by Anna Maxted
She was silent.
I added, ‘They’re strange people, but I think he’s resigned to how they are.’
Mr Coates wandered back into the kitchen. He’d been ages. Must have been a poo. I shook off the thought, thinking, why am I so disturbed? No wonder Jack needs to keep his distance. It’s struck me more than once what a holiday it would be to exchange minds for a fortnight with, say, Julie Andrews.
‘Jack’s parents?’ said Mr Coates. He had to be at least fifty. His hearing was good for an old person.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said my mother, welcoming him into the conversation as if three wasn’t a crowd.
‘His mother recently remarried,’ said Mr Coates, casually, as if people remarried every day. Which I suppose they did. ‘Three boys. In their twenties. He said she doesn’t stop talking about them.’
Immediately I heard this, I tried to justify all aspects of it. Why Jack hadn’t told me. What it meant. The queasy sensation in my stomach told me that something wasn’t as it should be. Jack was superb at philosophising about my life. He could be wise, fatalistic, understanding, all in the same breath. But when it came to his problems, he was as stuck as a fly trapped in golden syrup.
And he didn’t feel able to confide in me.
Normally, I do not sympathise with women who complain that they can’t get their men to talk. My private belief is, are you crazy? What calibre of chat do you think you’re missing out on?
But now, I urgently wanted him to tell all. Partly because if it related to him, I wanted to know. But also because his silence didn’t bode well.
‘Right,’ I said, standing up. ‘It was great to see you. Both. Together. Well. I’ll let you get on.’
I hoped she wasn’t aware that just about everyone who says, ‘Well. I’ll let you get on,’ is actually saying, ‘I really want to go now, please may I?’
On my way to the car, I awarded my visit five out of ten. I’m a stern marker, because it had been a success. I hadn’t offended anyone. Mr Coates hadn’t offended me. (And goodness, the potential was there. On seeing him again, I’d felt a little bristly, on my mother’s behalf, as if our roles were reversed. This was cheeky, as I’m sure he could never have hurt her as much as I had.)
No. My mother had merely unsettled me, a little. All for the best, I’m sure, but right then, I didn’t want to have doubts about Jack. The time I spent with him, I wanted to be caught up in the moment, not second-guessing it. And hark at her! Her way of dealing with her past was to brush it aside, claim it was old news. Maybe she felt entitled to preach because earlier that morning she had alluded to her depression and its effect on me, but the mention had not been overt. She had never referred to it openly.
That was fine by me. I knew enough. What riled me was that she kept stuff back from me – why did she care that Jack did?
When he called that night – I calculated that we hadn’t spoken for three days – I was reserved.
‘You’re in a mood,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’
I huffed, and then I told him. Well, some. I didn’t say that I was worried that we’d lost pace, that he’d buggered off to LA and returned altogether cooler, and that I felt much as I did eleven years ago. Out of my depth. I just told him about what Jonathan had said.
‘Jonathan!’ said Jack. ‘He’s such a queen! I was going to tell you. It’s his fault. All the dust he’s kicked up in your family – we’ve been caught up, talking about that. And it’s your fault. When I’m with you my mind is on other things … filth, mainly.’
I grinned, curled myself around the phone. God, look at me. I had the man, I felt the urge to get me a Cosmo subscription and a large pink bow, I was turning into such a girl. Worrying about nothing.
Chapter 47
Unemployment is wasted on some people. They do nothing with it. Rather like lottery winners bleating, ‘It won’t change me,’ as if that’s a good thing, their biggest extravagance, buying new seat covers for their Ford Cavalier, hiring a four-berth caravan this year, insulting the rest of us who really know how to burn cash. They quit their job as a dustman or dinner lady, and all the time they once spent clearing rubbish or ladling out rubbish, they now spend watching rubbish and eating rubbish. They might as well be on the dole!
I was different from lottery winners, and doleys. For a start, I had less money. But I had been so damn creative with my time, God, I impressed myself. I had achieved a lot. The people stuff you know about. I’m talking about other things, details that I’d never have noticed before because I was moving too fast. These last two weeks, I’d spent quite a few hours, sitting at my glass dining table – no wooden desk was ever big enough for all my shit – by the study window, just thinking.
I’d never been too keen on thinking. There’s a point after which thinking only makes people miserable. But I’d had some good thoughts. I’d sit there, gaze at Grandma Nellie’s photographs, and a plane would fly across my table. Well, it flew across the sky, but I liked to see its reflection cross my glass table; I was amused by the idea of a plane flying through my study. At least daily, a great fat honey bee would bonk its head on the window, clonk. And, once, a fluffy dandelion spore wafted in and bounced across the images of my mother as a young woman. These tiny nothings, they made me smile inwardly. I’d sit there, survey my tiny slice of the world, feel a wriggle that wasn’t too far removed from contentment. It was good to know that small things could make an impact on my mood. We can’t all winter in the Caribbean.
I’d missed a couple of episodes of CSI. And I hadn’t cared, too much. I was trying to cool the heat of my passion for a bunch of made-up characters portrayed by actors.
I could go back to Greg – my own dear Grissom – and tell him that I had used my unpaid leave wisely. Perhaps I would never have the instinct of Gil (‘something isn’t right here’) but I had finally seen what was plonk in front of me. Jack, Martine, Grandma Nellie, the fact that they’d all but forced my face into the plate of details, didn’t take away from my pride. When people said, ‘And what do you do?’ I’d always replied, ‘I’m a detective’, thinking that they didn’t need to know the whole of it (‘but not a very good one’). Now I knew I could be a – if not brilliant – fine bread-and-butter sleuth, because I had revised my approach. I understood about people’s need for an emotional life, and how it drove them, whether they knew it or not.
Monday morning, I got in at nine, and heaved all Ron’s files out of my office and into the corridor. The room smelled bad, of grease and cheap food. I opened the window, aired the place. There was a glossy pamphlet on my desk for, I kid you not, a submersible bike. I swept it into the bin. Ron was a sucker for all that James Bond-type rubbish. No real detective uses equipment like that. Cubby Broccoli has a lot to answer for. You wouldn’t believe how many women watch James Bond films then ring us up and ask if we can ‘put a bug’ on their husband. It’s just not practical to bug someone on the move. It would be like trying to tune in to a pirate radio station in bad weather.
Greg is a bit of a purist (his tools are ‘the phone and my brilliant personality’) and the most fancy device I ever used was a hidden camera inside a teddy bear. This kid was going to stay with her dad at the weekends, and the mother believed the new girlfriend was being nasty to the child. She wasn’t. That was a while back. Those bears are pretty much for sale in Mothercare now.
Greg came in as I was spraying my chair with Dettox. He nodded. ‘Probably wise.’
I turned around so he could get a view of my face which is, I hope, less offensive than my butt. ‘I’m back,’ I said. ‘Hello!’
He grinned. ‘Drop by when the decontamination process is complete.’
An hour later, I made it to Greg’s office.
He looked up. ‘You look different. How are you?’
‘Very good. I enjoyed my forced non-labour.’
‘Yeah? Any conclusions?’
‘Well. Yes, actually.’
‘Good, because when we had our chat, two weeks ago, you
looked at me like I was a talking donkey. I wanted you to use this time wisely. I didn’t want you to piss it up the wall.’
‘Women can’t do that, Greg.’
‘Women can do whatever they want.’ He nodded for me to sit.
I sat. ‘I’m committed to the job. I am. I know that now. I did some … unofficial field work, on my break. Unpaid. For me. Learnt a lot. Discovered a lot.’
‘So, you’re not leaving me to do decoy work just yet.’
‘Well. I certainly hope not.’
Greg and I are pretty sniffy about companies who do decoy work. We reckon that decoys are for stalkers and obsessives. The stuff they find out, it isn’t anything you can use in court. There’s nothing worse than the judge saying, ‘And how did you get this information?’ It can be classed as entrapment. Not only that, they’re so vulnerable. Women who do decoy work put themselves at such risk. Flirt, flirt, flirt, then back off at the last moment. It pisses men off, and not all men are decent blokes. So I jolly well hoped Greg was teasing. He knew I’d rather work in a supermarket.
‘So tell me what you learnt.’
I told him. About digging up all the family skeletons till there was a great pile of white bones on my living-room floor.
‘I feel that I am,’ I concluded, ‘a little more aware of … the human condition.’
Greg smiled. ‘That’s no small claim.’
I coughed. ‘Although, I have to tell you …’
Greg leant forward. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘I want to do this job. But. There are certain things I won’t do. I couldn’t grass up Charlie’s mother to her ex-husband for having a new boyfriend. That woman had nothing. I do have to live with myself. And I don’t want ever to think that I’m responsible for a little kid missing out. So, I stand by what I did. Although, I see I was wrong to waste your time and money. Although, Greg, Hound Dog does get paid exactly the same, regardless of what we report, so it wouldn’t have made any difference to you financially. In future, though, if I may, I won’t take on the jobs I don’t feel morally comfortable doing.’
I winced. I’d used the M-word. I braced myself to be slung out on my ear. I met Greg’s eyes and I wasn’t surprised to see he looked furious.
‘You little shit!’ he said. ‘How dare you?’
‘What?’ I gasped.
‘I’m not some fucking ogre. I’m not some dark creature, with two heads. I’m not … Ron. I’ll tell you what happened with that particular case, missy. Hound Dog submitted your footage, not his, with our report. No new boyfriend, here’s our proof. I’ve got four boys, OK, four! I’m not going to deprive some little fella of anything. For a start, my wife would kill me.’
I allowed the corners of my mouth to tweak upwards. I’d met Greg’s wife. She was Scottish, long dark curly hair, luscious curves, bright, funny and never stopped talking, but you could tell she was carved out of flint. A disc had crumbled in her spine and she was in constant, excruciating pain. Christ, if it were me, the whining would never cease. With her, och, said Greg, she just drank a little more at parties.
I beamed. ‘I have to live with myself. And you have to live with her. But I would never suggest that your wife keeps you in check.’
‘No,’ agreed Greg. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘What did Ron think of your decision?’
‘He wasn’t thrilled.’
‘Shame.’
‘But I made it up to him.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Right now, he’s spending two days in a field. Watching an industrial site. Keeping an eye on some gypsies.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘How lovely!’
Greg and I smiled, our hearts warmed by the thought of Ron, digging a scrape in the cold ground, covering it, and himself, in the undergrowth of the area, peeing in a bottle, taking a dump in clingfilm, drinking Nescafé in a can (push the button and it heats up, ah, luxury), stuffing Pro Plus to keep himself awake, and eating army rations, mm, delicious!
Greg winked at me. ‘Good to have you back, girl. Now sidle out to your car and follow someone!’
Chapter 48
People are funny about weddings. I don’t mean funny ha ha. As someone who has been a bride, I feel qualified to speak about this.
Jack and I didn’t want kids at our big day, so we didn’t invite anyone under sixteen. This made every guest with kids hate us. Fair enough. But, get this, it was our wedding, our decision. Any other day of our lives, if we saw them, we’d expect to see their kids too, but just this once, we hoped they might indulge our wishes without complaint, because they were, after all, here for us, in our honour, it was, actually, our wedding. It was our brief prerogative to be selfish, think only of ourselves.
Jack’s favourite uncle and aunt turned down the invitation in a sulk. Hurt, he invited their brood (who loathed every minute), but his affection for them cooled for good. Another guest ignored our request and brought her baby, who screamed as we said our vows. The attitude problems didn’t end there. Even Martine said, ‘Do you mind if I’m not a bridesmaid if I don’t like the dress?’ My father’s cousin bitched about the food. Anyone would have thought it was their big day.
‘Ratfink,’ Jack had said, ‘next time I do this I’m going to elope.’
For all the above reasons, I was determined not to voice, even think, a single negative thing about Jason and Lucy’s wedding (or, at least, the willy end bit that I was attending). I resolved to separate my dislike for weddings as an entity that sucked up your weekend from this particular occasion, the much-longed-for union of a great favourite to, hm, a good old girl. To demonstrate my goodwill, I’d donated two Versace cups and saucers off the wedding list (information, phone numbers, enclosed with the invite; they weren’t taking any chances). Set me back nearly four hundred quid, but you can’t buy one cup and saucer for people who are marrying, and after what I’d put Jason through, I sensed that poverty was the price of a cleanish conscience.
I was greatly touched to discover that Jason had invited Jack (also, to the willy end bit).
I was driving round the roundabout at the end of the Rotherhithe Tunnel for the third time, trying to guess which turning to take, when I realised that a voluptuous red Audi was doing the same. I looked closer, and, yes, there was Jack, cursing at the wheel. Why? Because the wedding was taking place at the London Hilton Docklands, in glorious Rotherhithe. That was sarcastic; the place is a dump. It’s also, for North Londoners, impossible to find. (I’ll remind you that, mostly, detectives follow people …) I could imagine that the London Hilton Docklands was not Lucy’s ideal venue, but the only one in Britain you could secure at short notice.
I hooted Jack, who glared into his rear-view mirror, saw it was me, chose an exit and pulled over. I did the same and hopped out of my car.
‘Why didn’t you say Jase had invited you?’
Jack grinned. ‘He wanted it to be a surprise. For some reason, he thinks he’s matchmaking. He’s so bloody decent, it’s almost more than I can stand.’
I smiled. ‘He’s such a romantic, he doesn’t think that we could have saved on petrol.’
I was joking, because privately I reckoned that Jason had done us both a favour. If we’d shared a car, the driver would have probably murdered the navigator by now. As it was, it took us another half-hour to chance upon the hotel. Just modern enough to be depressing, the place screamed ‘conference centre’ but, alas, not loud enough to help us locate it.
We poked our heads round the door of what appeared to be a large assembly hall. It was stuffed with smart people, and there were a lot of feathery hats on chairs. A band was playing ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’ loudly and fast. Most of the guests looked happily drunk, even the ten-year-olds. I scanned the room for food, and the groom. Aw, there he was in the far corner, chatting away to some granny, and didn’t he look sweet. God bless him, he’d gone all out for tradition. Grey top hat and tails, with a great gold tie and golden waistcoat. He had a white rose as a buttonhole, and his n
ose looked red and sniffly.
‘Oh, hello.’
Ah, crap, I can never help but smile when I see a bride, such is the power of conditioning. Lucy had chosen a strapless corset dress with a massive skirt, it seemed to have been inspired by the costume of a seventeenth-century infanta and was wide enough to have doubled as a road sweep. I felt that Gabrielle would have steered her towards a wiser choice. The woman had shoulders like a carthorse.
And yet, the glow, the bridal glow …
‘Lucy!’ I cried. ‘Oh! How are you? You look really nice. Tired, though. You look a bit tired. I suppose it’s a really long day. Have you enjoyed it?’
She smiled stiffly. ‘Yes, thank you.’
I felt the hot breeze of her breath on my face and, oh, my sainted aunt! It was as fresh and lovely as a snowdrop in spring! The groom didn’t know how much he owed me.
Jack leant in and kissed her hand, the creep. ‘Lucy, I’m Jack, Hannah’s friend. You look gorgeous, absolutely beautiful. Radiant, in fact. Jason’s very lucky.’
Lucy beamed, tilted her head, ‘Oh, thank you, Jack!’
I realised I should have been a little more effusive in my compliments. I forget, women don’t like understated when it comes to praise. I cleared my throat. ‘And Jason looks fantastic,’ I said. ‘Very handsome – obviously he is handsome – but today he looks stunning, he could be a model. Congratulations on nabbing him. You must be delighted!’
To my surprise and disappointment, she shot me a furious look. ‘My husband and I are very happy. Very happy. Oh, and thanks for the cups. You shouldn’t have. Help yourself to sandwiches.’
She swish-swashed away, the skirt knocking down chairs and tables (I exaggerate but furniture definitely teetered).
I widened my eyes at Jack – what was her problem?
Jack widened his eyes at me. ‘You moron,’ he said. ‘You date the guy for five years, you tell the bride she looks OK—’
‘“Nice,” I said, “really nice,” is what I said!’
‘That’s the same as “OK”; it’s shit. And why on earth would you tell her she looks tired? You don’t want to look tired on your wedding day!’