The Midnight Side

by Natasha Mostert

  They placed their orders with a waiter who waited on them with a kind of chilly warmth. Tunbridge turned towards her and fixed his gaze on her face.

  ‘Again, I’m so sorry about Mrs Temple. She was a remarkable and charming lady. She was my guest at this restaurant more than once.’

  ‘You gave her investment advice.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, although she had a remarkable head for business herself. Very shrewd indeed.’ He smiled. ‘My wife was convinced Mrs Temple’s special talents assisted her in this regard.’

  ‘I take it you did not share this belief.’

  ‘I do not presume to scoff, you know. More things in heaven and earth and all that. Certainly, it was uncanny the way Mrs Temple seemed to know—intuit—things that were about to happen. She also had an amazing insight into what motivated people. My wife compared it to a beam of light illuminating dark corners of the mind. And she was a wonderful listener.’ He nodded almost to himself. ‘Yes, she listened with her heart.’ He touched his hand briefly to his chest.

  His eyes switched back to her. ‘Now, how can I be of service?’

  ‘Mr Tunbridge, I seem to recall Alette telling me that you have a background in patents.’

  ‘In my youth I practiced as a patent solicitor. But it was not a life that appealed to me. So I switched to investment banking. Why?’

  ‘I would like to present you with a problem. But I’m speaking hypothetically, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pale, old, wise eyes looked at her with a tinge of amusement.

  ‘Suppose—’ she stopped.

  ‘Why don’t you just tell me,’ he said kindly. ‘I promise you I can be very discreet. Now, let’s say you have a hypothetical friend with a hypothetical problem. What is it all about?’

  While she talked, he kept his eyes focused on a spot just behind her shoulder. She was grateful. It made it easier for her to speak. She did not tell him anything about her arrangement with Alette; she simply implied that she had a friend who was the CEO of a company and who might have encountered a patent problem.

  When she stopped talking, he looked back at her. His face showed no emotion. ‘Patents are complicated,’ he said. ‘The operating bits of a patent all go into the making of a claim and the whole thing can become very involved. But from what you tell me, I would say the CEO of your hypothetical company would face severe difficulties if this information became public.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘You see, here in the U.K., up to 1977, one only had to prove local novelty when filing a patent. The reason for this can be traced back to the original Statute of Monopolies as long ago as 1623, when it was considered just as meritorious for an explorer to bring a new idea home from abroad as to invent it himself. So if all of what you told me had happened before 1977, your CEO would have been in the clear. At least in the U.K. However, in response to a European directive, the rule changed. Instead of only local novelty, a criterion of absolute novelty was adopted. What kind of product does the company manufacture?’

  She did not want to mention the word ‘drug’. That would be a dead giveaway. Tunbridge must have sensed her discomfort because he shrugged and said, ‘Not that it matters much. One thing is certain though. When your CEO discovered that prior art existed, he should have notified the patent office. Of course, afterwards he might then just as well have closed up shop.’

  ‘What would happen, exactly?’

  ‘His claim will be invalidated almost immediately. This doesn’t mean he won’t be allowed to continue manufacturing the product, but any of his competitors will have the right to jump in and manufacture it as well. At first he’ll still have the upper hand; he does, after all, have everything set up already: factories, distribution. But if his company is small, he’ll eventually lose out to bigger competitors. It will only be a matter of time. Slow death.’

  She swallowed. ‘Will there be any way in which he can get out of this jam if prior art is discovered? Any way at all in which he can keep the patent exclusive?’

  ‘No.’ Tunbridge’s voice was cold and emphatic. ‘This man is facing disaster. There is no way out.’

  FIFTEEN

  Love toucht her Heart, and lo it beates

  High, and burnes with such brave Heates,

  Such Thirsts to dye, as dares drink up,

  A thousand cold Deaths in one cup.

  Hymn to Sainte Teresa

  Richard Crashaw (1612–1649)

  SHE COULDN’T DO IT.

  She couldn’t go through with it. Her conversation with Henry Tunbridge had made that clear to her. The situation was mad, completely insane. Alette could not expect this of her. It was not fair of Alette to place her in this position. For the first time Isa felt anger.

  The sound of the doorbell made her walk quickly towards the front door. Maybe it was Michael. Maybe he had decided to return early.

  At first all she saw was an enormous bunch of pink and crimson-spotted tiger lilies. Then he lowered the arrangement so he could look her in the face.

  ‘Peace?’

  She stared at him. Justin’s eyes were tired but calm.

  ‘I don’t know how to apologize enough,’ he said. ‘The other night I behaved like a dangerous lunatic. Please forgive me. I must have scared you to death.’

  In her mind came the memory of that night: his voice, lazy and dangerous. The feel of his hand on her arm. His body so close.

  She felt her face grow warm. Scared? Yes, she supposed fear was part of it.

  ‘The last thing I ever wanted to do was mess with your memories of Alette. All I can say in my defence is that I had had a really bad day. Although that’s no excuse for taking it out on you. It was hardly your fault.’

  She flinched and her eyes slid away from his.

  ‘Say something, will you? Please.’

  She hesitated. Then she held out her arms and took the flowers from him. ‘I should put these in water.’

  He followed her as she walked into the kitchen and watched as she placed the flowers into the kitchen sink and turned on the tap.

  ‘I had no idea what your favourite flower is,’ he said. ‘I asked the lady at the shop what would be a good flower if you needed to apologize for being an idiot. She suggested roses, but I hate roses.’ He caught her glance. ‘Always have,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘ever since I was a boy. Oh, God, I’ve put my foot in it again, haven’t I?’

  She couldn’t help smiling. ‘These are lovely, thank you.’

  ‘I have my car here,’ he said. ‘And a picnic basket. I was hoping I could persuade you to have brunch with me.’

  ‘Picnic? It’s freezing out there.’

  ‘So wrap up tight. It’ll be fun.’

  She started to shake her head but he said, ‘Come on, Isa; take a chance.’

  She looked at him doubtfully.

  ‘Please?’ He took a step towards her.

  His pupils were ringed with blue and he had tiny yellow flecks embedded in the iris. As she watched, the pupils suddenly dilated. The eyes were a direct extension of the brain, she thought irrelevantly. Windows to the soul? As a scientist he’d probably disagree.

  She looked away. ‘Let me get my gloves and hat.’

  Outside the sky was ice blue and cloudless: the air crisp and very cold.

  He lifted the checked cloth from the basket. ‘Pâté, chicken croquettes, hot lobster bisque,’—he lifted a thermos flask—‘crème brûlée, and of course champagne. It’s been a good week. We need to celebrate.’

  ‘You prepared this yourself?’

  He smiled. ‘I can’t lie to you. No. Harrods Food Halls.’

  He had brought along a travel rug as well, but in the end, after an uncomfortable fifteen minutes under a tree in Regent’s Park, he agreed sadly that it was indeed too cold to sit outside, and they ended up back in his car, balancing paper plates on their laps and steaming mugs of soup on the dashboard.

  He shovelled the debris of their meal unceremoniously into the basket and placed it o
n the backseat. ‘Now,’ he said firmly, ‘I’m going to show you London. I’m sure you haven’t seen anything since you’ve arrived.’

  First stop was the British Museum. They gazed solemnly at massive granite figures in the Egyptian Sculpture Gallery and walked through halls filled with ancient artefacts and precious stones. An hour later they ended their visit at the Lycurgus Cup: a single block of green glass depicting the agonized face of a Thracian king imprisoned by the deadly tendrils of a vine.

  He took her to a tiny shop just around the corner from the museum that was filled with old English silver, reams of silk, and woven rugs of dazzling beauty. He insisted on buying her a gift: a deeply crimson dyed Indian scarf, which he tied around her neck himself after first removing Alette’s green one.

  They visited a gallery that was home to the largest number of newspaper cartoons she had ever seen under one roof, and there was a cartoon of him on the wall: nose lengthened, mouth twisted into an evil sneer, riding a snorting bull, whip in hand.

  They stopped off at a large warehouse where plaster casts of museum pieces were made. The place had the feel of a cathedral: quiet, serene, with wonderful light streaming through the enormous skylights. Stacked on wooden shelves were row upon row of off-white casts. The foot of a Greek athlete, with strong ankle and long second toe. Saints and gods and languid ladies. The bust of an angel staring at the world with naked eyes. Underneath their feet the floor was covered in white plaster-of-Paris dust, and as they walked, they left their footprints behind them.

  They had green tea and exquisite, sweet dumplings at the grimy counter of a tiny take-out place in Soho. He took her to the office of a friend of his who had a balcony with a view and they watched as the lights in the Square Mile turned to pricks of gold against a lavender sky. They ended the day in an extremely noisy Lebanese restaurant that ‘serves the best kibbeh in the realm’ and shared a table with a pack of handsome, dark-eyed teenagers.

  His moods changed swiftly. He could be boyish: his gestures quicksilver, his voice enthusiastic. In repose, his face seemed restrained, although the sense of leashed-in energy never left him.

  He had a habit of jumping from one topic to the next with dizzying speed. He liked Nina Simone, just like her. He liked urban photography, just like her. He disliked art-house films and anything with subtitles. He certainly did not believe in psychic powers—this with a sidelong glance—but he confessed to reading his horoscope while waiting at the dentist’s. Cricket was his favourite game and he sometimes watched sumo wrestling on late-night TV.

  He laughed at her expression. ‘So now you know the worst about me. But it’s actually a very spiritual sport. First the clay in the ring has to be blessed by a Shinto priest: there’s this whole ritual. Of course if a woman should then touch the clay, it becomes impure and they have to repeat the entire ritual once again. Fascinating, don’t you think?’

  She pulled a face. ‘Awesome.’

  It was a charmed day. She felt happy. Even the memories of Alette that crossed her mind with amazing infrequency seemed to have little power to disturb. Oddly enough, the person who kept intruding into her thoughts was Michael: his gentleness, the slow smile and awkward gestures. She sensed that a relationship with him could develop if she wanted it—allowed it. But though she felt so comfortable around him, she sensed that inside of her was no spark of tension that might ignite into heat.

  She looked across at Justin. He was staring down, his dark lashes crescents against his cheekbone. Such a twisted, complicated thing: sexual desire. Why, oh why does it have to be touched by that wing brush of darkness before it feels so alive?

  He suddenly looked up and straight into her eyes.

  ‘I’m having a good time,’ she said.

  He smiled and his eyes were very blue.

  • • •

  SEVEN DAYS were all it took, then. Seven days during which the lights seemed brighter, the cold more intense, and an added lilt sounded in the voices around her. Seven days in which the world turned starkly beautiful: a cold yellow tint burnishing the sky; the black limbs of the trees slim and vulnerable. Seven days only: not long at all to lose something as prized as the heart.

  ‘I’ve lost my heart,’ we say, as though forces beyond our control have snatched from us a treasured object. How strange, Isa thought, this idea that we do not profit, but lose; that we are not enriched, but become the poorer for falling in love. Because surely, we gain. We gain back our sense of wonder. We close our hand around a blessing: the ability to look at the world with fresh eyes and to savour that sense of awe we have deemed lost to childhood forever.

  What once would have passed her by, barely tugging at her thoughts, now laid claim to her attention with a fierce insistence. The thin curve of a baby’s eyelid. The explosive grace of a startled cat. Two men arguing with their hands; their expansive gestures unintentionally elegant. A trapped fly with silky, trembling wings. Frosty mornings and Justin’s breath a ghostly flower blooming from his mouth.

  He touched her hand and her heart leapt. He smiled at her and she felt such joy. She had been so lonely. She hadn’t realized how lonely. Even when Eric was still alive, loneliness had been a dark presence hovering at her elbow: her most constant and assiduous escort. When Eric was around the lights came on, the music played. But then he’d leave and she’d be back in limbo—waiting—with loneliness stepping forward once more to claim her.

  With Justin it was different. She did not feel as though loneliness was still in the room, watching them from the shadows. Being with Justin was like looking into the sun—an experience so fierce—it allowed no room for any other sensation. He made her feel vibrant, beautiful, and young. And every morning she woke up drunk with anticipation.

  The days were blurring together in her mind, a string of disjointed, heightened images and sensations. Jogging in the park with Justin looking back at her over his shoulder, shouting encouragement, his hair silky with sweat and curling blackly against his neck. Reading the newspapers together and knowing without looking that he was watching her. Taking a drive into the country: long swirls of early-morning fog rising from the side of the road while inside the car was the heady smell of leather and the singular fragrance of his skin. The caress of soft wool as he tucked a travel rug around her knees, his hand lingering against her thigh. Feeling cosseted; feeling desired.

  Too easy, she’d think. Too easy by far this headlong slide from total distrust into total surrender. She knew she was being reckless. She knew she was being irresponsible. How could she so simply and easily set aside everything she knew about him? But in a way it was part of the miracle, as though she had pushed her fingers into the dank hollow of a dead tree, and upon extracting her hand had found within it not the spider she had expected, but a butterfly of many colours.

  London was recovering from its Christmas hangover and the streets were empty. They went for long walks and they talked for hours. He spoke about himself, his work, his childhood. A privileged childhood—growing up in the country, nannies, exclusive boarding schools—but also, it seemed to her, a lonely one. He described vividly and with enthusiasm the house in which he grew up and where his mother still lived. A sprawling house on the north coast of Devon, it was built of granite and Delabole slate and had been in his family for eight generations. He described pockmarked flagstones, leaded windows and giant fireplaces. Tapestried sofas and chairs with hollows where the dogs had left their imprint. A fine Jacobean staircase, installed by a Victorian ancestor who had admired the period. And on every wall and in every room framed and matted prints of dried flowers. His mother’s handiwork: she would dry and arrange them herself. Even the books in the library bore evidence of this craft: their pages stained with purple and yellow smears of petals crushed between the covers.

  ‘When I was little,’ Justin said, ‘if I promised to be really quiet, my mother would allow me to watch her while she worked. Ever since, I always think of her with these delicate, dead flowers in her hands.’ He
shrugged. ‘It has all stopped now. For the past few years she’s suffered from very bad arthritis.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He died several years ago. We were never close. Actually, growing up, I didn’t see all that much of him. During the week he lived in his town house in London and only came home over the weekends. He and my mother did not have a happy marriage.’ Justin’s voice was without emotion. ‘Everyone, my mother included, knew he spent his time with other women when in London.’ He shrugged again. ‘Anyway, when he was old and tired he had to come home. He was too frail to live in London any longer. So I suppose in the end my mother had her revenge. He never liked the house, the wildness of the countryside. That part of the coast is precipitous, you know, and in winter it’s always wreathed in mist. It must have been a very special kind of hell for him to have had to return to it and be dependent on his wife.’

  Isa shivered. It was more the way he had told the tale of his parents’ failed marriage, than the events themselves, that was distressing. His voice had sounded disturbingly flat and there was a curiously detached, almost dead expression in his eyes. It made her feel afraid.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He flicked his fingers against her cheek. ‘Don’t look so sad. It’s all water under the bridge now. And there was never any hope of their relationship ever working out. It was fake from the beginning. He faked love and she faked passion.’ He leaned forward so that their eyes were level. ‘I hate fakery,’ he said. ‘I detest counterfeit emotions. You probably won’t understand. You’re so very, very sweet. I can’t imagine you ever pretending or being manipulative. With you it’s what you see is what you get, isn’t that right, Isa?’

  His face was only inches from hers. There was something in his eyes that was hard to fathom. It left her feeling cold, a little uncertain. And suddenly the sense of her own duplicity was overwhelming. What would he say if he knew the truth? What would he do if he knew that theirs was a relationship rooted in a poisonous mix of lies and revenge? She was such a coward. She should tell him the truth now. Make a clean breast of it. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.