by Isabel Wolff
‘And no real harm done,’ Hugh shrugged. ‘Scrivens works in the City so he’s not going to know anyone who knows Laura, even if he did want to talk about it, which I certainly wouldn’t do if I’d been in his shoes.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ said Hope. She had nipped out to the car to get Olivia’s present and had missed the conversation.
Fliss explained. ‘His name’s Norman Scrivens. I taught his daughter a few years ago. He’s a stockbroker.’
‘Norman Scrivens?’ Hope repeated. ‘Was he here? He isn’t a stockbroker.’
‘Isn’t he?’ said Fliss.
‘He used to be, but he was made redundant from Cazenove’s so he became a financial journalist. He’s now City Editor of the Daily Post.’
‘Is he?’ Fliss said. ‘Oh…’
I had a vague sense of unease.
‘He’s very close to the editor, Richard Sole—commonly known as R. Sole—king of the tabloids, and animal nut. Apparently Scrivens looks after his portfolio. I’ve never met him,’ Hope went on, ‘but he’s an utter toe rag.’
‘How do you know?’ said Hugh. ‘He seemed affable enough.’
‘Because last year he interviewed Carol Stokes, the most successful woman dealer on the Metal Exchange. She’s single and very attractive, but she wasn’t receptive to him, so he was vile about her in the piece. I’m not sorry that Laura offended him.’
‘Anyway, he can hardly write about me,’ I said. ‘I’m of zero interest to his readers.’
‘That’s true,’ Hope conceded.
‘And I’m sure he’ll just want to forget the whole thing—which is what I intend to do.’ A silence descended. ‘Good. So that’s that then. Incident closed. Any further comments on the subject from anyone?’ They all shrugged.
‘Aladadazagoyagoya,’ Olivia said.
The following morning I woke with a raging thirst, a blinding headache, and a sense of discomfort.
‘Ooh, I do hope I didn’t say anything silly and embarrass myself,’ I croaked as I staggered into the bathroom. ‘Oh well,’ I muttered as I ran my bath. ‘Too late to regret it—forget it.’ I looked in the mirror. My eyes felt like peanuts and were about the same size. I had three espressos on my way to work.
‘So she turned round to me…’ I heard as I pushed on the door. ‘And so I turned round to her and said…no, that’s right, Maureen, she did—she turned right round to me and she said…’
That’s another thing that drives me mad about Nerys. The fact that no one she knows ever just ‘says’ something. They have to ‘turn round’ first, for some strange reason, and then say it. All that twirling and spinning must be exhausting. Just hearing about it made me feel giddy, adding to my post-alcoholic distress.
‘You look peaky,’ Nerys said as she put down the phone. Her hair was the colour of ketchup. She dyes it a different shade of red every week.
‘I feel peaky,’ I replied. ‘Alcohol poisoning.’
‘You know what you need, don’t you?’
‘A blood transfusion, probably.’
‘No. Some sodium of bi-carb—here…’ She scrabbled in her drawer and plonked down her emergency tub. ‘Simple, but reliable,’ she added, tapping the top with a sharp, claret-coloured fingernail. ‘Take my advice—there’s no better cure.’
‘It’s okay, thanks. I’ll get Tom to trepan me—I’m sure there’s a tin-opener in the kitchen.’
‘Anyway, you’ve got some very nice mail today Laura,’ she added. ‘That’ll perk you up.’ She nodded conspiratorially at my pigeon-hole. ‘You’ve got five Valentine’s cards.’
‘Really? That makes up for having had none for the last three years.’
‘Tom’s got one too,’ Nerys added casually.
‘Has he?’ I remembered the conversation I’d overheard him having on Saturday. I peeped at the large, red envelope in his pigeonhole. The address was typed so there was no telltale handwriting, and the post-mark was smudged with rain.
‘I wonder who that’s from then,’ I said, hoping that Nerys would be unable to resist enlightening me, if she knew, which she probably did, because she would have spoken to his new woman on the phone—whoever she was.
‘Well Tom’s very popular,’ she teased. ‘But then he’s an attractive man. Clever with it. Oh yes—very clever, is Tom.’ You’d think he was her own son the way she boasts about him. ‘Don’t you think so Laura?’
‘Oh, well, yes. I do.’ My happiness at having five Valentines made me feel expansive. ‘Of course I do. Tom’s very attractive, extremely clever, and a great boss.’
‘A wonderful boss,’ she concurred happily. ‘He’s a marvellous man.’
‘He is.’
‘Plus he’s so reliable.’
‘Mm. That’s right.’ I thought of his poor wife and baby.
‘He’s a catch,’ Nerys added. ‘An absolute catch.’
‘He…is. And I’m sure whoever reels him in will be a very lucky woman, Nerys. Whoever she is.’
‘Well…’ she began. She was fiddling with the gold locket she often wears. I’ve sometimes wondered who she keeps in it.
‘Shall I tell you what I think?’
‘Yes, Nerys.’ There was a silence.
She gave me a sly sort of look, as though she had a particularly delicious piece of gossip. ‘Well, what I think—’ Suddenly the phone trilled out and she adjusted her headset. ‘Good morn-ing, Trident Tee-veeee.’ Oh well, I thought. ‘Oh hello, Joan…’ I’d get it out of her another time. ‘No, it’s okay. Yes. Ye-es. I do know her…Really…?’
The first of my Valentines was from an anonymous viewer with a number of suggested questions for the show—all of them concerning the dimensions of a particular part of his anatomy. I put it straight in the bin. The second and third were from two guys who were desperate to get on the quiz and thought I might be impressed by their egghead credentials. I was Radio Wales’s Pub Quiz runner-up, said the first. I was ‘Britain’s Brainiest Estate Agent’! declared the second. The fourth card was from the Merseyside Quiz League. There aren’t 22 properties on the Monopoly board, they’d written. There are actually 28 if you include the four stations and the two utilities. But there are 22 property squares. But, apart from that glaring, and frankly surprising error, we love the show. Yours in quizzing, MQL. The fifth card was from Luke. I opened it last because I recognized his hand-writing. It was a sketch of me, in red chalk, on brown paper, in the shape of a heart. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty, he’d written. We’re going on a mystery date…
At six thirty I was at home trying to tame my hair with industrial quantities of de-frizzing mousse and my hair-straightening iron when I heard the buzz of the entryphone. I opened the door. A young, fit-looking man was standing there, with a large holdall.
‘Please Miss,’ he began, holding up a photocard, ‘I’m a prisoner on day-release from Wandsworth…’ My heart sank. ‘But don’t shut the door in my face; don’t send me away on a cold night without buying something from me, just a dishcloth, or a duster…’
And that’s another thing I don’t like—the lachrymose sales pitch these guys always give you. I ended up adding another tub of Astonish to my vast collection, then carried on trying to smooth my hair. At ten past seven, as I was putting on my mascara, I heard the entryphone buzz again. I heard Cynthia’s door open, then her descending footfall.
‘Ooh, so sorry,’ I heard her simper. ‘I thought you were my seven o’clock. Laura!’ I could hear her strings of pearls clicking against each other. I opened the door. ‘You’ve got a gentleman caller,’ she smirked. Luke was standing on the threshold, clutching a huge bunch of flowers.
‘Thanks, Cynthia,’ I said. I’d been avoiding her since last week so I decided to be friendly—not least because I was happy. As I ushered Luke inside, I noticed her scent—Intuition—and her sand-coloured cashmere cardigan; as usual, she wasexpensively dressed.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m a bit early.’ Suddenly his mobile phone rang and he winced as he looked at
the screen.
‘You did say romance was in the air,’ I reminded Cynthia pleasantly as he stepped outside again.
‘Yes,’ she said, slightly smugly. ‘I did.’ I smiled at her. She was okay really. Just a bit odd. She nodded at Luke. ‘But not with him.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Not with him,’ Cynthia repeated patiently, as Luke walked wearily down the steps. I stared at her. Bloody cheek!
‘Yes, Magda’, we heard him say. ‘Well, no, it’s not a good moment actually. Okay—o-kay…’ He turned and rolled his eyes at me. ‘No Magda, you’ve got that all wrong…’
‘Thank you Cynthia,’ I said, ‘but I don’t need any more of your predictions. To be honest, I don’t find them very accurate.’ She was driving me mad. Okay, she’d identified that Nick was missing, but she could easily have got that from one of my neighbours. Knowing them, she probably did. Plus the stuff about the flowers was quite obviously crap.
‘Would you like me to video University Challenge for you?’ she enquired pleasantly, ignoring the slight.
‘No,’ I said, rather sharply. ‘No thanks.’
‘It’s the first semi-final—should be very exciting—Loughborough v. Leicester.’
‘It’s okay. I really don’t mind.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Luke as he came in again. ‘It was my nightly ear-bashing.’
‘About what?’
‘Oh everything,’ he replied. ‘Just…everything. Anyway—this is where you live.’ He’d walked me home on Friday, but hadn’t come in, so I gave him the guided tour. ‘All your Classics books,’ he said as he looked at the shelves. He ran his finger along the spines. ‘I remember them,’ he sighed. I wondered where Horace was, I hadn’t been able to find him.
‘The flat’s a good size,’ he added as we went down the stairs. I unwrapped the flowers—candy-striped tulips with exuberantly frilled petals. ‘I know red roses are traditional,’ he said. ‘But I remembered how much you liked tulips.’
‘I do. I love them—there are so many gorgeous ones, and these are wonderful. They’re called “Burgundy Lace”.’ They were so frilly they looked as though they were doing the can-can.
‘Your neighbour seems friendly,’ he observed. ‘She thought I was her seven o’clock what, though? It sounded rather dubious.’
I handed him one of the flyers she leaves in little piles in the hall.
‘“Let Psychic Cynthia solve all your problems,”‘ he read. ‘“This gifted lady will tell you your past, present and future.”‘ He smiled. ‘What a laugh.’
As I arranged the flowers in two vases I thought again of what she’d said about Nick. ‘It is—it’s utter bunkum. There—how gorgeous. Now…drink?’
‘No thanks—we should be on our way.’
I picked up my bag. ‘So where are we going?
‘To the flicks.’
‘To see…?’
‘Well, do you remember that Valentine’s Day when we saw Casablanca at the Arts Cinema?’
‘Yes,’ I said wistfully. ‘We sat through it twice.’
‘Well…’ he said, smiling at me in a way that made my knees turn to jelly.
‘Is that what we’re going to see? Casablanca? I’d love that.’
‘Nope. We’re going to see The Satanic Rites of Dracula. They’ve got a Hammer Horror season at the Electric.’
‘How…lovely.’ I put on my coat. ‘You always did like scary films. You were a connoisseur of horror.’
‘That’s right. I’m a regular shockaholic,’ he quipped.
As we walked up Portobello, Luke gave me an exposition on the unique blend of blood and eroticism that had made Hammer films so successful.
‘They veered towards self-parody in the end,’ he said, ‘but these early ones are wonderful. They’re camp, and over-the-top gruesome in the manner of Grand Guignol, of course…’
‘Of course,’ I said happily as we went in.
‘Plus they’re really rather sexy,‘ he explained as we had a snack at the bar and a glass of champagne.
It was a clever choice of date. The warm, velvety darkness of the cinema—together with the scariness of the film—invited physical touch. As we sank into the leather armchairs Luke helped me out of my coat, and as his arm went round my shoulder, I felt the hairs on my neck rise up. As the film got underway our forearms brushed against each other, tentatively at first, then more boldly. As Christopher Lee sank his fangs into Joanna Lumley’s neck, Luke placed his hand over mine, interlocking our fingers. I was aware of his smell—a familiar blend of lime and vetiver. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest.
‘That was terrific,’ he said, as the lights went up. ‘I love a good scare. It’s so…refreshing. Now…’ he looked at his watch. ‘It’s five past eleven. How about some more champagne and some Belgian double chocolate ice cream?’
‘Where? It’s rather late.’
‘Thirty-eight Lonsdale Road.’ My heart did a swallow dive. ‘Is that okay, Laura?’ he said softly now. He leaned towards me and held his mouth to my ear. ‘Would you like to come home with me?’ I didn’t reply. ‘I’ve got a new toothbrush you can have. It’s hard,’ he murmured. My face was aflame. ‘You always liked a hard bristle didn’t you?’ he whispered, with fake innocence. ‘And you never wore pyjamas so that shouldn’t be a problem?’ I shook my head. ‘So is that okay then?’ I nodded again, the erotic charge between us so intense now as to have bereft me of speech.
‘If we’d only just met, I suppose we’d have to be more…proper,’ he said quietly as we left the cinema. ‘We’d have to go on at least—what?—four chaste dates before we…you know…’ he lifted an eyebrow and I felt my skin tingle. ‘But because we already know each other we can fast forward right through all that…bashful restraint can’t we?’
‘Hmm,’ I concurred dreamily as he took my hand in his.
‘In our situation, two dates is perfectly acceptable—don’t you think?’
‘Perfectly,’ I agreed. My body was humming with anticipation.
We walked in silence through Westbourne Grove. Luke’s house was at the scruffier end of Lonsdale Road, close to the Colville Estate. He unlocked the front door and turned off the alarm. The answerphone on the hall table was flashing angrily, but he ignored it. He put on the light. Every inch of wall space was filled with abstract art.
‘Most of them are my clients’ paintings,’ he explained as he took my jacket. ‘I’d rather have them on the walls here than locked away in my stock room.’ I looked at a large, swirly oil over the fireplace.
‘That’s a Craig Davie. We’re doing a major retrospective on him at the end of March. I love his work.’
‘And I love this one,’ I said. ‘It’s a Luke North.’
It was an ink and wash portrait of Jessica—strong and unsentimental; and even though she was so young, and so innocent, it imbued her with charisma, and power. Her presence was evident throughout the house. In her tiny pink trainers by the door, and her blue coat on the rack; in her books and her Barbie dolls in the sitting room, and in the glitter pictures that festooned the walls. There were also dozens of photos of her in large clip frames. As Luke opened the champagne I looked at the ones in the kitchen. There she was, aged eighteen months or so, beaming happily into the camera; as a newborn, cradled in Luke’s arms; in her paddling pool with just a sun-hat on; riding her little pink bike. There were a couple of her feeding the goats, and one of her at Disneyland, standing between her parents. As I looked at this one, I felt myself tense…
There was Magda. She was exactly as Luke had described her. Petite, and very pretty. I felt a dart of jealousy. She had a skein of long, enviably smooth blonde hair piled into a topknot, a style which, with her floral vintage frock, gave her a curiously old-fashioned air. There was an oddly defiant glint in her large blue eyes, as though she was spoiling for a fight.
‘Do you really want some ice-cream?’ I heard Luke ask.
I turned away from the photo, and f
elt my face suffuse with warmth.
‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t.’ Desire had robbed me of my appetite. I felt a physical longing for Luke that made my bones ache. He took my hand, and led me upstairs. At the top of the first flight, I paused. For there, on a small mahogany table, was a large silver frame containing a black and white portrait of Luke, Jessica and Magda. Seeing further evidence of their family life made me feel uneasy, as though I were intruding, so I reminded myself—as I would often come to do—that Magda had left Luke and lived elsewhere.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked quietly.
‘No,’ I lied. I noticed, again, the same pugilistic gleam in Magda’s big blue eyes.
‘I keep it there for Jess,’ he explained as we went into the master bedroom. ‘As I say, the separation’s been hard for her, so I tend to downplay it.’
‘I understand.’
He shut the door behind us, and held my gaze for a moment. Then he stepped forward and kissed me, then unbuttoned my shirt and pushed it off my shoulders; then he gently pulled down the zip on my skirt. If he was someone new, I would have been scared of exposing my flaws—my self—for the first time; but Luke knew me, and I knew him.
‘Laura,’ he breathed. His mouth was on my ear. ‘My lovely Laura…I can’t believe you’re here.’ There was no shyness. The twelve years fell away as naturally and easily as our clothes slipped to the floor. Our bodies remembered each other as we moved together in the darkness, then lay, limbs entangled, and slept.
I woke at six, with Luke’s arm around my waist, pulling me close, his hands cupping my breasts, his legs warm against my own.
‘It’s so lovely to hold you again,’ he sighed, as he ran his hand over my hip. ‘I never, ever forgot you, Laura.’ I turned towards him and buried my face in his neck, speechless with contentment. I felt reconnected not just to Luke, but to a time of my life when everything looked positive, and full of promise, and good.
Luke stroked my hair, tucking it behind my ears, then held my face in his hands, caressing my cheekbones with his thumbs.
‘I’ll never let you go again,’ he murmured. He kissed me again.
‘No,’ I whispered, as I closed my eyes. ‘Don’t…’ Luke had drawn me back to him, ineluctably. He was my magnetic North…