Dishonored

by Maria Barrett

  “You really didn’t have to,” she said, settling herself inside and yanking the window down.

  “No, but I wanted to.” He slammed the door shut “See you next Saturday, then?”

  She smiled. “Yes, see you Saturday.” The young man stepped back and held up his hand in a wave. “Wait!” Indi cried, suddenly leaning out of the window. “I don’t even know your name!”

  The young man laughed. “Jimmy Stone,” he called, as the cab moved off. “Jimmy Alexander Stone!” And he dug his hands in his pockets again, turned and walked away.

  John heard the front door and picked up a magazine, flicking idly through it. He heard Indi drop her things in the hall, then cross to the sitting-room, cracking the door open and poking her head around.

  “Hi, Gramps!” She shook her head, smiling. “You didn’t have to wait up, you know.”

  “I know, I didn’t!” He dropped the magazine on to the sofa. “How’d it go?”

  “Well, as usual.” Indi came in and perched on the edge of the armchair opposite him. “I met a fan,” she said, “after the concert. He came to the stage door and gave me a rose.”

  John smiled. “Very smooth.”

  “He wasn’t, not at all, he was…” She broke off, not quite sure what Jimmy Stone was. “He was nice,” she finished. “Unpretentious, pleasant.”

  “Urgh! Avoid pleasant, Indi, it’s a cover-up for either plain evil or downright boring!”

  Indi laughed. “When did you become such an expert on men, Gramps?”

  “No expert, just a cynic.”

  “Well, I’ll let you know,” she said, “if it’s evil or boring. I’m having a coffee with him next Saturday before the concert.”

  “Oh really?” John raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes really.” She stood. “And don’t pretend you’re not pleased, Grandpa, I can see the smug satisfaction all over your face!”

  John laughed. “I’m pleased, all right! Now go to bed.” It was true, he was pleased; he wanted Indi to meet more young men, get out a bit.

  Indi turned at the door. “Night, Gramps,” she said.

  “Good night, Indu.” He stood himself, reaching to switch off the lamp.

  “Thanks for waiting up.”

  “I told you—”

  “I know,” she interrupted, “you didn’t!” And she blew him a kiss, then disappeared off to bed.

  * * *

  “…Yup, the last train, Gramps, it’s twelve forty-five. No, I’ll get a cab to Victoria and one the other end. No, don’t bother, honestly, it’ll be really late. Yes, OK…” She smiled. “Yup, I will, thanks…OK. Bye!”

  Indi hung up and waited for the extra twenty-pence piece she’d put into the payphone to drop down into the change tray. It clinked its way through, she picked it up and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans, wishing she’d worn something smarter now. Heading off toward the changing area to collect her dress, Indi glanced at her watch and wondered if she might still catch Mary. She hoped so because she didn’t even have a comb with her tonight.

  “Hi, Mary! You look nice.”

  “What d’you want, Indi?” Mary turned away from the small cracked mirror and put her hairbrush back in her handbag. She reached for her lipstick.

  “Can I borrow your brush and a bit of makeup?” Indi asked sidling into the room.

  Mary looked up. “You never wear makeup!” She handed her brush over.

  “No, but I thought I might try a bit of lipstick, something on my eyes?” Indi started to brush her curls and Mary thought how thick and glossy her hair was.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Dinner, with a friend.”

  Mary smiled. “A male friend would that be? The young man you were having a coffee with earlier perhaps?”

  Indi blushed. “Yes.”

  “Come here.” Mary took her little makeup purse out of her handbag and scraped a chair back. “Sit. I’ll do it”

  “Oh great! Thanks, Mary.” Indi plonked herself down and crossed her legs.

  “What about your clothes?”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  “Nothing, I just…”

  Indi swiveled around on the chair. “I don’t look that awful, do I?” She bit her lip.

  Mary placed her hands on Indi’s shoulders and turned her back around. “You don’t look awful at all,” she answered honestly. “I don’t know how you do it but even those tatty old jeans don’t look as bad as they should do.” She tilted Indi’s face back and quickly applied a coat of mascara, a sweep of blusher and a dab of natural lip gloss. “There!”

  Indi stood and peered in the mirror. “Thanks, Mary,” she said, “I really appreciate it.” There was very little difference, just a heightening of the shape of her eyes, cheeks and lips. Indi finished brushing her hair.

  “Where’re you going to eat?”

  “I don’t know, it’s very last-minute, we only really met for the first time properly tonight.”

  “And he’s nice, is he? He’s certainly very good-looking.” Mary applied her own lipstick and glanced at Indi in the mirror.

  “Oh yes! He’s charming, he…” Indi broke off and smiled sheepishly. “He’s very nice thank you, Mary.” She took her jacket off a hanger and pulled it on, picking up the carrier bag with her dress in. ‘Wednesday practice?”

  “I’ll be there!” Mary took her own raincoat off a hanger and carefully folded it over her arm.

  “See you Wednesday then, Mary!” Indi hurried across to the door. “Bye!”

  Mary turned to wish her good luck but she’d gone. “Yes, see you Wednesday, Indu,” she said to herself. “Have a nice evening, thank you, Mary, I will.”

  Indi met Jimmy at the entrance to the cathedral; he was waiting for her on the steps. He stood as she approached him and grinned, his hands in his pockets as they always seemed to be, his raincoat open, the collar turned up. He jumped down the steps, two at a time, and held out his arm. “Ready?”

  “Yup, ready.” Indi slipped her hand through his arm.

  “If you see a cab, scream!”

  Indi laughed, then suddenly saw a free taxi. “Ahhhh-hhh!” It was a piercing howl.

  Jimmy did a double take, then dived into the road and flagged the car down. “I didn’t mean literally,” he said, bundling her inside. “My God, what a voice!”

  Indi giggled. She sat back as Jimmy gave the name of the restaurant and stared out of the window. London looked entirely different from the inside of a black taxi cab, she thought; it looked like another city. They drove on and she continued to stare, the luxury of a taxi one that she could seldom afford. At Piccadilly the car stopped and Jimmy jumped out, holding the door for her. “Greens,” he said as she climbed out, “I hope you like oysters.”

  He paid the driver and took her hand, leading her inside. “I’ve booked a table for two,” he told the head waiter, “Stone, ten-thirty.”

  “Yes, Mr. Stone, this way please.”

  Indi held her breath. She spotted a well-known actor dining with a younger member of the royal family and blushed as she went past their table.

  “Jimmy!” she hissed as they sat down. “How on earth can you afford a place like this!”

  Jimmy grinned. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies!”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Seriously,” she said.

  “Seriously,” he answered, “I take photographs, travel photographs, for glossy books on Africa, Venetian palaces, that sort of thing. It pays well and it gives me lots of free time.”

  “To teach yourself classical music?” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. He’d been leading her on, that much was obvious.

  He touched her arm, only briefly. “Yes, to teach myself classical music. I left school at seventeen with three O-levels, one of them photography. I’ve done bloody well for myself in the last ten years but I don’t know much about anything. Not about music or literature, the classics, that sort of thing.”

  Indi glanced away
. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Rude?” Jimmy smiled. “You should hear some of those bitch art directors I have to deal with! Now that’s rude.”

  Indi smiled back.

  “So, now you, Indu Bennet. What have you done in the last ten years?”

  Indi shrugged. She felt embarrassed talking about herself, she rarely did it. “Studied, taken exams, passed them, sung in the choir…”

  Jimmy put his hands up. “Whoa, wait! What sort of exams? Let’s not rush through it.”

  “O-levels, A-levels, my medical exams. I’ve been at St. Thomas’s studying medicine. I start my stint as a young doctor in September.” Jimmy whistled through his teeth. “I know, I’m not looking forward to it either! Eighty-hour weeks, stress, pressure, living off doughnuts.”

  “Doughnuts!”

  “Yes, it’s the only take-away food I like.”

  They both laughed.

  “And you’re half Asian, Indian perhaps, am I right? Where do your parents come from?”

  Indi glanced down. She fiddled with the napkin on her lap for a few moments. “Yes, you are right, I am half Indian,” she said. “My father was from Balisthan.”

  Jimmy reached across the table and lifted her hand up, placing it on the table to stop her fiddling. He looked at her face. “It’s a very beautiful part of India,” he said, “I’ve got a commission coming up there quite soon, a shoot for a book on Indian architecture. You say your father was from there?”

  “Yes, he, erm, they, my parents were killed in a car crash just after I was born.” Indi hated recounting this fact, it always produced a reaction, pity mainly. “I’ve lived with my grandfather all my life, until I went away to medical school, that is.”

  “I see.” The waiter came up with the menus and Jimmy said nothing until he’d gone again. “What about your Indian family? Your father’s family?”

  “I don’t know, I never asked really.” She shrugged. “They were never talked about so I never gave them much thought.” Saying it now she thought she sounded quite pathetic, but it wasn’t like that; it was an untouched subject, something never referred to. It would have been difficult, impossible really, as John was strangely closed about it. She knew it upset him.

  “Have you ever been to India? To where you were born?”

  “No, I, erm…” She smiled. “Sorry, I sound rather dull, don’t I?”

  “Not at all!” Jimmy nodded across to the waiter. “Shall we order?”

  “Yes, yes please.” Indi looked down at the menu then glanced sidelong at Jimmy. She was relieved that bit was over and she was pleased he hadn’t said sorry, or how terrible for you, the way most people did. She liked Jimmy Stone, she decided, choosing moules marinière and Dover sole from the menu, he was different, unlike anyone she knew, honest, unpretentious…

  “Indi?”

  She looked up and saw the waiter by the table. “Oh, sorry.” She gave her order and closed the menu, handing it over.

  “Wine?”

  “No, thanks, I’d prefer fizzy water.”

  He ordered a large bottle of Abbey Well and then looked across at her. “You should, you know,” he said.

  “Should what?”

  “Go to India,” he went on, “see where you were born. You’d like it; you’d probably feel quite at home there.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.” It wasn’t that it hadn’t ever occurred to her, it was more a question of time, of priorities, of hurting and offending her grandfather. She smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Do that. I should be getting my brief through any minute now, I can’t wait to go back.”

  “D’you know India quite well, then?”

  “Pretty well. I travel a bit, in between assignments, drift really, I suppose.”

  “What about your family?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “What about them? There’s very little to say, I’m afraid.”

  Indi looked down, embarrassed. Jimmy reached for her hand and held it in his own, turning it over and inspecting the palm.

  “Very interesting,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “It looks to me like you’re going to meet a charming young man with a J in his name…” He glanced up at her and grinned. “And that you’re going to have a great deal of fun with this young man. Something, I think, you haven’t had much of before!”

  Indi pulled her hand away but she did laugh. “Singing’s fun!” she protested. “I love medicine, my gardening!”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes, then flopped back in the chair, letting his body go limp.

  “Jimmy!” He stayed like that, only he let his tongue loll out. “Jimmy!” Indi whispered fiercely. “Jimmy, please!” Several diners glanced over. “Jimmy?” Indi began to feel uneasy. She leaned across the table and gently poked him. Suddenly he leaped forward and caught her hand. She screamed.

  Jimmy burst out laughing and Indi, after the initial shock, started to laugh as well. “God, you’re horrid!” she cried. “Really mean!”

  He kept hold of her hand and gently put it to his mouth. The kiss was quick, soft and warm, and Indi felt the tremor of it through her whole body.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He dropped her hand and she took it back, holding the patch of skin under the table where he’d kissed it.

  “Are you always this mad?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Always,” he answered. “Life’s too short to take seriously.”

  “Is it?”

  “Absolutely!” The waiter arrived with the drinks, and Jimmy sat back while he poured the water. “Why?” he asked, taking a sip. “Don’t you like it?”

  Indi held her own glass to her lips. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly, “I’m really not quite sure.”

  The following morning, Indi lay in bed and listened to the sounds of the coffee grinder down in the kitchen below. It was a Sunday morning ritual, fresh coffee, croissants, church and the Sunday Times, not a word spoken for several hours. She could smell the aroma of the croissants in the oven but she didn’t want to get up. She wanted to lie in bed and think about last night; she wanted to go over every detail and try to make up her mind about Jimmy Stone before she talked to her grandfather about him. But Indi could hear John’s movements below, she could hear him filling the jug for the percolator, opening the oven door, getting out the plates, and she sighed, sitting up and dropping her legs over the side of the bed. She had never missed a Sunday breakfast with John and she wasn’t about to start now. Pulling on her dressing-gown, she stood and made her way along to the bathroom.

  “Hello, darling.” John had a pair of oven gloves on as Indi walked into the kitchen and, glancing over his shoulder at her, he smiled, then bent and took a tray of hot croissants out of the oven.

  “Hmmmmm, they smell delicious!” she said.

  “Home-made.”

  “Don’t lie, Gramps!” Indi crossed and kissed him on the cheek, picking the Waitrose wrapper off the side and dropping it in the bin. She saw John smiling.

  “So, how was last night?”

  “It was good, a nice evening.”

  “Nice?”

  “Yes, fun! Different.”

  John placed the plate of croissants on the table along with the coffee jug and pulled out a chair. “Sit, and tell me what different means, Indi.” He sat himself and shook out his napkin, leaning across the table for a croissant.

  “I’m not sure really,” Indi said. “To be honest I couldn’t really make up my mind about him. He’s terribly good-looking, funny, bright. He’s a photographer, he takes pictures for design books, art history books, but he’s not at all arrogant or snotty about it.” She stopped and looked across at John. “We talked a lot about India, Gramps, he’s going there on a job this summer.”

  John continued to eat his croissant, his face impassive but he felt a knot of tension in the pit of his stomach. India, it was a word he could hardly bear to hear, not since Jane disappeared there, not since that terrible business with Phillip a
ll those years ago. “So why can’t you make your mind up about him, then,” John asked, “if he’s so good-looking and modest?”

  Indi shrugged. “I don’t know. I just get a feeling, that’s all, a sort of sixth sense. It’s probably all imagination but I somehow can’t quite believe he’s for real.”

  John finished eating and poured them both some coffee. “Forget him then,” he said. “There are plenty of young men out there, Indi, there’s possibly even one for someone as difficult as you!” He smiled as he handed her the milk jug. “Your time is precious, Indi, don’t waste it on someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

  She sipped her coffee and toyed with the croissant on her plate. Jimmy had asked to see her on Monday night and she’d left it open, said she would ring him. Perhaps Gramps was right, perhaps she shouldn’t bother, perhaps she should just ring and say no thanks, she wasn’t interested, she had double-booked, and couldn’t make Monday night. Looking up, she saw that John was watching her and said, “You all right, Gramps?”

  He nodded and patted her hand. “Just fine,” he said. Standing, he walked across to the fridge and refilled the milk jug even though it was still half full. He didn’t want Indi to see this young man again, he didn’t want her head filled with ideas of India, of her heritage, her ethnic background. He didn’t want Indi hurt, not now, not at the beginning of her life, her career. She didn’t need to know about Jane, about Phillip, she didn’t need to know any of it, not yet, not until she was settled, until she had someone who loved her, someone who would help to soften the blow. He turned and looked at the back of her head. He loved his granddaughter, he loved her so much it hurt at times. He had lied to protect her, he knew that, Caroline had known it too, and he only hoped to God that one day she would understand that.

  He walked across to her and ruffled her hair. “What’s the verdict then? Going to see him again?” He sat down and placed the milk jug between them.

  “What d’you think?” Indi answered, smiling.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t bother.” He was sure the young man was perfectly nice but he didn’t want his granddaughter involved in anything Indian.

  “No, maybe not.” Indi poured herself another coffee and offered the pot across. “I think I might just go and ring now,” she said, “let him know.”