by Isla Dewar
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I am planning to have words with my son-in-law. I need to be angry. I’m practising on you.’ She leaned back and drummed on the steering wheel.
‘How do you know he’ll come along?’ asked Duncan.
‘His stomach. All his life he has eaten at half-past six. He may have changed. But his stomach hasn’t. It’ll still need filling up at the same time.’
‘Mine, too,’ said Duncan. ‘I’m starved. How long do we have to wait here?’
‘Till he comes along. Not long, I should think.’ She shifted in her seat, pointed ahead. ‘There he is. In that pink kaftan thing. He’s wafting along the street. Looking smug. I didn’t think men wafted.’
Clumsy and stiff, she clambered out of the car. ‘Jamie,’ she shouted, ‘Jamie Walters. I want a word with you.’ She advanced on him, angry finger pointing.
He looked at his building and for a moment seemed poised for flight.
‘Don’t you dare run away. You’ve done enough of that already.’
He turned to face Sophie, thumbs hooked over the back pockets of his jeans. He smirked as she lumbered closer. ‘Hi, Sophie.’ The smirk faded as he saw how she moved. It was plain that every step hurt.
‘Oh, yes, you did this. I’m bruised and battered and everything aches. It hurts to walk. It used to hurt to breathe, but that’s getting better. I still have to sleep sitting up.’
‘I had no idea. It was meant to be a joke.’
‘It wasn’t funny.’
‘I just wanted to do a little damage. I wanted you and Martha to hurt. But not that much.’
‘You wanted to abduct my grandchild. And I’m more than a little damaged.’
‘I just wanted a little time with Evie. To talk to her.’
‘You duped me into baking the cake of my life, delivering it personally. The cake was smashed and I got beat up. Nothing like having your stupidity pointed out to you to make you realise you’re not invincible.’ She pointed harder. ‘You did it, didn’t you? You ordered the cake.’
He shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
Sophie wanted to hit him. She realised it would be foolish. Lashing out would be a source of derision. ‘When it comes to being stupid, you score highly. Not quite stupid or plain stupid but off-the-scale seriously stupid,’ she said.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘The damage you did to me. The damage you could have done to us all. Martha could have called the police. You could be facing charges. What if the police had come to your flat and found you smoking dope and an abducted child in the room?’
Jamie looked a little shocked. ‘Never thought of that.’
‘Of course you didn’t. Now Evie’s old enough to know what’s going on, Martha isn’t likely to let you near enough to hurt her.’ Sophie’s rage went on. ‘You ran from your daughter. And you ran from your wife. On your legs. Top speed as they stood watching. What sort of husband and father does that?’
Jamie shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ He grinned, pleased at the adolescent nonchalance of his reply. ‘Except, of course, Martha says Evie isn’t mine. So yeah, I’m a husband. But I’m not her father.’
‘That doesn’t make it right to abduct her and have me mugged.’ Sophie’s anger was beginning to seethe.
Further along the street a group of men on their way to the pub called Jamie’s name and waved. They were young, muscular, tight T-shirts tucked into jeans. ‘Hey, Jamie.’
‘Hey, guys,’ he shouted back. ‘See ya later.’ He mimicked swigging a straight glass of beer.
Sophie watched and disapproved. ‘Are those men friends of yours?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are they friends of the two who bashed my cake and mugged me?’
Jamie grinned again. ‘Nah. They were a couple of kids who come into the record shop.’
Sophie drew her breath, stepped closer to Jamie. ‘And how much did you pay them?’
‘Couple of pounds.’
‘Two pounds. Two pounds! To beat me up. Is that all I am worth?’
‘That was each.’
‘Two pounds,’ Sophie shouted. ‘Two bloody pounds.’ Her voice cut through the evening, slicing into the radio songs drifting from a doorway. Pavement people stopped walking and turned to stare. Faces appeared at windows. A woman holding a small child looked down. She turned the child away. There were things the little one wasn’t ready to see.
‘You bastard,’ shouted Sophie. ‘You cheap little bastard.’ She shuffled to him and stamped on his toe. ‘Arse.’
Jamie bent forward to clutch his ruined toe and Sophie walloped him on the cheek.
She heard the car door behind her slam shut as she raised her fist to land a second blow. Someone was shouting, ‘Arse. Arse. Arse.’ It dawned that it was her.
Someone took hold of her from behind. ‘Time to go, Sophie.’ Duncan, she’d forgotten about him. He pulled her away. ‘Come on, before someone gets the police. You’re assaulting a man.’
‘Not a man, my son-in-law, the arse. I get to assault him. He deserves to be assaulted.’
She whacked him one more time. He squealed. But couldn’t defend himself. That would have meant letting go of his toe. He hopped on the spot, red of face.
‘You’ve broken my toe, you bitch.’
Duncan put his arms round her waist and pulled her back towards the car. She protested and wriggled and lashed out at him, trying to elbow him from behind. She panted and heaved, too caught up with breathing to shout out. She pulled at his hands, working at loosening his grip.
‘Sophie, you’re making a fool of yourself. Stop this.’
He lifted her feet off the ground and, wheezing with effort, staggered half-dragging her, half-carrying her, to the car. Sophie struggled to free herself, flailed her arms and screamed her protests. ‘Put me down. Put me down.’ He opened the driver’s door and shoved her in.
‘I’ll kill him. Did you hear that? Two bloody pounds to mug me.’ She beat the steering wheel. ‘The pain I’ve been in. Forty pounds would have been more like it.’
‘I know. Start the car, please. Go. We have to get away from here.’
Sophie calmed. She reviewed the situation. Perhaps Duncan was right. Perhaps he had saved her from an embarrassing encounter with the police. Stamping on your son-in-law’s foot and whacking him on the cheek was as illegal as having her mugged. ‘Duncan, I think you may be a hero. I didn’t know you had it in you.’
He nodded and said, ‘Neither did I.’
44
Emotional Camouflage
‘That’s her.’ Charlie pointed to a woman leaving a building as he and Martha pulled up at the kerb. She was tall, immaculate and magazine up-to-the-minute. Lucy Moncrieff.
‘Interesting,’ said Martha. ‘Slightly bohemian. Long blond hair. A black beret and dark green silk jacket. Cool. I’m jealous. It should be against the law to be that good-looking.’
‘Legs,’ said Charlie.
‘Yes, I noticed,’ said Martha. ‘You’re a leg man?’
‘For the last two minutes.’
‘She looks like a rock star. To be thought of as a rock star you don’t have to sing or play guitar. You just have to look like a rock star.’
‘You can easily hide who you are with clothes, lipstick and a haircut. Emotional camouflage. You can dress up as who you want to be and leave your actual self behind. How old do you think?’
‘Twenty-four, twenty-five.’
‘Why would Brendan take up with one so young? Surely that would infuriate the others?’
‘I’d have thought so.’
‘So, why?’
‘How the hell should I know? You’re the muser and ponderer; I’m just employed to type up the results of your thinking. How do you know that woman is her, anyway?’
‘I saw her the first time we followed Brendan. I didn’t realise she was so young and so gorgeous. We should follow her. She might be going somewhere interesting. We’ll walk along a lit
tle bit behind her acting normally. Pretending we are real people.’
‘Yet again.’
‘It’s a nice day for it.’
He was right. It was pleasantly liberating to be mindlessly following a woman while pretending to be a real person.
‘I have a frisson of naughtiness. I am a voyeur. It’s quite exciting,’ said Martha.
‘But slightly sleazy at the same time. I wonder what right have I to follow someone just because another someone asked me to and will pay me? And if I can follow someone, is someone following me?’ Martha whirled round, walked backwards for a few steps and said, ‘No.’
Pretending to be real people – something they found easier than actually being real people – they trailed behind Lucy, watching her duck through streaming traffic, nip gracefully up the street and disappear into a restaurant.
Charlie stood outside making a show of reading the menu as Martha cupped her hands against the window and peered in. ‘It’s lovely in there. Shimmering candles and beautiful people eating. I feel like a starving orphan spying on the king’s feast.’
The restaurant was dimly lit, crisp white linen tablecloths, sparkling glasses and waiters in pristine white shirts and black waistcoats tenderly handing over plates of succulent food or carefully pouring wine. It was an ordinary grey day out in the street, but in that room it was a permanent romantic evening.
‘I never knew about this place. Have you ever eaten here?’ said Martha.
‘No. Of course not. You don’t come here to eat, you come to show off or celebrate your birthday or graduation or anniversary. I take eating too seriously to come here.’
‘Ooh, there’s Lucy. Blimey, she’s sitting with a bunch of women. Bernice is there and Sheila. And Mrs Simpson. And quite a few others we’ve not seen before.’
Charlie joined her peering in. ‘You’re right. New faces. Who are they?’
‘I don’t know. Where did they come from?’
They faced one another, shrugged.
‘I think Brendan has been naughtier than we thought,’ said Martha. She pressed her nose to the glass once more. ‘They’re having champagne. Two bottles. They’re laughing and holding their glasses high. They’re celebrating something. They’re waving fists in the air and shouting. People are staring at them.’
‘What are they shouting?’
‘I don’t know. Can’t hear.’ She pressed her ear to the glass. ‘L something. Can’t make it out.’
‘L,’ said Charlie. ‘Love? Life? Lemonade?’
‘Linoleum. Lions. Laughing Cavalier. Who knows? What’s it about?’
‘Revenge,’ said Charlie. ‘They are anticipating the downfall of Brendan. Poor sod.’
‘We should go in and eavesdrop.’
‘I think they’d spot us. We should go back to the office and think about all this.’
On the drive back to the office, Charlie thought about appropriate food. He thought they needed something substantial but flavoursome. Thinking food rather than comfort food.
‘Thinking food?’ said Martha.
‘Food to eat while thinking.’
He made roast beef and mustard sandwiches.
They sat on the sofa and thought. But not about what they should be thinking about. Martha thought about that restaurant and how she’d love to go there. She would for an hour or two feel special. She’d wear the blue dress she rarely wore because she kept it for good, and good never happened. It saddened her to realise she hadn’t celebrated anything for a long long time.
Charlie thought about women. He often did. He hadn’t had many relationships – certainly none that had lasted more than six months. A woman alone in a bar or restaurant mystified him in a pleasing way. He’d wonder about her, want to talk to her, but never did. He imagined such a being to be too sophisticated and too emancipated for him. Women en masse, sitting round a table celebrating, drinking and laughing, as they had been earlier today, terrified him.
‘What were they talking about, these women sitting round a table looking at one another, drinking and smiling?’
‘Brendan, I suppose.’
‘What were they saying? Horrible things? Are they making bedroom comparisons? Mocking the size of his penis?’
‘That will come later. Drunker. You don’t want to think about that,’ Martha said.
Charlie nodded. It was true he didn’t want to think about the scathing conversation of drunken women. Then again, he didn’t want to think about his present situation. He’d been hired to find someone who wasn’t missing. He couldn’t dismiss this as a mystery because somehow he was involved. It was a mess, a quagmire he was being sucked into.
45
A Gruncle
Jelly’s wasn’t busy. A bit of a disappointment for Sophie, she’d loved it noisy. Duncan had bought a bottle of wine from an off-licence on the way. Sophie smiled and said, ‘Did you see that? I was splendid. I never knew I had such anger in me. I feel wonderful. Powerful.’
He didn’t want Sophie to speak. His steak was the best he’d ever tasted and she was paying. He just wanted a little while alone with it.
Duncan reluctantly put down his fork. ‘You’re not going to turn bossy all the time, are you?’ He sipped his wine. This place wasn’t licensed but customers could bring their own bottle in with them. He’d chosen a bottle of Margaux.
‘I am beginning to see the advantages of bossiness. I had an effect. I made my mark. I’m thrilled.’ Sophie was high.
‘You stamped on a man’s toes.’
‘I got mugged. He paid two pounds to have me mugged. I was furious at the mugging, then at the cheapness of the mugging. That’s what he thought I was worth. I let him know what I felt. Once I would have bottled it up. I’d have been churning and seething inside about it for months. But today I just let rip. I let my anger flow. I feel marvellous.’ She had chosen fish and chips. It seemed appropriate to celebrate her new-found aggression with something relatively unhealthy.
‘You have found the advantages of screaming and shouting,’ said Duncan.
‘And kicking.’ Sophie took a second generous swig of her wine.
‘You better take it easy with the wine, Soph. You’re driving.’
She swigged some more, grinned at him, glazed. ‘You drive.’
‘No. I can’t. I can’t drive. I never learned.’
‘I don’t believe you. You’re a grown man. All grown men can drive.’
‘Not this one. I’ve never owned a car. I live in a tiny flat. I don’t have a lot of money.’
Sophie put down her fork. ‘Really? And what brought this on? This sudden telling of your truth.’
‘I told you I couldn’t drive and thought I might as well tell you all my failings. Get them out in the open.’
‘I think I must have known all along. After all, I never asked you where you live. After your wonderful description of the life we might have had, I sort of imagined you in a large comfortable city flat. Old sofas and modern prints, little-used kitchen because you ate out mostly. But somehow, back here,’ she tapped the top of her head, ‘I knew this wasn’t true.’
‘Do you care?’
‘No. Though I had looked forward to tea in your splendidly comfy flat while secretly suspecting it wouldn’t happen.’
‘You are very welcome to visit my tiny uncomfortable flat.’
‘I don’t call upon men without a chaperone.’
‘Very wise. I have always warmed to sensible women. You don’t mind my motoring failing or my scant bank balance?’
‘Your finances are yours alone. I’m a bit pissed off about the driving. I deserve wine after finding my aggressive side.’
‘You don’t mind that I’m not rich. I am getting on, thundering through middle age and I don’t own a house. I am a non-achiever.’
‘You fit the bill for me. You have excellent clothes. You are moderately handsome. All I want is someone to walk along the street with. You are extremely good at that. I see other women looking at me wit
h envy.’
‘You want me as an accessory? I’m up for that. I could do that.’
‘Not an accessory. A companion. You’ve aged well, you bastard. It makes me think. You’ve done what you wanted, followed your fancies. You’ve been debauched at times. You look good on it. Me, I’ve been good. Done the right thing, worked hard, paid my way, fed and loved my child and grandchild, obeyed the law, stayed sober, kept a clean nose, and I’m bloody stiff and sore and old and wrinkled. It’s plain not fair.’
‘I suppose.’
‘I should be wise round the eyes, but beautiful. You should be blotchy-cheeked with a pickled red misshapen nose.’
‘I drink a glass of warm water with lemon juice every morning after I do fifty squats and sit-ups.’
‘Goodness. I have a mug of coffee, toast and a stroll to school with Evie. Not energetic. Perhaps that explains the wrinkles.’
He reached over, placed his hand on hers. ‘You’re beautiful.’
‘No, I’m not. But thanks for trying. Eat your steak.’
He did. It tasted even better now that he’d confessed his failings. All Sophie wanted was someone presentable to walk with her along the street. He could do that. No problem. There might even be tea and scones when they got home. And really, Sophie was beautiful despite her denial. She had a kindly face, thoughtful, a good face. He could look at that face, that collection of features, and wish some of that openness and honesty and humour would rub off on him. It would warm his heart to have someone in his life who wanted nothing more than his company. He would no longer be a failure. He’d become part of the Walters family.
He could sit in Sophie’s kitchen slightly dizzy from the thick aroma of cake-baking. He loved being in that room, sitting back sipping tea as Sophie and Martha prepared food. Once, they’d hummed in harmony a tune he didn’t recognise. He had asked what it was, but they didn’t know either. ‘Just a song,’ Sophie said. He’d loved the closeness of two women who could harmonise a song neither of them knew.
He could watch little Evie grow up. Help her, advise her, give her the benefit of the knowledge he’d gained living his fancy-free, debauched (as Sophie would have it) life. He would be an unofficial uncle and the grandfather she didn’t have. A gruncle.