A Twist of the Knife (39 page)

Suddenly she came into view, clutching a drink and a paperback. She was completely naked, as usual; only now it was summer and her body was brown, with slim white bands around her breasts and bum. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes, placed her buttocks on the pink chaise longue, leaned back and swung her long legs onto it. She took a sip of her drink, put down the glass and opened her book.

What was the drink, he wondered? What was the book? Why did she keep a bikini on whilst sunbathing when she clearly liked to be nude? So many questions, he thought. So much he would like to know about her. All last autumn, he had seen her tan fading; now the bands were back, appearing whiter every week. There were surely things she would like to know, too? Not, perhaps, the fact that he watched her every night, no. But would she be pleased that she was the heroine of the book he was currently writing? Would she care for that type of book – the romantic novel? Perhaps not, he thought wistfully. It seemed to him that the people who cared for his romances were a dying breed. Old hat, people called them. Old hat – and he was only thirty-two!

A wave of panic squeezed his stomach like a tourniquet. What had he forgotten? Something important? Damn. He stared at the long brown legs longingly. He remembered, and tore his eyes away reluctantly, like sticking plaster from an old wound. He looked up the telephone number and dialled with short, timid stabs of his index finger, as though he were testing the warmth of a soup.

He was surprised to hear a squawk, instead of the ringing tone, followed by a woman’s voice, then a series of clicks.

‘Hallo,’ he ventured timidly.

‘Hallo,’ came the reply.

Silence.

‘I believe we have a crossed line,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ came the reply. ‘I believe we do.’

His eyes were transfixed across the road once more. She was on the phone too!

‘I was just dialling,’ she said, there was humour in her voice. It was a nice voice, someone who had learned to cope with the world and was still young enough to be full of hope. Across the road she had stopped speaking and was listening. She looked puzzled. Was it really possible this was her?

‘I was here first,’ he said, and then winced. He was doing it again. His wife had always told him he could never argue without attacking; now he was attacking the nice voice.

‘OK,’ she said, her tone unaltered, the lips of the girl across the road moving once more. ‘I’ll hang up.’

The lips stopped moving.

‘No – no, don’t do that. I’ll hang up. It wasn’t an important call. I was trying to get the weather you see.’

Her lips moved again. ‘You must be an optimist, to spend money on a weather report.’ The lips stopped again.

The coincidence was too great now. It had to be her! Then a cloud moved in front of the sun. Optimist, he thought. No. She did not know him at all. Optimism was something that eluded him like a butterfly in a summer field.

In a moment, she would be gone. He could not bear that, not now, not having got so close.

‘Meet me!’ he blurted out. ‘For a drink? You know – a coffee, perhaps. Or lunch?’ He looked across at her. She was smiling; her eyes lit up! ‘Are you free for lunch one day?’ She was thumbing through something, turning pages. A diary? Where had his courage come from, he wondered? She was searching, searching with her long naked arm. Say yes, please say yes.

‘How about Thursday?’

He gobbled her words down greedily, like a starving man eating a stew.

‘Yes, Thursday is good for me. It’s the only day I have clear this week,’ he lied, and immediately was annoyed with himself for lying. But he knew she would not have been impressed with the truth: that all his days were free, stretching out ahead like the blank white sheets in the box of A4 paper he had to fill with words – of love, bravery, heroism, desire and, ultimately, success.

‘You do live in London?’

‘Yes,’ he said, conscious that his voice was blurting; it was as though his mouth had become a brass horn and his voice a rubber bulb; he kept squeezing it at the wrong pressure.

‘Where do you work?’ he said. ‘I mean, which part of London? I’m not trying to be nosey, it’s just important to choose somewhere – er – convenient.’

The good humour stayed with her voice, without effort. ‘I don’t mind coming over to where you work.’

‘No,’ he said, and realized that he had nearly shouted.

‘What I mean is that I couldn’t inconvenience you. I work in Oxford Circus.’

‘That’s perfect. I have a meeting in Bond Street on Thursday morning,’ he said, selecting Bond Street because he felt it sounded smart. His mind raced. Where could he suggest? Bond Street? What names. Claridge’s? Classy, but he had never been in; he wouldn’t know where the bar was, where the restaurant was. He could do a recce; it was only Monday today. But no, Claridge’s seemed too formal. Somewhere romantic – Italian? Yes, the hero and heroine of
Sweetness and Light
, his new book, fell in love with each other in an Italian restaurant, while a mandolin player serenaded them.

‘Do you like Italian food?’ he blurted again, wondering what the hell had happened to his voice.

‘Oh yes, I adore it,’ she replied.

‘Me too. Have you a favourite restaurant? I’ll leave the choice up to you.’ He began to flounder. ‘I . . .’ he said, ‘I . . .’ He searched for words, like a man rummaging through a key ring.

‘It’s been a while since I was around that area.’

‘What about Fifty-Five?’ she said.

‘Fifty-Five?’ He paused. ‘Fifty-five which street?’ he said, feeling slightly foolish.

She laughed. ‘No, that’s the name of the restaurant. On the corner of Bond Street and Maddox Street.’ He found a laugh, too, from somewhere within him, easier than he had thought he would. ‘Oh yes, I know it,’ he said. ‘Very nice. Yes, I’ll book – what time?’

‘Will your meeting be over by one?’ He delayed replying, trusting this implied that he was pondering the agenda. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘It should be. And if not,’ he added, with bravado, ‘it will just have to go on without me.’

‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you there at one. How will we recognize each other?’

She was practical, he thought.

‘Just ask for my table.’ He paused, like a dry bather at the edge of a pool.

‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Henry,’ he said.

‘Henry what?’ she said.

He stuck a toe in the water and watched the ripple. ‘Henry Henry – surname and Christian name.’ Don’t laugh, he said to himself, please don’t laugh. He remembered his wife laughing the first time they met. The name had annoyed and embarrassed her throughout the eight years they were married.

She did not laugh. ‘I’ll see you at one o’clock on Thursday, then.’ She paused and added sweetly, ‘Henry.’

‘What – what’s your name?’ he blurted.

‘Poppy,’ she said, and left it at that, without revealing her surname.

His heart sank, very slightly, at this tiny element of mistrust. He hung up the phone and watched across the road. She was replacing the phone and smiling – yes, smiling! She lay back. ‘Poppy,’ he said to himself. Yes, he liked that name. Suddenly he realized he was humming ‘Waltzing Matilda’; it was something he always did on the rare occasions when he was happy.

*

The tune deserted him at ten to one on Thursday, when he arrived at the restaurant. It was pleasant enough, yes, but not romantic. The tables were small and too close together, with hard wooden seats; it was too crowded and cramped. There was no mandolin player, either, although one of the waiters did occasionally sing a few bars of ‘O Sole Mio’ as he weaved his way to and from the chef’s hatch.

He informed a harassed man in an open-neck shirt of his reservation.

‘Ah, Signor Hairy,’ he said, finding the name amid a page of ballpoint scribblings. He guided him to a table at the back of the room. Henry sat, and began to rehearse his opening line.

‘Drink, Signor?’ Henry coughed with surprise, nearly swallowing his breath-freshener spray. What drink would impress her?

‘Vodka martini on the rocks, with a twist,’ he said, emulating his heroes, who always emulated James Bond.

‘A tweest, Signor?’ He looked anxiously past the waiter; she could appear at any moment.

‘Of lemon,’ he said.

‘Limonada?’ The man was infuriating him.

‘No, no, lemon; forget the lemon.’

‘One vodka martini, no lemon? Correct. Martini Rosso or Bianco?’

Struth, he thought. When Bond ordered that drink, the waiters always knew exactly what he wanted. ‘Dry white vermouth,’ he said patiently.

A short, dumpy girl was talking to the waiter in the open shirt. Henry looked beyond her at the street. A group of businessmen crowded in the door.

‘Onna the rocks?’ said the voice.

He nodded. ‘Yes, on the rocks.’ Then he changed his mind. ‘No, er, not on the rocks. Shaken – shaken, not stirred.’

The dumpy girl stood behind the waiter, patiently, smiling. The waiter moved and she stretched out a hand; it smelt of expensive perfume.

‘Henry?’

Henry stared at her. Who the hell was this, he thought? And would she please go away, he had an important date. Was she a fan? He did not want Poppy to come in here and see him talking to her. He wanted her to see him alone at the table, calm and suave, sipping his vodka martini.

‘I’m Poppy!’ The words did not immediately register; he was still willing her to go away, watching the door and not wishing to be discourteous to a fan, of whom he had far too few, all at the same time.

‘I’m Poppy.’ The words registered like a kick in the shin.

Mechanically, he stood up, shook her hand, found a smile from somewhere inside him, put it on his face and bade her to sit down. A joke, was his immediate reaction: Poppy must have chickened out and despatched a friend instead. But when she spoke, he knew that no, this was indeed the girl he had been talking to. Disappointment seeped into his body like rainwater into a leaky shoe. She was all wrong. He stared across at her, wondering whether to cut and run now and save himself the price of lunch. But no, he knew he was committed to it.

Perhaps she would offer to split the bill at the end? He chided himself for being so petty. It wasn’t her fault he had made such a ridiculous mistake.

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Why not,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll have a spritzer.’

Henry looked for the waiter with one eye and studied Poppy with the other. Black blazer; open-neck white blouse; twinset and pearls; hair straight and short. Too short for her face. She had made a lot of effort over her appearance; she reminded him of a gift-wrapped box of chocolates. He caught the waiter’s attention and ordered the spritzer. The waiter knew what it was, which was more than Henry did. Poppy folded her hands and laid them in her lap. She smiled across. Too much weight, he thought; she would look much better if she was slimmer

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Hello, Mystery Man.’

Henry smiled. Might as well be cheerful, try and make the best of it. The menus arrived. They chose their food and he ordered a bottle of Barolo; he knew little about wine, but he knew Barolos were sturdy. He felt like getting drunk – drunk enough to forget the hopes he had cherished throughout this long week.

She raised her glass. ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘Henry Henry.’ Then she bit her lip, realizing from his expression that it was something about which he was sensitive.

‘It’s a nice name,’ she said, very quickly. ‘It’s elegant.’

They chinked glasses.

Henry knew his name would need explaining; it always did.

‘A christening joke,’ he said dully. ‘My father was a stand-up comic. He found life outside the stage so sad, he tried to carry on his routine the whole time; tried to make the whole of his life a joke. Now he’s dead and I have to continue the joke.’ He raised his glass and nearly drained it.

‘That’s sad,’ she said. ‘But you mustn’t think of it as a joke; it’s a very classy name; it’s unusual and it suits you.’

She smiled again.

Henry realized she was prettier than he had at first thought; he felt guilty about his hasty judgment of her. ‘What do you do?’

She was a kitchen planner, she told him. He wasn’t exactly sure what a kitchen planner did, but he suspected it was important in kitchen planning to appear slightly plump, to give the impression of a healthy appetite and the enjoyment of a good kitchen. ‘What do you do?’ she salvoed back.

Rather nervously, he told her. What would anyone think, he wondered, of a man in his thirties who wrote unknown romantic novels?

‘How wonderful! An author!’ She said the word slowly, relishing it, as though it were a piece of fine steak. She leaned forward a little, her eyes shining. ‘I’ve never met an author before.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not very well known.’

‘Henry Henry?’ she said thoughtfully.

‘No, I write under a nom-de-plume: Sebastian de Champlain.’

She allowed herself a slight giggle. ‘Sebastian de Champlain – how frightfully grand. But that does ring a bell. I love romantic novels, you see. I read them all the time.’

‘You do?’ He became aware that hope had crept inside him, quietly, when he was not looking.

‘Yes; tell me some of the titles of your books?’

‘
Desire of the Heart
?’ he replied. ‘
Summer Wind
?
The Scent of the Orchid
?’

‘Goodness!’ she squealed. ‘I’m reading
The Scent of the Orchid
at the moment! It is so – real – you must have spent a long time in Singapore researching it.’

Henry smiled and nodded. It was not appropriate, now, he thought, to tell her that he had not been to Singapore, but had gleaned the information from a film and a couple of books he had borrowed from the library.

‘Gosh!’ she said.

Halfway through their main course, Henry Henry ordered a second bottle of wine. He had never met a fan before, never been so flattered and complimented before.

He had forgotten all about the girl in the window opposite. Poppy and he had already made a date to go and see a film that evening, and a concert tomorrow. On Saturday, she would cook a very special meal for him at her flat.