our crossed line.’
By Peter James
The Roy Grace Series
DEAD SIMPLE LOOKING GOOD DEAD
NOT DEAD ENOUGH DEAD MAN’S FOOTSTEPS
DEAD TOMORROW DEAD LIKE YOU
DEAD MAN’S GRIP NOT DEAD YET
DEAD MAN’S TIME WANT YOU DEAD
Other Novels
DEAD LETTER DROP ATOM BOMB ANGEL
BILLIONAIRE POSSESSION DREAMER
SWEET HEART TWILIGHT PROPHECY
ALCHEMIST HOST THE TRUTH
DENIAL FAITH PERFECT PEOPLE
Short Stories
SHORT SHOCKERS: COLLECTION ONE
SHORT SHOCKERS: COLLECTION TWO
A TWIST OF THE KNIFE
Children’s Novel
GETTING WIRED!
Novella
THE PERFECT MURDER
First published 2014 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2014 by Macmillan
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ISBN 978-1-4472-7660-9
Copyright © Really Scary Books/Peter James 2014
Roy Grace ® is a registered trade mark of Really Scary Books Limited
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