Fine Lines - SA (25 page)

And when al 's said and done, even she had only known him for a matter of months. Less than a year, anyway. I might be being cynical, but I don't think that's real y long enough to know everything about someone, no matter how much you think you do." I looked thoughtful, but said nothing. "Do you think he might have left her for someone else?" she asked, after a moment.

"I don't know. Anna doesn't seem to think so, and I suppose she should know better than anyone." She looked at me rather archly. "Wel . That depends." She leaned closer. When she spoke again, her voice was hushed, as though she were in church. "I gather the police think he might have been homosexual." I noticed how she used the past tense. "I don't think they've actual y said that in so many words," I said, "But ..." I shrugged. She nodded as though I had confirmed her suspicions.

"I must say, that was something that had never occurred to me. But it does make you think, doesn't it? It opens up al sorts of possibilities." I did not comment. This was obviously not good enough for her. She pressed further. "Do you think that might.. . wel , might have anything to do with what's happened?"

"I real y wouldn't like to say."

"No, of course not." She hesitated. "But what do you think? Do you think he might have been that way inclined?" I thought back to when I had encouraged Zeppo to that same point of view. "I'm sure Anna would have realised if he was." Now there was no mistaking her disappointment. "Not necessarily. It's not the sort of thing one advertises, is it? A friend of mine was married for twenty years, and never knew her husband was a transvestite until she found him in her clothes one day." She seemed almost as much of a homophobe as Marty's father. "I don't think there was ever any suggestion that Marty wore Anna's clothes."

"No, I'm sure there wasn't. But he did go to those nightclubs, didn't he? And Anna only had his word for what happened." She gave me a meaningful look. "It does seem a bit peculiar, don't you think?" It appeared I had met someone whose antipathy to Marty matched my own.

But I did not want to compromise myself by agreeing with her. My loyalties lay with her daughter, and I was not sorry when Debbie saved me from answering by returning with the tea.

And Mrs. Palmer's coffee. With half a sugar.

Anna was summoned from the bedroom by Debbie, at her mother's command.

Mrs. Palmer commandeered the conversation, and I was happy to let her.

The occasional comment from either Debbie or myself was enough to keep her commentary running. Anna said nothing. She did not appear to be listening.

Final y, putting her mug down I noticed Debbie had given her a chipped one Anna's mother announced that it was time to go. My tea was unfinished and so was Debbie's. Anna's remained untouched.

I had managed to avoid thinking about Anna leaving until then.

Suddenly, I felt the pit drop out of my stomach.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay for lunch?" I asked.

"No, thank you al the same. I don't want to hit the rush hour."

"You'l have plenty of time. And I think you'l find the rush hour lasts al day." Mrs. Palmer would not be put off. "We'd stil better be making tracks. The sooner we go, the sooner we'l get there." With this homily, she began preparations for their departure.

These consisted of instructing Anna to fetch her cases from the bedroom, and Debbie to take the mugs back into the kitchen. "Give them a quick rinse while you're there, wil you dear?" she asked. I was permitted to remain while she busied herself poring deeply into her handbag and renewing her lipstick and powder.

We left the flat. I carried Anna's suitcase downstairs and packed it in the boot of her mother's Volvo. Debbie hugged her and gave her a kiss: I stood back, uncertainly. Anna came and put her arms around me.

She was on the verge of crying again. "Thanks, Donald. I don't know what I'd have done without you." I patted her back. She let go and climbed into the car. I waved as they pul ed away, and then they were gone.

Debbie snorted, angrily. "God, I pity poor Anna, having her for a mother. I mean, what did her last slave die of?" I did not answer. I was too choked to speak.

Anna was away for much longer than the two or three weeks I had hoped.

It was almost two months before I saw her again. During the third week, when I was beginning to hope she would soon be back, her mother telephoned to say they were taking her to Tunisia for a month.

Predictably, she did not ask if I minded her having the time off; she presented it as a.fait accompli. I consoled myself by nurturing a sense of injustice. But that was immediately forgotten when Anna herself cal ed a few days later. It was good to hear her voice again, and I reassured her that I did not mind her going in the least. Cheered by talking to her, at that moment in time I meant it. Anna, on the other hand, seemed unexcited by the prospect. She sounded as though nothing mattered to her very much one way or the other.

Without Anna to look at and occupy me, I fel into a mechanical, listless routine. Life would begin again when she returned. Until then, I was merely treading water. I hired a temporary assistant from an agency, but the sight of another girl in the gal ery only made Anna's absence more marked. I coped by switching myself off as much as possible, functioning on a surface level only: a state of semi-permanent limbo. It worked so wel that when the girl eventual y left, I could remember neither her name nor what she looked like.

I contacted Zeppo only occasional y during that period. He was his usual sardonic self, hiding any relief he felt at the petering out of the police investigation behind sarcastic comments. But even he failed to reach me. His barbs slid off almost unnoticed which, I realised later, was probably the best reaction I could have had to them. The last time I spoke to him I said I would let him know when Anna got back and hung up. I think he was beginning to say something when I put the receiver down.

My state of apathy was unassailable. Or so I believed. On the morning I received my first postcard from Anna bland and perfunctory I was also contacted by someone else. Someone much less welcome.

It was when I was trying to explain the basics of my cataloging system to the temporary assistant. The girl's repeated inability to grasp it was beginning to rub at my patience. I lacked the enthusiasm to be angry, but I felt a tired, irritable frustration at her continual stupidity. When the telephone rang it seemed a further, needless distraction.

"Look, just don't do anything until I get back," I told the girl, as I went to answer it. "Hel o, The Gal ery?"

"Mr. Ramsey? Margaret Thornby here." This time I had no difficulty placing either the voice or the name. I felt a weary resignation.

"How are you?" she asked. "Wel , I hope?" I assured her I was. "Just phoning to let you know I'm coming up to London again later this week, and I thought if you weren't too busy that we could perhaps meet up sometime." I made a polite expression of interest and asked what day it would be.

"Thursday," she said. "Is that convenient for you?"

"Is that this Thursday?" I asked. "The nineteenth?" She gave a laugh. "Wel , it's this Thursday, but don't ask me what the date is, because I haven't a clue. I'm awful on things like that.

I've got a diary somewhere, though, if you want me to check?"

"No, that's al right. There's no need. I'm afraid if it's this Thursday I won't be able to make it anyway. I'm out of town al morning, and I've a meeting scheduled in the afternoon." The excuses came easily, fabricated without effort from my lassitude. I waited for the expression of regret, already looking past them to the goodbyes, and the mild relief I would feel on hanging up.

"Oh, have you? Wel , never mind. What about Thursday evening then?"

"Thursday evening?" The question pierced through my complacency.

"Yes. If you're not doing anything. I'm going to be staying at my daughter's overnight, and the friends I normal y see are both on holiday, so if you're not busy we could make it the evening

instead." Again, she gave a laugh. "It'l save my daughter having to think of something to entertain her mum, anyway."

I scrambled for an excuse. But the sudden departure from what I had expected was too sharp: I could not make the adjustment in time. "Mr.

Ramsey, are you stil there?"

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry, I was just… I thought someone had come in." I searched for inspiration. None came. My mind was blank. "Yes, Thursday evening's fine," I heard myself saying.

"Oh good. What time suits you?"

"Whenever." Numb, I let her fix a time and arrange a suitable place to meet. When she had finished, I put the phone down. The feeling of relief I had looked forward to had been replaced by a dul sense of entrapment. I went back to where I had left the girl. She had fol owed my instructions to the letter and done absolutely nothing. She looked at me, waiting mutely for instructions.

"Take an early lunch," I said.

The threat of Thursday night cast a pal over the intervening days.

Whenever I tried to rationalise it away, I would think what Anna had said, and it would immediately darken. I could see no innocent reason for the woman's persistence, nor could I think of a way to avoid it. As horrific as the prospect of spending an evening alone with her was, I could not bring myself to confront her with excuses.

I awoke on Thursday morning with a leaden sense of oppression. Its weight lay heavily in my stomach as I went into the gal ery and tried to get through the rest of the day. The ordeal waited for me at the end of it like an impassable block. I could not see beyond it. My entire future was reduced to that single evening.

Anna seemed far away.

The hours passed quickly. I closed the gal ery, showered and changed, and tried to tel myself it would, if nothing else, soon be over. The Thornby woman had suggested a restaurant with a smal bar in it. I went there early. Not, needless to say, out of eagerness, but because I needed a drink before I faced her. I ordered a gin and tonic, sat down, and looked around. I was relieved that the restaurant was not a particularly intimate one. I looked at my watch. I had nearly twenty minutes before she was due. Time enough for another drink, if I wanted one.

Feeling the closest to

being relaxed I had al day, I took my first sip, and over the top of the glass saw the door open and Margaret Thornby walk in.

My stomach curdled. Al enjoyment of the drink vanished. In the moment before she saw me, I swal owed half of it, regardless. Then I had been seen.

She smiled and began to walk over. I forced an answering smile on to my face. A waiter intercepted her and made some polite enquiry, and she murmured something in reply and indicated towards me. I stood up as she approached the table.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said, sitting down. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No, I've only just arrived." I wondered what she was talking about.

She was more than fifteen minutes early.

"Oh, that's al right then. To be honest, I forgot if we'd said seven, or half past. I tried phoning you a while ago, but you'd obviously set off, so I thought, "Oh God, it must have been seven', and dashed around like a mad thing to get here on time." She looked at her watch. "I'm only seven minutes late, so that's not too bad, is it?" I did not bother correcting her mistake. "There was no need to rush yourself."

"Wel , I don't like being late for people." She laughed. "As you probably remember." I smiled, again not knowing what she was talking about. Then I realised she must be referring to when we had bumped cars. She had been hurrying to meet her son. She looked at my glass.

"That's a good idea. I think I'l have one myself before we eat." I remembered my manners. "Of course. What would you like?"

"What are you drinking?"

"Gin and tonic'

"That sounds nice. I'l have the same, please." I tried to hide my unease as I ordered the drink. It seemed ominous that she had chosen the same as me. "Cheers," she said, raising her glass. I did likewise, regretting that I had not had the foresight to order myself another. Now I would either have to appear gluttonous or nurse an almost empty glass until she had finished hers.

"Oh, that's welcome," she said, setting her drink down. "I feel I've earned that. Today's just been one fiasco after another. One of the main reasons I had for coming into the city today was to look at a supposedly authentic set of Queen Anne chairs. This woman phoned me at the beginning of the week and said her aunt had died, and was I interested in buying them? I said of course, because those sort of things don't crop up every day, do they? I would have liked to have gone to have a look at them earlier this week, but she said they'd got to bury her aunt first. Only decent, I suppose, but I daresay old aunty wouldn't have minded any more."

I smiled.

"Anyway, I got over there this morning, and guess what? Blow me if the damn things weren't only reproductions! And not even very good ones, at that!" She spread her hands, inviting me to join in her amazement.

I did my best.

"Wel , I tried to break it to this woman and her husband gently, but they started getting very offish with me," she went on. "Wel , she did at least. He didn't say very much at al , just stood behind her like a limp lettuce. It was clear who wore the trousers in that house, if you know what I mean. So final y, I said, "Now just a second. I'm very sorry that your aunt didn't know the difference between Queen Anne chairs and a formica stool from Wool-worths" wel , I didn't quite put it like that, but I felt like it" but that's hardly my fault. You're quite welcome to get as many opinions as you like, but they'l al tel you the same thing." ' She pointed at the ashtray on the table. "Those chairs weren't built any earlier than the nineteen fifties," I said.

"And if Queen Anne had anything to do with them, she must have lived a damn sight longer than the history books tel us!" ' She laughed. "That shut her up. "Wel , what shal we do with them, then?" she asked. As if it was my responsibility! "Put 'em on the bonfire!" I said, and left them to it!" I realised some contribution from me was expected at this point.