Fine Lines - SA (26 page)

Smiling in approval I murmured, "Quite right." It was enough. She paused only long enough to take another drink before going on.

"And then, as if that wasn't enough, I was supposed to be meeting my daughter this afternoon have I told you she's an art student? Wel , she is anyway, she's got a degree show coming up soon, so I said I'd buy her something to wear for it. You know

what students are like, never any money, so I thought I'd help her out a bit. Anyway, I was supposed to be meeting her at two o'clock she couldn't make lunch, which was why I wondered if you were free and so I waited at this little wine bar place she'd suggested. Ten past two. No sign of Susan. Half past two. Stil no sign of Susan. Wel , when it got to quarter to three I thought, "Wel something's wrong here," and tried to contact her. So I phoned the art col ege, and final y spoke to someone who said she'd already left. I didn't know what to do then, so I gave it another half hour, and decided I'd better cal around to her digs. She's not on the phone, you see, so I couldn't ring her. So I trailed around there she lives in Tooting, by the way and of course there was no Susan there either. Wel , there I was, standing on the pavement, just beginning to wonder what I was going to do, when one of her flat mates turned up. Stuart, he's cal ed. Smashing young man. I hadn't met him before, but he let me in and made me a cup of tea, and told me that Susan had gone to the pictures!"

She raised her eyes ceiling ward "Wel , I wasn't too pleased, I can tel you. Luckily, I'd managed to calm down a bit by the time she final y turned up. "What are you doing here, Mum?"

she asks, and before I can say anything Stuart says, "I told your mum you'd been to the pictures. To see that Warhol film." Wel , I don't know if she had or not, but it took her a second or two to say, "Oh, yes, that's right!" so you can draw your own conclusions." She chuckled, shaking her head. "I think these youngsters think we must have been born old.

Not that I was bothered where she'd been, I only wanted to know why the hel she'd left me hanging about al afternoon. So I said, "I thought we were going to buy you a new dress or whatever?" She held one hand out, turned palm up. "Of course, she'd forgotten al about it." She chuckled again. "Anyway, we got it al sorted out in the end.

Then, of course, she wanted to take me out tonight. "No," I said, "I'm sorry, but you've had your chance, I'm afraid some other lucky person's got that pleasure." I felt my face begin to burn and hid it by taking a drink from my almost empty glass. She did likewise. She set it down again, smiling fondly.

"Kids. Who'd have them?" She looked across at me. I was acutely conscious of being the object of her attention. "Do you have any?"

It was the first time anyone had ever asked me that question. "Me? Oh no. No."

"Very wise. Pain in the neck half of the time. As I said to my daughter today, "If I had my time again, I'd stick to cats. More fun and less trouble." ' I realised this was a joke and dutiful y laughed with her. A waiter appeared and told us our table was ready. Glad for the reprieve, no matter how short, I let him lead us into the restaurant proper.

The table was set in a corner. I saw this with dismay, and looked around for a less secluded one. There were several, but I could think of no reason to ask to move. We sat down, and my embarrassment was compounded when the waiter lit the candle in the centre of the table.

There seemed to be a conspiracy to create a romantic mood. I wondered how I could have thought that the restaurant was not intimate. Now it seemed al too much so. I felt like announcing to everyone in the room that we were not a couple.

The waiter handed us each a menu. "Now, before we go any further, I want to make it clear that this is my treat," she said. "No arguments." Preoccupied, I had not been about to make one. I realised I should at least go through the motions. "No, I'l get this." I made an effort to be gal ant. "It's the least I can do after letting you down this afternoon." She held her hand up. "No, I shan't hear of it. I invited you, so this is on me."

"No, real y '

"I tel you what, you can get it the next time." My smile froze. The words settled uncomfortably into my stomach, precluding any thoughts of hunger. Next time. I felt a clammy sense of claustrophobia. I managed to mumble some sort of acquiescence and pretended to study the menu, staring at the cal igraphic lines without reading them.

When the waiter returned I ordered the first thing my eye focused upon.

I had no appetite. I agreed readily to my host's choice of wine, and prayed it would not be long in coming. I badly needed a drink. I felt rigidly self-conscious, my tongue lying in my mouth like a wooden club.

Fortunately, I was given little opportunity to exercise it anyway.

She prattled on through the meal, requiring only the occasional word from me to sustain her monologue. I was given an unstructured mishmash of her views, her family, and whatever else happened to occur to her while she was speaking.

I also learned that she did not have a husband.

"George that's my husband always used to say that any man who didn't play golf had to have a serious character defect. That was his excuse anyway, whenever I used to go on at him for spending al his spare time at the club. "Margaret, you should be thankful," he'd say. "Some men have mistresses, some men are alcoholics, some men are gamblers. Al you've got to contend with is a white bal and a few acres of grass."

' She laughed. "He was right, of course. When I was widowed for real, I found out that being a golf widow isn't half so bad." I realised that this was one of the points where I was expected to say something. Reluctantly, I asked, "When was that?"

"When was I widowed? Oh, over two years ago. Don't worry, I'm over it now. There's no danger of me blubbing or getting maudlin, or anything.

Bit of a blow at the time, of course. Car crash. Right out of the blue. But life goes on, doesn't it? I'd got the business to keep me occupied, and it wasn't as if the kids were young and needed looking after. Mind you," she laughed, 'at times like this afternoon, I sometimes wonder." As she spoke, she leaned across and briefly touched my arm. It took a vast effort of wil not to move away. "But listen to me, I've not stopped talking yet," she went on. "I must be boring you sil y. You must tel me to shut up if you feel like it."

"No, that's quite al right."

"What about you, anyway? I've been so busy gabbing I've not given you a chance to say anything about yourself. You're stil quite a man of mystery. I know what sort of car you drive, but that's about al . Are you married?" The suddenness of the question burned my face. Her head was tilted, inquisitively. "No. No, I'm afraid not." I felt myself being backed into a corner.

She gave a little nod. "No, I didn't think you were. No ring," she explained, nodding at my finger. "And you didn't seem the type." She smiled, looking at me very directly. I had no idea what the

married type looked like, and did not care. I busied myself taking another drink.

"Rather a nice wine," I said.

"Yes, it's not bad, is it? Although I must admit, I don't know the first thing about wines. I'l drink any old plonk, so long as it's not like vinegar. I've not got a very discerning palate. I know what I like, but that's about it." That last sentence seemed imbued with al sorts of unpleasant connotations. I realised I was sitting tensely, and made an effort to relax. Perhaps some of my awkwardness communicated itself, because there was a lul in the conversation, the first of the evening. Our plates were empty; there was nothing else to occupy us. The silence grew. I searched for something to say, but came up with nothing. I was on the verge of making another comment about the wine when she spoke.

"So. How did you get into the art business?" Glad to leave the awful quiet behind, I gave her a condensed version of my early life. She listened attentively, and I shut my mind to everything else except my narrative. At least it was a safe subject.

"I'd no idea you were once a starving artist yourself," she said. "I expect you stil paint for your own pleasure, don't you?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Not even occasional y? Don't you miss it?" I had never real y considered it before. "No, not real y." She seemed surprised. "Was it a conscious decision? I mean, when you were disil usioned about being an artist, did you think, "Right, that's it," and pack your brushes away?"

"Not exactly." I thought back. "I just stopped."

"Oh." She dismissed it with a smile. "Wel , I expect you don't have much time anyway, these days. Stil , if you have any of your old paintings, I'd love to see them. Perhaps they're better than you remember. You never know, you might feel inspired to take it up again." I felt a jolt of panic at the hinted intimacy. "I don't have any. I threw them al out years ago." It was the truth.

"You threw everything away? Oh, what a shame. I bet you regret it now, though, don't you?" I had never thought about it. But now I was glad I had. I gave a non-committal shrug, feeling my tension return stronger than ever.

The waiter appeared and removed our plates.

"Wel , I don't know about you, but I'm going to have a dessert," she said. My heart sank. She studied the sweet menu. "I think I'l try the pavlova. I know it's loaded with calories, but I don't care. How about you?" I had no appetite, but it seemed easier to have something than not. It would give me something to do. "Yes, the pavlova sounds fine."

"You should see some of my daughter's work," she said, as the waiter brought the dessert. "Not the stuff she's doing now, so much, although her tutors seem impressed enough with that, but some of her earlier pieces. Of course, I can't claim to be any expert, but I think it's pretty damn good." She gave an apologetic laugh, and suddenly her hand had reached out to touch me again. "I bet I sound just like any other proud mother, don't I? Oh, wel , it can't be helped. I suppose I am." The hand was taken away. She went back to her pavlova. "Stil , if I do say so myself, she has a definite talent. You'l have to meet her sometime, so you can make up your own mind." I gripped my spoon. The feeling of claustrophobia was stifling. She went on, blithely tying me to her.

"Damien, on the other hand, can't draw for toffee. Absolutely hopeless. In fact, I'm not sure what he wants to do with his life. I don't think he does, either. I love him dearly, but I do wish he'd hurry up and settle down to something. Or with someone, even. He's the eldest, and I've said to him if he doesn't hurry up and produce grandchildren soon, I'm going to be too old to enjoy them. Only kidding, of course. He's got the travel bug, and he's got to get that out of his system before he does anything else. Mind you, if nothing else, he has got some amazing slides of the places where he's been. I know other people's photographs are normal y boring, but some of these are absolutely breathtaking! In fact, you must come over sometime while he's stil here and have a look at them." She smiled. "You could even risk my attempt at a curry, if you like. That's my latest thing, since he's got back from India. What's the matter?" She was staring at me with concern. As she had been talking, I had felt myself growing tauter and tauter. I realised I was stil rigidly clutching the spoon. "Are you al right?" she asked, and leaned forward to touch me again, and this time I could not help it. I jerked my arm away.

She was left with her hand stretched out over the table. Her face was wide-eyed with surprise. The moment seemed suspended with an awful clarity. I noticed she had a smal , white smear of cream on her top lip. I tried to say something.

"I ..." Nothing else came. My throat felt constricted. At last, her hand sank down and was withdrawn back to her side of the table. "I'm not … I don't ..."

"What? What is it?" She stared at me with shocked incomprehension. I tried again to form the words. "I'm ... I'm not … I think you've got the wrong impression." She blinked. "Wrong impression?" I could not look at her. "This ... Meeting again. I don't think it's a good idea." She did not say anything. I fixed my eyes on the table cloth. The wreckages of the pavlov as confronted me. "I don't … I don't want a … a relationship." I forced myself to look at her. Now her expression was almost one of horror. "Good God," she said.

"I'm sorry ..."

"Good God." Her hand went to her mouth. She closed her eyes.

"I don't want to be rude ..." Her head was turned slightly away. "Whatever gave you the impression that I … that I expected anything like that?" Something about the way she said it gave me a premonition of disaster.

"The telephone cal s ... Al the invitations ..." My voice trailed off. What had seemed obvious now suddenly seemed much less so. She slowly set her spoon down on the edge of her plate. She looked down at it as she spoke.

"Mr. Ramsey … I enjoy meeting people. I always have, but now I make a point of doing it. I was married for thirty years, and when my husband died it left a gap. I fil it the best way I can. I don't believe in putting any more pressure on my children than I have to.

They have their own lives to lead, and so I try to make mine as busy as possible." She looked up at me. Her mouth was trembling. The smudge of cream was stil on her lip. "I know I talk too much, and that sometimes puts people off. And I know I'm too pushy sometimes, and that puts people off too. But I'm not looking for anyone to take my husband's place, so you're quite safe. If you misunderstood that, I'm sorry. I can't see that I've real y done anything to give you the impression that I was being anything more than friendly, but obviously I must have.

Even so, I don't think you had to make your ... your reluctance quite so obvious."

She suddenly reached for her handbag and swiftly took out her wal et.

She set several ten pound notes on the table. "I said I'd pay, and I wil ." She stood up. Her chin was quivering. "To be honest, Mr. Ramsey, I thought you were gay anyway. So you needn't have worried after al ." She walked quickly out of the restaurant. I looked around. One or two people had glanced up as she left, but no one was near enough to have heard what had been said. I sat where I was. For the time being, I was incapable of moving. After a while a waiter appeared and asked if I had finished. I let him take the plates and her money.