by Isabel Wolff
I turned back to the players as, University Challenge-style, they introduced themselves. I glanced at Luke, mentally kicking myself again for having lost the list—at least I’d have had less of a shock.
‘Relax Laura,’ I heard Sara whisper into my earpiece. ‘You look very tense.’ I softened my monkey grimace into a professional smile. ‘That’s better. And don’t go too fast.’
‘I’m Christine Schofield,’ I heard number one say. She was, as Marian had described her, blonde and attractive. ‘I’m from York and I’m a teacher.’
‘I’m Doug Dale,’ said the next. He was one of the train-spotters—late forties, bearded, bald and monkish, with large square glasses. ‘I’m from Islington and I write business reports.’ Standing next to Doug made Luke look even more attractive, with his fine cheekbones, and dark wavy hair, curling over his collar. All that suggested the passage of time was a nest of fine lines beneath his eyes. ‘I’m Luke North,’ he said, with a self-conscious smile. ‘I’m an art dealer and I live in West London.’
‘Hi, I’m Jim Friend,’ said the next contestant, a tall, scraggy-looking man in his mid-fifties. ‘I’m a mature student, studying psychology, and I live in Bedford.’ There was another, polite round of applause. I held up the cards. A hush descended.
‘Right. Here we go. First question. What was the Roman name for the city of Bath?’
Doug Dale’s lectern flashed gold as he pressed the buzzer first. ‘Sulis.’
‘Technically, Aquae Sulis—but I’ll allow it.’ Kerching! ‘Which berries are used to flavour gin? Christine.’
‘It’s juniper.’
‘That’s correct.’ Ker-ching! ‘What is the capital of Liberia? Luke?’
‘It’s Monrovia.’
‘That’s right.’ Ker-ching! How bizarre, I thought, that the first words Luke should have said to me in twelve years were not ‘Hello, Laura,’ or ‘How lovely to see you again,’ or even, ‘I’m sorry I hurt you so badly,’ but ‘It’s Monrovia.’
‘Which Bronze age civilization was based on the island of Crete?’
‘The Minoans,’ said Jim correctly. Kerching! Now they all had two pounds.
I looked at the next question card. ‘Which canal, spelled backwards, is the name of a Greek god?’ Luke buzzed first.
‘Suez.’
‘Correct.’ Kerching! ‘Making Zeus, of course. Who, in 1700, wrote The Way of the World?’
Doug Dale buzzed first. ‘Congreve.’
‘Yes. William Congreve.’ Kerching! ‘Which French royal house gave its name to a biscuit? Christine?’
‘Nice,’ she said confidently. Whooooop!
‘No—it’s Bourbon.’ Her two pounds went back down to one. ‘Edgehill was the opening battle in which war? Luke?’
‘The Civil War.’
‘More detail please.’
He looked momentarily nonplussed and I was aware of the second hand moving noisily forward on the clock.
‘Oh. The English Civil War.’
‘Yes.’ Kerching! ‘Who was the Roman god of fire? Doug?’
‘Prometheus?’
‘No.’ Whooooop! ‘He stole it from the gods—it was Vulcan. What is the common name for a solution of sodium chloride in water? Christine?’
‘It’s brine.’
‘That’s correct.’ Kerching! ‘Which South American country was named after an Italian city? Doug?’
‘Argentina.’ Whooooop!
‘No—it was Venezuela, which was named after Venice. What is the meaning of “Caprine”? Luke?’ He was laughing for some reason.
‘Goat-like,’ he said firmly.
‘That’s the correct answer.’ Kerching! ‘As in capricious,’ I added. ‘From the Latin, “caper”.’
And so it went on. ‘Who was the first woman to fly across the Atlantic?…No, not Amy Johnson.’ Whooop! ‘It was Amelia Earhart…What is a duiker? That’s correct, Jim—a small antelope.’ Kerching! ‘What do the five Olympic rings represent…? No takers for this one? The world’s continents. Who discovered the source of the Nile? No—not Livingstone.’ Whoooop! ‘It was Speke. What is the Roman numeral for a thousand? M is correct, Doug.’ Kerching! ‘What is a hoggerel? No.’ Whooop! ‘It’s a yearling sheep. What is the world’s best-selling book? Luke? That’s right. The Bible.’ Kerching! ‘Which planet has a pink sky? Mars is correct, Jim.’ Kerching! ‘Of what colour is “Leukophobia” a fear? Doug? No.’ Whooooop! ‘Not yellow—it’s white…’ And all the time I was asking the questions, aware of the scores doubling and halving, the players’ fortunes yo-yoing up and down, into my mind would flash images of Luke and me lying on the college lawn beneath the huge copper beech; cycling over Clare Bridge; sitting at the same table in the library, feet gently touching; entwined, like rope, on Luke’s narrow bed.
‘Five minutes left,’ I heard Sara whisper in my ear. ‘It’s going great.’ As I turned over the next card, I quickly glanced at the scores again. Doug Dale was leading with £4096, which meant he’d got twelve questions right, while Luke was one question behind with £2048 and Christine and Jim were trailing in the low hundreds as they’d answered recklessly. Behind me I was aware of the audience, silent and focused.
‘Which animal features on the State flag of California?’
There was a second’s silence, then Doug buzzed. ‘The eagle?’ Whooooop! He winced with frustration.
‘No, I’m sorry—it’s the bear.’ Now he and Luke were level-pegging.
‘Three minutes to go,’ I heard Sara say. I looked at the next question.
‘How many cards are there in a deck of Tarot cards?’
‘Seventy-eight,’ said Luke.
‘Correct!‘ Kerching! His score doubled to £4096.
‘Two minutes, Laura,’ I heard Sara say.
I looked at the next card. ‘Which artist designed the uniform of the Pope’s bodyguards, the Swiss Guard?’ Luke buzzed again, but then the answer seemed to elude him. He closed his eyes for a moment as he struggled to remember, and I was aware of the second hand, clunking forward. He only had three seconds left…Two seconds…One…He was about to lose four thousand pounds.
‘Michaelangelo,’ he blurted out. ‘It was Michaelangelo.’
‘Correct.’
KERASHHHHH!!! The huge gong which signalled the end of the round had sounded. Luke was ahead by one point. He’d answered thirteen questions correctly, which meant that he was on £8192.
I turned to Camera One. ‘Let’s take a look at the scores. In fourth place is Jim with £512, in third place is Christine with £1024. Doug is in second place with £2048. But this week’s clear winner—with £8192—is Luke North!’ The audience applauded loudly and he smiled. ‘But it’s not over yet,’ I added, ‘because it’s now time to Turn the Tables. The question is, Luke…Do you want to?’ I turned to the audience. ‘How many of you think that Luke should Turn the Tables? If he does, he risks losing £4,000. On the other hand, he could win another £8,000. So would you all please now cast your votes? They pressed the voting panels attached to the back of each seat, and the result was flashed up on a big plasma screen.
‘Sixty-eight of you think he should,’ I said, ‘with a hundred and ten believing that he should hang on to what he’s got.’ I turned to Luke. ‘The audience clearly think that you should quit now, Luke, but what do you want to do?’
‘I want to Turn the Tables.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m quite sure.’
‘Okay then.’ I turned to the camera. ‘If I can’t answer Luke’s question—in the usual five seconds—then his prize money will double. If I can, then it will be halved. But I can assure you all at home, and here in the studio, that I have absolutely no way of knowing what he’s going to ask me beforehand. Right then, Luke. Go ahead.’
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. I prayed he hadn’t come up with some question about pop music—not my best area—or football. I braced myself.
�
��Right…’ he began. There was a drum roll. ‘What I’d like to ask you is…’ He paused, then cleared his throat. ‘Erm…’ He ran a nervous finger under his collar. ‘Okay…Here goes. My question…’ he looked at me. ‘My question…is…erm…’ What was his problem? ‘Would you have dinner with me sometime?’
There was a stunned silence from the audience, then nervous giggling.
‘What the hell’s he playing at?’ I heard Sara exclaim.
By now most of the audience were laughing, and so was Luke.
‘Will you have dinner with me Laura?’ he repeated. ‘That’s my question.’ But I didn’t get the chance to answer it, because at that moment Tom shouted ‘Cut!’
TWO
‘Now we know why he was so interested in meeting you again,’ said Marian as she removed my make-up. I looked at her reflection as she wiped off the foundation in long, firm strokes. ‘It must have been a bit of a shock.’
‘You can say that again.’ I looked at my hands. They were still trembling. ‘It was bad enough just seeing him again, without…that.’
‘So he was a bit of a live wire then, was he, when you knew him before?’
‘Yes. Yes, he was. He was…fun.’
‘And gorgeous,’ she repeated as she tore off another wad of cotton wool. I breathed in slowly through my nose to calm myself.
‘Yes.’ And clever, and charismatic and entertaining and slightly eccentric, and rather flirtatious and utterly…maddening.
‘Has he changed much?’ Evidently not. ‘I mean, to look at?’ she added.
‘No. He’s more attractive, if anything.’
‘But how weird seeing him again—and like that!’ And now, at last, I looked at the list of contestants, which I’d finally located in my coat pocket. I rapidly scanned the piece about Luke. Luke North, 36, read Art History at Cambridge, then worked at Christie’s for a number of years. For the past three years he has been running the Due North Contemporary Art gallery in Bayswater. He lives in Notting Hill. I read it again. Then again. Then again. Then once more.
‘Was it serious?’ I heard Marian ask.
‘What?’
‘Was your relationship with him serious? It’s okay,’ she went on with a smile. ‘You don’t have to tell me. But I can’t help wondering, after what he’s just done.’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ I replied. In any case I felt so churned up that I wanted to talk about it, and I find Marian sympathetic. ‘It was serious,’ I explained. ‘I was reading Classics, he was doing Art History. We argued a lot—but that was part of the fun. It was one of those volatile, passionate relationships—it was exciting…it was…intense…it was…’ A bitter sigh escaped me. ‘The happiest time of my life.’
‘So what went wrong?’ she asked gently. ‘Did you decide you were too young to settle down?’
‘No. No, it wasn’t that. We were going to get a flat together in London after we’d graduated—we’d even found one to move into but then—’ I was too embarrassed to tell Marian the humiliating truth—‘it all just went horribly…wrong.’ A silence descended, then Marian put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Anyway,’ I looked in the mirror at my thirty-four year old face with its incipient lines. ‘It was a very long time ago.’ I stood up, then pulled off the gown. ‘I suppose I’d better get up to the post-show party.’
‘Well, good luck. I assume he’ll be there.’
I got the lift to the top floor, my pulse racing, my mind wrestling with conflicting feelings. I felt dismayed that Luke had gate-crashed my life again, flirting with me—upsetting me—but, at the same time, I also felt…glad. Now, as I walked down the corridor, I could hear the hubbub emanating from the hospitality suite. I paused for a moment at the doorway, then ventured in. The air reeked of sandwiches, coffee and cheap white wine—the usual, rather dreary post-show fare. Most of the crew were up there already, chatting to the contestants, and, as they spotted me, one or two of them smirked. As I made my way inside I heard Dylan explaining to Christine that the show would go out at the end of March, while, to my right, Jim and Doug seemed to be having some sort of quiz-nerd discussion.
‘It’s not a “herd” of rhinoceri,’ I heard Jim say. ‘It’s a “crash”.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Doug.
‘Absolutely—I know my collective nouns. It’s used for hippo as well.’
‘I thought it was a “bloat” of hippopotami.’
‘You can use “bloat”, but “crash” is more usual.’
‘What about giraffes then?’
‘That’s easy—a “tower”.’
And there, in the corner, by the window, talking to Sara—a sight which, even then, twelve years on, made me feel wildly, and quite unreasonably, jealous—was Luke. He suddenly saw me and waved. Then, with characteristic effrontery, he beckoned me over. Had Sara not been standing there, I would have ignored him. I was determined to be cool and aloof.
‘Hi Laura.’ He smiled. As Marian had said—wonderful eyes. Fringed by thick, dark lashes, they were a rich, warm brown, like the brown of tobacco, with radiating fibrils of topaz and gold. I never believed that I’d see him again, let alone that I’d be standing this close. I’d sometimes spotted men who’d looked a bit like him, and had found myself staring, overwhelmed by regret.
‘Hello Luke,’ I replied.
‘I’m sorry about that. Did I embarrass you?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘You did. But then you probably meant to.’
‘I didn’t, actually.’ He nodded towards Tom. ‘Your director seemed a bit cross.’
‘I think he thought you were trying to ruin the recording.’
‘Not at all. It was just—’ he shrugged—‘fun.’
‘Anyway, the retake worked out fine,’ said Sara, diplomatically. ‘So let’s not worry about it.’ We had re-done the end so that Luke decided not to Turn the Tables.
He lifted a sausage roll off a passing tray. ‘But they did say that I could ask you any question.’
‘Any general knowledge question,’ I corrected him.
‘Still, it was a very good, fast-paced show,’ Sara interrupted. ‘You were a great contestant, Luke, and there was no harm done. Anyway, I’ll…leave you two to it,’ she added tactfully. ‘You’ve obviously got some catching up to do.’
As Sara retreated, Luke smiled at me again, quizzically, as if slightly bewildered by my frosty demeanour, but what did he expect? Why should I be warm and effusive when he’d embarrassed me like that, not to mention what had happened between us twelve years before?
‘Can I ask you something?’ I said.
‘Of course.’ He grabbed another sausage roll. ‘That’s your job now, isn’t it—asking people things. Gosh I’m hungry—I didn’t have lunch.’
‘Did you plan to do that?’
‘No. I was going to ask you something perfectly sensible—’ he wiped the crumbs off his lips—‘but then I suddenly felt this overwhelming compulsion to ask you out to dinner instead.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘So it was a “caprice” then was it—an “impulsive change of mind”?’
He smiled. ‘I suppose it was.’
‘And why did you laugh when I asked you what “caprine” meant?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘It would take too long to explain—I’ll tell you over dinner. You will come, I hope. It’s been such a long time.’ He smiled again, and as he did so, I was suddenly acutely aware, despite my turmoil, of the familiar longing that I had once had for him resurfacing. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me, like he used to. ‘Will you?’ I wanted to bury my face in his neck. I wanted to trace the lovely curve of his lips with my fingertips. ‘Will you?’ he repeated.
‘I really don’t…know.’
‘Playing hard to get, Laura?’
‘No, but…’ I suddenly surfaced from my reverie. ‘Look, Luke—you’ve got a nerve. You waltz back into my life in this…bizarre way, and now you’re just assuming I’ll have dinner with you, when we haven’t actually spoken s
ince 1993, have we?’
‘No. But that’s not my fault.’
‘It is!’ I lowered my voice, aware of eyeballs swivelling discreetly in our direction. ‘It is your fault.’
‘That’s not true. You wouldn’t answer my letters or calls. You airbrushed me out of your life as though I’d never existed.’
‘Who could blame me?’ I enquired. ‘In the circumstances?’ A silence descended.
‘This is just like old times,’ he said happily. I realized, with a jolt, that he was right. Two minutes in each other’s company and we’d already stripped down to our emotional underpants.
I tried to wrest the conversation back to neutral ground. ‘So what was the sensible question you were going to ask me then?’
‘Ah—well, I gave that very careful thought. I didn’t want to ask you anything that you might not know, because of course the last thing I wanted was for you to be humiliated in front of the watching millions.’