Katharine has tilted her head to one side, eyes welled up with concern.
‘You’ll get the job, won’t you?’
‘Probably, yes. They wouldn’t spend all that money training someone just to chuck them out after a year. But it still hangs over me.’ I take a sip from the whisky tumbler and a slipped ice-cube chills my top lip. ‘The truth is I have this deep-seated fear of failure. I seem to have lived with it all my life. Not a fear of personal failure, exactly. I’ve always been very sure and certain of my own abilities. But a fear of others thinking that I’m a failure. Maybe they’re the same thing.’
Katharine smiles crookedly, as if she is finding it difficult to concentrate.
‘It’s like this, Kathy. I want to be recognized as someone who stands apart. But even at school I was always following on the heels of students - just one or two, that’s all - who were more able than I was. Smarter in the classroom, quicker-witted in the playground, faster on the football pitch. They had a sort of effortlessness about them which I have never had. And I always coveted that. I feel as though I have lived my life suspended between brilliance and mediocrity, you know? Neither ordinary nor exceptional. Do you ever feel like that?’
I look at her hopefully.
‘I think we all do, all the time,’ she replies, lightly shrugging her shoulders. ‘We try to kid ourselves that we’re in some way distinct from everyone else. More valuable, more interesting. We create this illusion of personal superiority. Actually, I think men in particular do that. A whole lot more than women, as a matter of fact.’
‘I think you’re right.’
I have a longing for a cigarette.
‘Still,’ she says. ‘I gotta say that you don’t seem that way to us.’
‘Who’s us?’
‘Fort and I.’
‘Don’t seem vain?’
‘No.’
It’s good that they think that.
‘But are you disappointed to hear me say these things?’
She jumps at this.
‘No! Hell no. Talk, Alec, it’s fine. We’re friends. This is how it’s supposed to be.’
‘I’m just telling you what I feel.’
‘Yes.’
‘Like for a long time now I’ve thought that things are down to luck. Success has nothing to do with talent, don’t you think? It’s just good fortune. Some people are lucky, some aren’t. It’s that simple.’
Katharine tucks her feet under her thighs, crouching up tight on the sofa, and she breathes out through a narrow channel formed between pursed lips. I can feel the wine now, the dissembling brew of vodka and whisky.
‘For example, I was predicted straight-A grades for university, but I got sick and took a string of Bs and Cs so I didn’t get my chance to go to Oxbridge. That would have changed everything. Oxford and Cambridge are the only truly optimistic places in England. Graduates come out feeling that they can do anything, that they can be anybody, because that’s the environment they’ve been educated in. And what’s to stop them? It’s almost American in that sense. But I meet Oxbridge graduates and there’s not one of them who has something I don’t, some quality I don’t possess. And yet somehow they’ve found themselves in positions of influence or of great wealth, they’ve got ahead. Now what is that about if it isn’t just luck? I mean, what do they have that I haven’t? Am I lazy? I don’t think so. I didn’t sit on my arse at university screwing girls and smoking grass and raving it up. I just didn’t get a break. And I’m not the sort of person who gets depressed. If I start feeling low I tell myself it’s just irrational, a chemical imbalance, and I pull myself out of it. I feel as if I have had such bad luck, you know?’
Katharine brings her eyes down from the ceiling and exclaims:
‘But you’re doing such good work now, such important work. The Caspian is potentially one of the most vibrant economic and political areas in the world. You’re playing a part in that. I had no idea you harboured these frustrations, Alec.’
I shouldn’t go too far with this.
‘They’re not constant. I don’t feel like that all the time. And you’re right - the Caspian is exciting. But look at how I’m treated, Kathy. Twelve and a half thousand pounds a year and no future to bank on. There’s so little respect for low-level employees at Abnex it’s staggering. I can’t believe what a shitty company it is.’
‘How are they shitty?’ This has caught her interest, but I don’t want to overplay my hand. ‘Tell me,’ she says.
‘Well…’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve only just started admitting this to myself, but after what happened with MI6, Abnex was a bit of a rebound.’
‘MI6?’ she says, as if she’d never heard of it. ‘Oh yes, of course. Your interviews. How do you mean a rebound?’
‘Well that was my dream job. To do that.’
‘Yes,’ she says slowly. ‘I recall you saying.’
I watch her face for a trace of deceit, but there is nothing.
‘Not for Queen and Country - that’s all shit - but to be involved in something where success or failure depended entirely on me and me alone. Working in oil is OK, but it doesn’t compare to what I would have experienced if I’d been involved in intelligence work. And I’m not sure that I’m cut out for the corporate life.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Let me put it like this. Sometimes I wake up and I think: is this it? Is this what I really want to do with my life? Is this the sum total of my efforts so far? I so much wanted to be a success at something. To be significant. And I still resent the Foreign Office for denying me that. It’s childish, but that’s how I feel.’
‘But you are a success, Alec,’ she says, and it sounds as if she really means it.
‘No, I mean a successful individual. I wanted to make my own mark on the world. MI6 would have given me that. Is that too idealistic?’
‘No,’ she says quietly, shaking her head from side to side in slow agreement. ‘It’s not too idealistic. You know, it’s funny. I look at you and I think you have everything a guy your age could possibly want.’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘Why not?’
‘I want acclaim. I want to be acknowledged.’
‘That’s understandable. A lot of young, ambitious guys are just like you. But do you mind if I give you a piece of advice?’
‘Go ahead.’
After a brief pause, she says:
‘I think you should relax a little bit, try to enjoy being young. What do you say?’
Katharine edges towards me, lending a bending emphasis to the question, and for the first time since she returned from the kitchen we find ourselves looking one another directly in the eye. We hold the contact, drawing out a candid silence, and I tell myself: this is happening again. She is giving it another try. She is guiding us gradually towards the bliss of an infidelity. And I think of Fortner, asleep in Kiev, and feel no loyalty to him whatsoever.
‘Relax a little bit?’ I repeat, moving towards her.
‘Yes.’
‘And how do you suggest I do that?’
‘I dunno,’ she says, leaning back. ‘Get out a bit more. Try not to care so much about what other people think about you.’
In this split instant I fear that I have read the situation wrongly. Her manner became suddenly curt, even distant, as if by flirting with her I broke the spell between us, made it explicit.
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Why is that easier said than done?’
‘I find it so hard, Kathy. To relax.’
‘Oh, come on,’ she says, tossing her face up to the ceiling. She finds my cautiousness disappointing.
‘You’re right…’
‘You know I am. I know what’s best for you. What about Saul? Why don’t you go out with him more?’
‘With Saul? He’s always busy. Always got a new girlfriend on the go.’
‘Yes,’ she says quietly, standing and picking up th
e two empty glasses from the table.
‘Let me give you a hand with those.’
‘No no, that’s OK.’ As she moves towards the kitchen she is shaking her head. ‘You’re so serious, Alec. So serious. Always have been.’
I don’t reply. It is as if she is angry with me.
‘You want another drink?’ she calls out.
‘No thanks. I’ve had one too many.’
‘Me too,’ she says, coming back in. ‘I have to go to the bathroom.’
‘Fine.’
‘Be here when I get back?’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
I had expected it: when she returns from the bathroom, Katharine is yawning, the elegant sinew and muscle on her neck stretched out in fine strands. She slumps down on the sofa and says: ‘Excuse me. Oh, I’m sorry. Must be tired.’
I take the cue. The hint is broad enough.
‘I should be going, Kathy. It’s late.’
‘No, don’t,’ she says, jerking up out of her seat with a suddenness which gives me new hope. ‘It’s so nice having you here. I’m just a little sleepy, that’s all.’
She rests her hand lightly on my leg. Why is she blowing so hot and cold?
‘That’s why I should be going. If you’re sleepy.’
‘Why don’t you stay the night? It’s Sunday tomorrow.’
‘No. You’ll want to be on your own.’
‘Not at all. I hate being alone. Strange noises. It would be nice if you slept over.’
‘You sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’
‘Because that would be great if I could. I’d save the money on a taxi.’
‘Well there you go, then. It’s settled.’ She beams, lots of teeth. ‘It’ll be just me and you. You can look out for me. Be my protector.’
‘Well if I’m going to do that I should sleep on the sofa. See the burglars coming in.’
‘You won’t be all that comfortable.’
‘Well, where do you suggest I sleep?’
I put as much ambiguity into this as it is comfortable to risk, but Katharine doesn’t pick it up.
‘Well, there’s always Fortner’s room,’ she says. ‘I can change the sheets.’
Not what I wanted her to say.
‘That’s a chore. You don’t want to be doing that at this time of night.’
‘No really. It’s no problem.’
I scratch my temple.
‘Look, maybe I should just get a taxi. Maybe you’d prefer it if I went.’
‘No. Stay. I’ll fetch you a blanket.’
‘You have one spare?’
‘Yeah. I got plenty.’
She twists up from the sofa, her left sock hanging loose off the toes, and walks back down the corridor.
‘There you go,’ she says, returning with a green chequered rug draped over her arm. She lays it on the sofa beside me. ‘Need a pillow?’
She yawns again.
‘No, the cushions will be fine.’
‘OK, then. Well I’m gonna get some sleep. Shout if you need anything.’
‘I will.’
And she leaves the room.
I am not sure that there was anything else I could have done. For a moment, sex was hovering in the background like a secret promise, but it was too much of a risk to make a move. I could not have been certain of her response. But now I am alone, still clothed, still wide awake, feeling cramped and uncomfortable on a Habitat sofa. I regret talking her into letting me stay the night: I only did it in the hope of being asked to join her in bed. I’d like to be on my way home, working back through the night’s conversations, thinking them through and noting them down. But now I am stuck here for what will be at least six or seven hours.
Katharine goes into her room after snuffing out the light in the passage, and I hear the firm closing thunk of her bedroom door.
At around two o’clock, perhaps a little later, I hear the noise of footsteps in the corridor. A quiet tip-toe in the dark. I turn on the sofa to face out into the darkened room, eyes squinting as a light comes on in the passage.
I make out Katharine’s silhouette in the door. She pauses there, and the room is so quiet that I can hear her breathing. She is coming towards me, edging forward.
‘Kathy?’
‘Sorry.’ She is whispering; as if someone might hear. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘No. I can’t sleep.’
‘I was just gonna fetch a glass of water,’ she says. ‘Sorry to wake you. You want one?’
‘No, thanks.’
If I’d said yes it would have brought her over here. That was stupid.
‘Actually maybe I will have one.’
‘OK.’
She turns on a side light in the kitchen and the low hum of the fridge compressor cuts out as she opens the door. A narrow path of bright light floods the floor. She pours two glasses of water, closes the fridge, and comes back into the sitting-room.
‘There you go,’ she says. I sit up, trying to catch her eye as she comes towards me. Her legs look tanned in the darkness.
‘Thanks, Kathy.’
‘Sorry to disturb you.’
She is not stopping. She turns, saying nothing more, moving back in the direction of her room.
‘Can’t you sleep?’ I ask, desperate now to keep her here. My voice is loud in the room, foolish.
‘No,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll be fine after this. Move into Fortner’s bed if you want. I’ll see you in the morning.’
18
Sharp Practice
‘So how was Kiev?’
‘Kiev?’ says Fortner, as if he had never heard of the place.
‘Yeah. Kiev.’
We walk another two or three paces down Ladbroke Grove before he replies:
‘Oh yeah. Christ. Kiev. Not bad. Not bad.’
I know he didn’t go to Ukraine. The Hobbit told me yesterday on the phone.
‘Were you working the whole time?’
‘Flat out. Twenty-four seven. A lotta talk.’
‘Nice weather?’ I ask, with a grin that he doesn’t see.
‘Oh yeah. Real nice. They sure don’t know how to dress for it, though. Girls wearing nylon tights in the sunshine and all the guys with these thick moustaches. What is that, a macho thing?’
‘What, wearing nylon tights?’
‘You’re sharp tonight, Milius,’ he says, putting his arm across my shoulders. He does that quite frequently nowadays. ‘I like it when you’re quick on your feet. Keeps us old guys on our toes.’
Fortner and I are going for a drink together: it’s something we’ve done three times before, just the two of us. Katharine cooks dinner, makes herself scarce, and leaves us to it. You go enjoy yourself, honey, she says, helping him on with his jacket. Bring him back in one piece, y’hear? And we walk the few blocks from their flat in Colville Gardens down to Ladbroke Grove, ready to drink through to last orders.
The setting is a spacious, brown, old-style pub which will be a themed bar-and-restaurant within twelve months, guaranteed. I hold the door open for him and we go inside, finding a pair of stools at the bar. Fortner hangs his elbow-patched tweed jacket on a nearby hook, retrieving his wallet from the inside pocket. Then he sits down beside me and rests his forearms on the wooden bar, breathing out heavily in anticipation of the long night ahead. To his left there’s a vast, Sun-reading builder, all bicep and sinew, muscles packed tight into a lumberjack shirt. His neck has been shaved to stubble and dropping from a scarred right earlobe is a single silver stud which seems to contain his entire personality. The man does not look up as we sit down. He just keeps on reading his paper.
‘I’ll get the first round,’ I say and reach into my hip pocket for a handful of change. ‘You want a pint or something, Fortner?’
‘A pint,’ he says slowly, as if still coming to terms with this strange Limey word. ‘Yes. That is a good idea, young man. A pint.’
‘Guinness? I’m having one.’
‘A drop of the
old Irish,’ he glints. ‘Stout.’
The barman hears this and brings down two tall glasses, starting to pour the Guinness before I have even asked for them. He allows the pints to settle for a while, using the time to take my money and cash it in at the till.
‘Nuts? Do you want any nuts?’
‘Not for me,’ Fortner says. ‘Been tryin’ to get back to my ideal weight. Two hundred fifty pounds.’
‘There you go, guys,’ says the barman, setting the glasses down in front of us. He has the slightly sweeter, higher semitone voice which distinguishes Kiwis from Australians.
‘How was your flight?’
‘From Ukraine? Lousy.’
Imperceptibly, Fortner gathers together the lies.
‘There’s no chance of jet-lag on account of the time difference, but they do their best to exhaust you anyway. Aeroplane sat on the tarmac for three straight hours. Fuckin’ stewards gave us one complimentary drink and then played cards until take-off. Then the flight was diverted through Munich and I had to spend the night in a goddam Holiday Inn. Took a day to get home.’
This is utterly convincing. Perhaps the Hobbit got it wrong. Fortner does look older tonight, aged by long-haul flights and the trickeries of Kiev. Here is a man propping up a bar, a man in shirt-sleeves and slacks, with ovals of sweat under his arms and stubble cast across his face like a rash. There will be questions he means to ask of me, but his eyes look drained of will. He has no energy.
‘You look tired,’ I tell him.
‘Oh, I’m all right. This’ll start me up.’
He takes a long creamy swig of his Guinness and sets it back down on the bar with a thud.
‘So what’d you and Kathy get up to while I was away?’ he asks, licking his upper lip. We’ve already been over this at dinner, but it makes me do the talking.
‘Like she told you at supper. We went walking in Battersea Park. Had dinner at your place afterwards.’
‘Oh, yeah. She mentioned that.’
‘Why d’you ask, then?’
‘I just wanted details. Kinda missed her while I was away. I like hearing stories about her, things she did and said.’
A Spy by Nature (2001) Page 18