Rosie Thomas 4-Book Collection

by Rosie Thomas

  And why, Harriet wondered, am I thinking so much about Leo this evening?

  Robin followed her through into the bathroom and gave her thick, clean white towels. Then he went away, closing the double doors behind him.

  Harriet wandered around, looking at things. There was more mahogany here, and grey-white marble, and heavy, old-fashioned white ceramic fittings. There were hairbrushes with initials, and various jars of unemphatic toiletries. She drifted to the window and looked down, her irritation evaporating in the soothing quiet. At the back of the house, there was still just enough light for her to see, was a little square of garden, paved in brick and made summer-private by tall trelliswork. She imagined it in daylight, with the new green leaves showing on the twiggy sticks of the climbers.

  ‘Pretty,’ she said again.

  Harriet returned to her investigations, after pulling down the white blind. It took her a moment or two to find the shower, but then she located it behind a door with opaque glass panels. She undressed, dropping her clothes haphazardly on to a chair. When she was naked, she examined herself critically in a convenient mirror. Probably she was too thin. Certainly her ribs were clearly visible under pale skin, and her hipbones stuck out sharply on either side of a concave expanse of flesh. But her waist was satisfactorily slim, she had decent legs, and her breasts were neat and firm, even if there wasn’t enough of them.

  Leo used to say that she looked much better with her clothes off than on, unlike the majority of women. Well, she supposed that Leo should know. Harriet turned the shower on full blast, and stepped under the luxurious flood of water. One of the drawbacks of the Belsize Park flat was a viciously unpredictable heating system. She hadn’t yet cracked the code that would enable her to predict when there would be enough hot water in the half-sized tank to allow her to enjoy a half-sized bath. Water this hot, and in this apparent abundance, should be enjoyed to the full.

  The steam and the rush of water and the opaque glass were an effective insulation from the outside. As she lathered herself with Robin’s Czech & Speake soap Harriet hummed a little, and indulged herself with a fantasy about what she should do if she stepped naked out of the shower and found Robin sitting in his bathroom chair, waiting for her.

  She would be graceful and dignified, she decided. Unhurriedly, she would reach for one of the big white towels and swathe herself in it. With one corner she would pat the silvery drops of water from her throat and arms, and he would watch her guiltily. She would say nothing, but still Robin would recognise at once that he had made a serious mistake. He would stand up and then slip away, murmuring a stricken apology. Later, when she came downstairs, neither of them would refer to the incident.

  Very satisfactory, Harriet thought, as the last of the soap rinsed away. She turned the control to cold, and spluttered for a few seconds under the icy jets. Then she opened the door again, feeling her skin glowing.

  The bathroom was empty except for her own clothes, lying exactly where she had discarded them and looking unfortunately crumpled. Harriet caught sight of herself in the mirror again, only now she was beetroot-faced with heat and her hair was plastered flat to her skull, so that she looked as if she had just come last in some swimming race. She made an inventive face at herself. So much for vanity and fantasy. No one was going to lurk in any bathroom for a glimpse of this brick-red captain of sports. Harriet snatched up a towel and scrubbed unforgivingly.

  She was not pleased either to recognise that the fantasy role she had cast herself in was much too close to the real reaction of Leo’s model girlfriend when she herself had burst in on them in the studio. Leo and Harriet had split the Robin role between them.

  ‘Damn it,’ Harriet said aloud. ‘And bugger Leo.’

  She found a clothes hanger and hung her clothes up in the shower cubicle so that the steam could work on the creases. She splashed her face with cold water until it returned to approximately the right shade, and then towel-dried her hair because she judged that Robin was too butch to make it worthwhile searching for a dryer. Finally she remade-up her face and put on her clothes again. The end result was just about acceptable. Vanity, vanity, she reminded herself.

  Harriet flung open the double doors. The bedroom was empty too. She strolled across it, stopping deliberately to examine the photographs. The various teams featured a younger, more eager-looking version of Robin. Of course, he would have to be a games-player too. Martin would have expected nothing less than the First Eleven. She warmed to the son in sympathy all over again, even though he had dealt her a fantasy-rejection.

  On the bureau, in an oval silver frame, was a photograph of a woman. Harriet picked it up and turned it towards the light in order to get a better look. She saw a heart-shaped face set on a long, fragile neck, cloudy dark hair, and a sweet, thoughtful expression. Robin’s mother, Martin’s wife. Probably at least fifty, but still lovely.

  For some reason, Harriet found herself blushing. She put the silver frame down and tiptoed out of the bedroom.

  She found Robin sitting on one of the grey sofas reading The Spectator. He was wearing a different suit, and a different tie, and a fresh shirt. He must have taken his shower in some guest bathroom or downstairs cloakroom-cubbyhole, leaving his own bathroom free for her use.

  His formal, respectable, spectator-absorbed appearance was so different from the hopeful satyr she had imagined upstairs that she bit the corners of her mouth to contain her amusement.

  Robin put aside his magazine and stood up. ‘You quite often look’, he remarked without rancour, ‘as though you are enjoying some succulent private joke. Is it a reaction to the world in general, or just to me?’

  Harriet was shamed into honesty. ‘I can’t take you quite seriously,’ she admitted. ‘It’s because you’re so young. And yet there’s the business, and the car, and all this.’ She nodded at the room.

  ‘I am twenty-six.’ A little older than he looked, then. ‘All of four years younger than you.’ Harriet was thirty. She had passed the milestone without celebration, or analysis of what had gone by. Her attention was fixed on the future.

  Robin had crossed the room to stand in front of her. He looked down, with the advantage of his height. Harriet was conscious of having to stand her ground, and also of something more. A scrutiny, or appraisal, not unlike Martin’s. She looked back, making her own judgement.

  ‘You should take me seriously,’ Robin said softly. And he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Harriet stood still, waiting for what would come next, remembering her bathroom fantasy. But that was all. She felt faintly foolish, as though she had closed her eyes and pursed her lips, although she had done nothing of the kind. Into the small silence that followed she said, ‘I will from now on, OK? I promise.’ She spoke very lightly, and then turned away and picked a book up off a table, examining the author’s photograph on the back cover with interest.

  ‘Would you like another drink? Or shall we go straight out to dinner?’

  ‘Dinner, I think, please.’

  It was dark now. They drove back, over the river where the lights shimmered. Harriet realised, a little to her surprise, that she was enjoying the evening in prospect. The restaurant was Japanese. Evidently Robin was a favoured regular, because the waiters greeted him as a friend. Harriet had never eaten Japanese food before, and she exclaimed with delight over the tiny, perfect dishes and parcels as they arrived in front of her. She ate with enthusiasm, enjoying the clean flavours. Robin was pleased. He liked showing her how to unwrap and slice and sample, and ordered more than they needed to eat for the satisfaction of demonstrating.

  They drank sake. Robin poured it out, and Harriet laughed and spluttered when she tasted it.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Well, interesting. It probably improves on acquaintance, like many things.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  They talked, not very significantly, about books and films, and then about friendships. Harriet couldn’t remember, later, at what stage of the meal she became
aware that she was positively attracted to Robin Landwith. Her interest seemed to have transferred itself from father to son with extraordinary smoothness. The symptoms were pleasant. They heightened the significance of their easy conversation, gave the bleached decor of the restaurant a rosier glow, and made Harriet think, momentarily, of the man in the blue shirt at Jane’s party.

  It was a welcome change from work, and anxiety, and the depressing surroundings of Peacocks’ offices. Harriet sighed comfortably and drank some more sake. This attraction would come to nothing, of course, because she would not allow it to. But it was diverting to sit in a restaurant again, regarding the object of her interest across a starched white tablecloth, and imagining what would happen when he kissed her.

  Robin was handsome and self-possessed, and she was sure that she was in no danger from him.

  ‘Is that your mother, in the picture with the silver frame, in your bedroom?’ She was interested, now, in weaving a history for him.

  ‘Yes. We’re supposed to be very alike.’

  ‘She’s beautiful. What does she do?’

  Robin looked surprised. ‘Do?’

  ‘Do. Is she a venture capitalist too? Or a doctor, or a singer or a naturalist?’

  Robin laughed. ‘None of those. She doesn’t do anything. She looks after my father, used to look after me. Still would, if I’d let her.’

  Harriet nodded. Robin thought that it was enough for Mrs Landwith to be a wife and mother to Landwith men. A different woman from me, Harriet thought. More like Kath, only Kath had fought her battles at the beginning. She deserved her security now. Harriet wondered about Mrs Landwith of the cloudy dark hair and innocent, sweet expression. There would be a big house, somewhere in the country, to be looked after. Husband and son to be cared for.

  Harriet glanced around her. Sake and satisfaction seemed to have given the restaurant light a warmer tinge. There seemed to be a golden nimbus of it around Robin’s head. She watched it with affection, a little in awe of the glamour of privilege. She felt no resentment. She only saw, quite clearly, how he had come to be all the attractive things that he was. It was, as she had perceptively imagined weeks ago in the Landwiths’ offices, like rearing a thoroughbred. He would run well now, and repay the investment. She would have liked to lean across the table and put her mouth against his. She wanted him, she would have forgiven him anything in the afterglow of warm rice wine.

  Robin was turning his thimble glass on the tablecloth, making interlocking circles with the heavy base.

  ‘I thought we should talk some more about Conundrum,’ he said quietly.

  Harriet opened her eyes wider, shook her head a little, to clear it of golden light and images of a big house in green gardens.

  ‘Why not?’ And seeing at once that the response was too frivolous, added, ‘In what respect, exactly?’

  ‘In the important respect, selling it.’ Harriet watched his mouth as he talked. ‘I’ve got a board in the car. Will you excuse me a minute if I go and get it?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  She watched him walk across the restaurant, still with the light around him. Nice shoulders she thought. Nice long back, and narrow hips. Oh dear, Harriet.

  There was nothing to be done about it, of course. It was unprofessional to sleep with a business partner. It was probably unprofessional even to imagine it.

  Robin came back with the familiar box tucked under his arm. He cleared the sake to one side and put the box on the table, then looked around the restaurant. They had taken a long time over their meal, and there were only a handful of diners remaining. The waiters had begun to congregate in a corner, but two of them hurried to Robin’s summons. Robin was on friendly terms with both of them. He said something and all three of them laughed, then one of the waiters answered a question and the other chipped in, correcting him. Harriet wasn’t listening. She studied Robin’s profile, then glanced down at the Conundrum box on the table between them. Robin’s fingers were resting on the box, but not idly.

  Harriet stiffened.

  She looked at his face again. He was still chatting genially to the waiters, but his eyes were sharp. He was watching, waiting for something, and his fingers made little impatient movements on the rainbow-coloured packaging.

  What are you up to? Harriet thought, but she knew as soon as the question had formulated itself.

  ‘What do you think of this, by the way?’ Robin asked lightly. His fingers now described an elegant little flutter over Harriet’s box.

  The waiters looked, then shrugged. Neither of them had focussed on the box before, and now they examined it politely.

  Harriet saw what Robin was intending.

  He opened the box, stripped off the shrink-wrapping, and lifted the shiny black frame out of the injection moulding. He set it up, and shook up the coloured balls and counters in his fist. The waiters leaned closer, their interest kindling. The younger one stopped glancing over his shoulder to see who might be coming to direct him back to work. Robin threw the counters, frowned over setting the gates. Harriet waited, and then came the over-familiar rattle and roll. The waiters’ faces split into identical beaming smiles.

  ‘Clever,’ the older said. Only he said, Crever. He reached out and took the counters, as people always did, to play for himself.

  Harriet felt cold. The waiters were friendly, and attentive. The restaurant was elegant, cool and quiet with paper screens and tranquil flower paintings. She had sat here all evening, eating sushi and drinking sake, and admiring the golden boy who was paying for it all. Now she saw the Japanese lettering on the menus, and she remembered the split packing case end resting on the mantelpiece at home in Belsize Park. The waiters were laughing and Robin was watching, narrow-eyed, as if he saw everything.

  Simon had been in Shamshuipo, had almost died there. He had created Conundrum – the name was wrong, hopelessly wrong – to save himself.

  I can’t do it, Harriet thought. And even as she decided that she couldn’t make use of what Simon had suffered she saw Robin Landwith’s expression, and knew she would do it. She would do it because it made hard sense, and Shamshuipo was forty years ago.

  ‘Good game. Very good game,’ the waiters chorused. ‘Is yours, Mr Landwith?’

  ‘Something we’re working on together,’ he murmured deprecatingly, and then added, ‘I hope I haven’t kept you from whatever you should be doing …’

  The waiters collected themselves, as they were intended to do, and went on their way bowing and smiling.

  Robin turned to Harriet, and raised his eyebrows. Harriet was ready to defend herself. Being defensive made her angry, and the fact that she was drawn to Robin only increased her anger. She sat silently, unwilling to give any ground.

  ‘And so?’ he pressed her. He sounded almost like a clumsy parody of one of his waiters.

  ‘I’m sorry? And so what?’

  With a show of patience, Robin answered, ‘I was watching what happened then. Weren’t you? Neither of those chaps displayed any curiosity about the package when it was sitting on the table. It was only when the game itself was put in front of them that they came alive. They didn’t want to open the box themselves. They didn’t even crane their necks to read what it said on it.’

  ‘No, they didn’t.’ Harriet’s lips barely moved. Robin rapped his knuckles on the cloth.

  ‘So your packaging is no bloody good.’ In spite of what his own father had said.

  ‘Months of work have gone into that. Months of research. Colours, logo, everything. It’s as good as it damn well can be.’ Harriet’s voice was raised. The lingering diners peered covertly at them. Harriet defended her work furiously and pointlessly. She knew it was wrong, and had known it since the Toy Fair. It was maddening to have Robin demonstrate its deficiencies so elegantly.

  ‘Two Japanese waiters is hardly a representative sample.’

  ‘Take any sample you like.’

  They found that they were glaring at each other, like children q
uarrelling. Harriet was fighting him off, because she was afraid of what she must do when she acknowledged he was right.

  ‘In the office this evening you said, “It’s in your hands and I’m confident you’ll do whatever must be done.”’ Harriet smiled, trying to regain her equilibrium.

  ‘I did, and I am. But I’d like to know what, and when.’

  ‘I’ll need some more money.’ She disliked the petulant sound of it.

  But Robin only said calmly, ‘I know you will.’ He lifted one hand to call for the bill.

  Help me, Harriet wailed silently. They walked out, past the screens and the pictures, the Japanese lettering and the bowing, smiling waiters.

  When they reached Robin’s sleek, white car he opened the passenger door for her.

  ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘Thanks, but there’s no need. I’ll get a cab.’

  He only held the door wider. Harriet climbed in, with all the confusion of her feelings, and let him drive her back to Belsize Park. The trip passed mostly in silence; Harriet was thinking.

  ‘This is it,’ she said, breaking the silence when they reached her street. It would have been ill-mannered not to have asked him in for a drink. Robin accepted, and they descended clanking iron steps to the basement front door. The cats appeared at once, and twisted between their ankles and the uncollected empty milk bottles.