Virtually as soon as Jasminder could count, she worked in the shop with her elder brothers, stacking shelves and sweeping the floor, and throughout her school years she had taken money from customers with one hand while doing her homework with the other. By the time her father had died a few years ago, the tiny shop had become a small chain of grocery stores in the city, which her brothers now ran very successfully.
Unlike her brothers, though, there had never been any question of Jasminder joining the business. She had been a bright girl and the apple of her father’s eye – unable to resume his own profession, he had been determined that his youngest child would break through the barriers he had found in Great Britain. The day she’d received the acceptance letter from Durham, her father had spent the afternoon announcing the news proudly to every customer who’d come into the shop.
She’d felt guilty from time to time for disappointing her parents. Her father hadn’t been able to understand why she had chosen to become an academic lawyer and work for civil liberties charities rather than making a lot of money in a City firm. Her mother had been mystified by her failure to get married and provide them with more grandchildren. Jasminder herself wasn’t sure about having children. She liked kids, and was a loving aunt to her brothers’ offspring, especially little Ali, a doe-eyed girl who had just turned seven and was both clever and full of energy. But she was also well aware that being a mother and having a high-powered career was difficult; too often both roles could suffer.
Yet Jasminder knew her parents’ disappointment was minor compared to their pride in her. Even now, years after her mother had moved to India following her husband’s death, she still kept a close watch on her daughter’s career from a distance. When Jasminder had recently made her debut on Question Time, her mother had alerted half the Kapoor clan in the Punjab to watch her famous daughter on the BBC.
As she put away the vacuum cleaner, Jasminder reflected that she hadn’t actually saved herself any time by agreeing to Laurenz cooking dinner at her flat, rather than going out with him to a restaurant. As soon as she’d got home she’d realised that the place was even more of a bombsite than usual. It had taken her over an hour to make it presentable and she hoped he wouldn’t notice the stacks of papers she had hidden behind the sofa, or open the door to the hall cupboard where she had stuffed two bags of recycling that she had forgotten to put out for collection.
But her anxiety about the state of her place dissolved as soon as Laurenz arrived, with a large carrier bag in one hand and a bunch of early daffodils in the other. After she’d found a vase, he calmly ordered her to go and get on with her work, and by the time he summoned her to the kitchen, she’d marked six essays. He’d made mushroom omelettes with a green salad, and there was a lemon tart and a bowl of berries for dessert, and as she sat down at the table he poured her a glass of Sancerre from the fridge. The conversation flowed easily as they ate and she was glad he kept off the subject of his divorce.
After dinner they moved into the living room for coffee. It seemed natural to sit together on the sofa in front of the fire. He asked her about her lecture, which he had already said he was sorry to have missed, and she told him about the hostile response it had drawn from some of the King’s College audience. She said, ‘I’m getting used to being shouted down now – by both sides. People see things in such black-and-white terms. They either think the Government is intent on spying on every single thing we do – reading all our emails, monitoring our Facebook pages and every Twitter message – or else they think that no one should be allowed to wear a headscarf or a beard, that nothing is being done to protect us and we need vigilantes on every street corner.
‘I’m exaggerating, of course, but that’s how it sometimes seems. Most of those I meet come from the first camp and it is very difficult to persuade them that there is a sensible middle ground.’ She stopped and took a sip of her coffee, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Here she was, sitting next to a handsome man in a romantic situation, and she had to bang on about civil liberties. She said, with a weak smile, ‘Sorry about the monologue. I suppose the point I’m trying to make is that I’m not the firebrand people think I am.’
‘That’s okay. And I don’t think you should care too much about what people think. As long as you know what you are, that’s all that really matters. I’m an expert on misperceptions.’ He suddenly imitated with comic precision the voice of a dinner-party companion: ‘Private banking sounds absolutely fascinating, Mr Hansen.’
Jasminder laughed. For a moment, she wondered if she should tell Laurenz about the head-hunter’s recent approach. Rosamund Butler had originally asked her not to talk to anyone about it, but in their face-to-face she had said Jasminder could mention it to her parents or her partner if she wanted to. Since her father was dead, her mother was in India and she didn’t have a partner, she wondered if she was allowed a surrogate instead. But she told herself it couldn’t be Laurenz, since she hardly knew him…
He put his coffee cup down on the table and moved closer to her. ‘I hope you won’t mind, Jasminder,’ he said, as his arm slid along the back of the sofa behind her shoulders, ‘but I’ve been wanting to kiss you for the last two hours, so you’d better say no right now if you don’t want me to.’
In the morning, while Laurenz was out getting croissants from the bakery across the road and Jasminder was making coffee, she decided to tell him about the head-hunter’s approach. He’d said that he must be off straight after breakfast, which was in some ways a relief (she was thinking of work again) though part of her would have liked him to stay for a while. She felt an ease with him she had never experienced so early on with other boyfriends, yet he retained a slight air of detachment that made him, even in their new-found intimacy, a little mysterious. She sensed there was a lot to Laurenz that she would want to get to know.
So she told him about the strange phone call she’d had, and the subsequent meeting with Rosamund Butler. ‘She gave me all these forms to fill in if I decide to apply. I’m not sure what to do.’
‘Do you know which agency it is?’
‘No. There are only three of them to choose from, though: GCHQ, MI5 and MI6.’
‘Are you sure there are only three?’ he asked teasingly.
‘If there’s another one, it’s so secret they couldn’t be looking for a Communications Director.’
They both laughed. Laurenz put his knife down on his plate, and looked thoughtful. ‘You should be flattered, you know.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Whoever it is, they must think a lot of you to make an approach like that. After all, you haven’t exactly been a public supporter of the intelligence services.’
‘I know. My first reaction was that they must have confused me with someone else.’
‘I doubt it. I have to say, it makes me think a lot more of them to know they’re willing to consider you for this post.’
‘Yes, but should I seriously consider it? I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’ He was eating again, his eyes focused on his plate.
‘Well, you know – if I stay true to my beliefs, it could be a disaster. If I don’t – well, I could become a laughing stock. People will say I’ve sold out, that I’ll be doing the work of the very devil I’m always complaining about.’
Laurenz looked up at her thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know, Jasminder. Life’s not that simple. Sometimes you have to compromise your principles a bit in order to achieve the goals you’re being principled about. Then again, sometimes you have to stand firm. I can’t advise you. I don’t know which way this would go. But in my opinion, it’s worth taking it further. After all, if they do offer you the job, you can always say no.’
12
By the time Peggy got home from work, she was starving. After tossing and turning the night before, she’d skipped breakfast in a rush. Then she’d had a quick lunch with her new friend Jasminder Kapoor, but it had only been a salad and a very small one at that
, and because the conversation had been so interesting, Peggy had barely picked at it.
With food on her mind and thinking about what was in the fridge, she opened the door to the flat she shared with Tim in Muswell Hill. She found him in their little kitchen, already preparing supper. Her heart sank. Lately Tim had taken to cooking elaborate vegetarian meals, which were doubtless healthy but left Peggy yearning for the simple joys of a grilled pork chop or a nice bit of steak.
Tonight was no exception. As she lifted the lid of the casserole, her nose was assailed by the strong aroma of stewing cabbage; inspecting the dish, she could also see carrots, onions and a sludgy mass she guessed was aubergine.
‘Put the lid back,’ Tim said from the sink. ‘You’re letting all the steam escape.’
‘Smells delicious,’ she lied.
‘I found the recipe online,’ he said proudly, and Peggy thought, Of course you did.
While Tim finished preparing his vegetarian masterpiece, Peggy suddenly remembered she had a guest coming in an hour. To her surprise, Jasminder had rather shyly explained that she’d been approached about a Government post and had decided to apply, but had confessed bafflement about how to deal with the endless paperwork required in the application process. Peggy could well imagine the daunting pile of forms and explanatory leaflets, so she’d been happy to volunteer to help steer Jasminder through the process – inviting her to bring the forms to the flat this evening.
She couldn’t do much about the smell of cabbage but she could tidy up a bit so she scooted around the sitting room, stacking the magazines and plumping up the cushions on the sofa. She had just finished when Tim called her in to the kitchen for supper.
They sat at the small table where they ate all their meals. Peggy looked without enthusiasm at the vegetable stew in the soup bowl in front of her. There was half a baguette to go with it, though she knew it was the one she had bought two days ago and it should really be turned into breadcrumbs. She wanted to open a bottle of wine, but lately Tim had gone teetotal and it seemed a waste just for her.
‘So how was your day?’ she asked as they started to eat.
‘The usual,’ he said sourly. ‘I taught the Metaphysicals while the students all looked at their iPhones. I’d say it went right over their heads, since all their heads were down.’ He laughed hollowly.
Peggy tried to smile. ‘Some of them must be interested. I mean, they didn’t come to King’s just to text their mates.’
‘You’d be surprised.’ He fiddled with a chunk of dry baguette. ‘Not that I can blame them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In this day and age the Metaphysical Poets seem pretty irrelevant to most people. That’s supposing they’ve heard of them in the first place.’
‘I don’t know about that—’
‘Of course you do. I’m starting to realise how inconsequential it all is.’
‘What is?’
‘I teach people about poems they would never read by choice, written by people they’ve never heard of. That’s what’s inconsequential.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ She’d never heard him be quite so dismissive about his own line of work before. ‘Of course they’ve heard of them and they’re reading them by choice, or they wouldn’t be in your class to begin with.’
‘They just want a degree – a piece of paper that will get them a job.’
‘I can’t believe none of your students is interested. You’ve just had a bad day. And you’ve got your own work to be getting on with.’ She had put her spoon down now.
He shook his head, making it clear she didn’t understand. ‘I could write the world’s greatest monograph on John Donne and it wouldn’t change one thing anywhere. Not one thing.’
‘Why does it have to change anything? Why can’t you be satisfied with writing something new and original that people will enjoy, and maybe learn from?’
He looked at her scornfully then turned back to his stew. Gloom descended on the table. Then she remembered her visitor.
‘I’ve got someone coming over.’
‘What, now?’ he asked, looking alarmed.
‘In a little while. Don’t worry – you haven’t got to entertain them. You can stay in your study.’
‘Who is it?’ he asked accusingly.
She didn’t look at him. ‘Jasminder Kapoor. The woman who gave the lecture I went to a few weeks ago.’
‘What, here? You must be joking. She’s coming to socialise with us?’
‘It isn’t socialising. She wants some help from me. She’s decided to apply for a job with the Civil Service – they approached her, believe it or not – and she’s finding the forms a bit of a nightmare. I offered to help her fill them in.’
‘Why on earth did you do that?’
‘Because she asked me if I would. How could I say no? Besides, she’s very nice, Tim. You’d like her if you gave her half a chance. She’s not what you think.’
Ignoring this, he asked, ‘Does she know who you work for?’
‘No – I just said I was a civil servant at the MOD. But I think she may have guessed. No flies on her.’
‘And that doesn’t bother her?’ he demanded.
‘It doesn’t seem to,’ said Peggy, trying to stay calm. She didn’t like rows, especially with Tim. They never used to have them. She’d always thought he was proud of what she did for a living. He knew she couldn’t talk about the details of it, but previously he’d seemed entirely supportive. She couldn’t help asking, ‘Does it bother you?’ She found her voice wobbling slightly.
He didn’t answer, but only shook his head wearily. Then he said, ‘If Kapoor’s applying for a Government job she’s an even greater phony than I thought. Some radical,’ he added sarcastically. He gave Peggy an angry look. ‘Don’t expect me to play host to her.’
‘I don’t,’ Peggy protested. ‘I told you – you can stay in your study. You don’t even have to say hello.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ He seemed unaccountably furious. ‘In fact, you can have the place to yourselves.’
He stood up suddenly and left the room. Peggy sat at the table, stunned, wondering what she had done to trigger this reaction. Was it really so awful to be helping Jasminder? Turning, she saw through the open door that Tim had his coat on. Without saying goodbye, he left the flat.
Peggy sighed, and looked at her watch. Jasminder would be here any minute. She’d better make coffee. As she stood up to clear the table, she realised her hands were shaking. And she noticed that Tim hadn’t finished his stew.
13
Since the mugging Jasminder had felt uneasy walking by herself in the evenings. It was still only early spring and by the time she emerged from Bounds Green tube station it was dark. As she started to walk to the address Peggy had given her, she felt the by-now familiar tingling sensation in her spine. Outside the station the streets were well lit, with plenty of cars and vans passing in the road. A few people had got off the train with her and, as usual since the mugging, she was alert for anyone following her. She had already looked up the route to Peggy’s flat before she left the charity offices in Camden Town; she didn’t want to be seen consulting her phone – it invited approaches from strangers. She hadn’t always been this nervous. Before the assault she used to travel around by herself anywhere and at any time with never a second thought. It angered her to think that those men had changed her – made her frightened.
As far as she could remember she had never been to Muswell Hill, though it wasn’t that far from where she lived. It had the reputation of being respectably middle-class with streets of large Edwardian villas that no one but well-off professionals could afford to buy nowadays. But Peggy seemed to live on the very edges of it, where it merged into an area of small shops and run-down houses. As she walked Jasminder mused that this must be one of the districts estate agents described as ‘ripe for gentrification’. The rain had stopped now and the sky was clear, though as usual the yellow halogen haze of Londo
n meant the stars were only just discernible.
She was relieved when at last she saw the name of Peggy’s street and turned along it. It was very quiet, with no one else in sight. Then ahead of her she heard a door bang and someone came out of one of the gardens. Her stomach contracted with momentary fear, but as the person passed through the arc of a street lamp she relaxed. It was a young man, thin and gangly, with curly red hair, wearing a student’s duffel coat and trainers. He looked vaguely familiar, and not remotely threatening – geeky but nice. As he neared her on the pavement she smiled politely at him, but to her astonishment he glared back at her as he passed.
She found Peggy’s house; it was the same one as the young man had just emerged from. Pushing the buzzer for the top flat, Jasminder wondered who he could have been. From Peggy’s fulsome description at lunch, her boyfriend Tim was a gentle soul, the kind of academic so absorbed in his researches that he usually didn’t know what day of the week it was. Not the kind of man who stared at strangers with hostility.
Peggy buzzed her in and Jasminder walked two flights up a narrow staircase to the top floor. The flat turned out to be roomy and comfortable, with a large sitting room, and a kitchen off to one side.
‘What a nice flat,’ said Jasminder as Peggy put mugs on a tray.
‘Tim found it,’ she said. ‘We’ve been here about a year. It’s a good neighbourhood and very quiet – at least it is down this street, away from the main road.’
‘Is Tim here?’
‘You’ve just missed him actually. He’s had to go out.’
So the sourpuss she’d passed had been Tim. How strange. Maybe he was annoyed to have a visitor on a weeknight. Jasminder said, ‘I hope I’m not disrupting your evening.’
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