Mary's Prayer (6 page)

London has Hampstead, Birmingham has Mosely, and Newcastle has Jesmond. A place consisting of charming Victorian houses, inhabited
by the city’s professionals, intellectuals, pseudo-intellectuals, the kind of people who profess concern about the rest of
society but manage to stay a
Guardian
’s length away from it. The kind of place where the architects of Scotswood probably lived.

Larkin, on foot to clear the booze from his brain, walked up Osborne Road scrutinising the small hotels. He and Charlotte
had booked into one once, for the thrill of an illicit night together, away from college, away from their parents. It had
done nothing to help their deteriorating relationship. Their night of unbridled lust had ended in mutual bickering. Larkin
had lost his erection and Charlotte had lost the urge. The next morning, they paid the bill and left without saying a word
to each other. They had also, much to Larkin’s regret, missed breakfast.

He put all that behind him as he rounded the corner. The restaurant was dimly lit, and looked warm and inviting. The name,
Francesca’s, was emblazoned above the door in fat, reassuring capital letters. A perfect playground for the chattering classes
to discuss the world into infinity over a plate of
tortellini al pesto
and a carafe of Chianti.

There was a time when Larkin aspired to be one of them. A time when he had thought that dissecting
Rohmer’s latest ironic epic, loudly debating Third World debt and affecting a middle-class liberal air represented a lifestyle
to cherish. Now the very idea repelled him. His delusions had led him to university, but he had hated it so much that he left
after two terms and took to wearing his regional roots, his working-class origins, like a badge. He started writing cocky,
witty pieces about Newcastle’s burgeoning punk scene, selling them to anyone who would take them. He began to take an interest
in local affairs, making a nuisance of himself with councillors, exposing their sleaziness and ineptitude. Slowly, he made
a name for himself as a journalist. When Larkin was offered the chance to use his talents in London and be much more handsomely
rewarded, he took it. His father, a lifelong union man and staunch believer in working-class integrity, had been violently
opposed. His father’s last words to him before he left were still virulently ringing in his ears: ‘Aye, there’s nothin’ wrong
wi’ wantin’ to better yourself. Nothin’ at all. It’s when you start thinkin’ you’re better than us. Well, you’re not. If all
you want to be is like
them
, then you won’t have bettered yourself at all. You’ll have worsened yourself. And I won’t want to bloody know you.’ They
hadn’t spoken from that moment on. At the time, he had thought his father was talking shit, and told him so – but on reflection
he wasn’t so sure. Despite making a name for himself as an investigative reporter Larkin had eventually succumbed to the trappings
of middle-class success: a town-house in Greenwich, an ex-model wife, a sports car, an enthusiastic interest in cocaine and
alcohol. He had become the kind of person his writing had once held to ridicule – the kind his father had vainly warned him
against. Recently he had been thinking of his father more and more; the things he had said, his beliefs, his values. He should
have paid more attention to him. Too late now, though.

He stopped in front of the restaurant and found himself, yet again, inadvertently gazing into other people’s lives through
a plate-glass window, literally a
spectator at the feast. But he was suddenly galvanised by the sight of Charlotte hurrying towards him.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ she said, slightly out of breath, staggering Larkin by making two apologies in one day. ‘I hope you
haven’t waited too long.’

He said he hadn’t and looked her over. She was wearing a short, fawn-coloured skirt with sheer black tights (or stockings,
Larkin couldn’t tell, he forced himself not to dwell on the possibility), black suede heels, a plain black sweater with a
single strand of pearls around her neck and a well-tailored, calf-length, black overcoat. With her golden hair and emerald
green eyes she looked little short of a dream. Larkin was glad he’d had the foresight to wear his Armani suit and black silk
shirt. He didn’t want to disappoint. When her lips brushed his (lingering a beat longer than they should have) he resisted
the temptation to grab her, rip off her overcoat, and declare his undying lust right there in the street. Instead he said,
‘You look nice.’

‘Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.’

Their eyes locked.

‘Shall we stand here all night, or would you prefer to eat?’ she said.

Larkin weighed up the alternatives. ‘Let’s eat.’

‘OK. After you, my sweet.’ She stepped back to let him enter. There she was again – definitely flirting with him. What the
hell was she playing at?

He stood aside to let some rich, satisfied diners, braying with self-conscious laughter, out of the door; resisted the urge
to trip them up, and ushered Charlotte in.

They were greeted by a waitress with a frizzy ponytail who led them past half a dozen disgruntled customers, still waiting
to be seated, to a quiet little table in the corner.

‘Preferential treatment?’ asked Larkin quizzically.

‘Old friends,’ replied Charlotte.

Larkin scrutinised his surroundings. Red and white checked tablecloths; candles in old Chianti bottles caked
with wax; mismatched modern prints hanging from bare brick walls; a haphazard collection of cutlery and crockery; a delicious
smell of home-cooked Italian food coming from the kitchen. And service with a genuine smile.

It was all too much. The atmosphere and bonhomie seemed to be as carefully cooked as the food. The place appeared to have
lost some of its spontaneity since his last visit – as if AUTENTICO ITALIANO PLC had been stamped across it in big black letters.
Perhaps it had always been like that; perhaps it was Larkin’s own spontaneity that was now missing.

They ordered a bottle of Chianti from the waitress. ‘Let’s get drunk,’ Charlotte suggested saucily. He decided on paté to
start, then a
quattro staggioni
pizza; Charlotte ordered parma ham and melon, with
gnocchi al fungi
and a side salad as a main course. They both ordered garlic bread. The waitress disappeared again; Larkin filled their wine
glasses.

‘Here’s to … what?’ said Charlotte.

‘I don’t know. How about “Here’s to the successful conclusion of a trial and a case”?’

She pouted appealingly. ‘Oh, you stoic! Whatever happened to that hedonistic, irresponsible Larkin I used to know?’

‘Oh, he’s still around somewhere.’

‘Well, I hope he puts in an appearance tonight. Maybe later?’ She gave him a wide-eyed, teasing look that Larkin couldn’t
misinterpret. But he didn’t feel able to return it. He dropped his gaze to his wine glass. ‘Maybe,’ he mumbled.

He felt like a piece of the parma ham that she’d soon have on the end of her fork, on its way to her mouth. He couldn’t think
of anything to say that wouldn’t be misconstrued as a come-on. Out of desperation, he asked after her parents, and was told
that Daddy had retired and Mummy was living a life of careful leisure on his pension.

Mummy
?
Daddy
? She used to call them Mum and
Dad. Larkin could remember them vividly: determinedly clawing their way up from upper-working-class all the way to lower-middle-class
– the difference being immeasurable. They’d put all their hopes, aspirations and ambitions into their only child, lived their
lives vicariously through Charlotte. Her father had always made it quite clear that he thought Larkin was unworthy of their
daughter’s affection; but then, even the Angel Gabriel would have been considered an unfit suitor for Charlotte’s hand. Larkin
wondered what they thought of Charles.

He told Charlotte that his mother had died shortly after he’d moved to London; his dad, a couple of years after that. He hadn’t
gone to the funeral. Charlotte made no comment – she knew relations hadn’t been good between Larkin and his parents.

They lapsed into silence again. After a vast expanse of polite, nervous smiles Charlotte spoke.

‘So what have you been up to since we last met?’

He gave her a businesslike report of his progress, from his visit to Mary’s home and his discovery of the diary, to his meeting
with Andy. Charlotte listened with the face of a poker player. When he’d finished he took a big gulp of wine, almost feeling
like a proper reporter again. ‘So,’ he said, playing with his paté, ‘what d’you think?’

‘Well, the parts about Edgell and Fenwick I already knew, of course. I’m afraid I don’t really have any inside information.’

‘Oh.’ He couldn’t help thinking he’d been had. So far, Charlotte hadn’t told him anything he couldn’t have found out for himself
– and he’d been running round all day on her behalf. He smeared paté on a slice of toast. ‘Fenwick’s trial date – when’s that?’

‘Hasn’t been set yet.’ A genteel sip of wine, then she continued. ‘He’s on remand at the moment, in Durham. He’s been in front
of the magistrates but we’re still waiting for him to go through committal. He could be there for anything up to eighteen
months.’

‘And you’re his solicitor.’

‘The firm is representing him. Not me personally.’

They finished their starters and the waitress took their plates. Noticing they’d all but finished the wine, she asked if they
wanted another bottle. Yes, they said, and off she went, giving Charlotte a sly wink which Larkin pretended not to notice.

‘Who’s paying?’ he asked suddenly.

‘I thought we’d go dutch.’

‘No, I mean who’s paying you to be Fenwick’s solicitor? That murderous nobody couldn’t stump up the money – so who is it?’

She stiffened slightly and used the arrival of the wine as an excuse to delay her answer. Eventually she spoke. ‘I … I don’t
know. All I know is, he has the money. Like I said, I’m not even his solicitor—’

‘Who is, then?’

A hesitation. ‘Charles.’

‘Really?’

‘Why do you find that so interesting?’

‘I just do.’

‘Well … that’s all there is to it,’ she said. Larkin leaned forward.

‘Look, Charlotte, we both know there’s some really heavy shit going on with this case. Drugs, gangsters, the lot. So either
Fenwick did the deed in a brave attempt to rid the streets of an evil drug dealer – which I rather doubt – or it was a professional
hit. If that’s the case, then either it went wrong or he was expendable. What d’you reckon?’

Charlotte fixed her eyes on the dancing light in her wine glass. ‘I really couldn’t comment. As far as I’m concerned he’s
a client who is entitled to legal representation – just like any other.’

‘What does he say about it?’

‘Nothing. Yet.’

Another silence enveloped them; it seemed accentuated by the vacuous babble of their fellow diners. Larkin took a mouthful
of wine and threw caution to the winds.

‘Y’ know, it’s funny.’

‘What is?’

‘What we’ve come to. Here you are, being paid to protect a murderer – and here I am, trying to get you to dish the dirt on
him.’

‘And that’s funny?’

‘Ironic, maybe. A good example of how idealism adapts to the lure of the wage packet.’

Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, but Larkin continued. ‘I always had you pegged to be a politician or a writer. Something
like that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you were a leader, an opinion-former. That’s where your talents seemed to lie.’

‘But I read Law, Stephen. I trained for a career in the law.’

‘I know. I just thought—’

Charlotte’s face reddened and her voice developed an edge. ‘You might have had the luxury of dreams. I had
goals
. I wanted to do something with my life, not waste it on fantasies that had no chance of coming true. And I have done something.’
She paused and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘And if I have to come into contact with people like Fenwick, then so
be it. This is the real world. Not some utopian vision. I’ve worked bloody hard and I’ve achieved something and no one’s going
to take that away.’

Larkin leaned forward. ‘Yeah? Don’t be too sure.
I
worked hard, I achieved something – and some bastard took that away.’

Charlotte was going to speak, but the look on Larkin’s face discouraged her. She sat motionless, withdrawn. Larkin felt like
getting up and walking out. Or bursting into tears.

The waitress chose that moment to arrive with the main courses, which defused the tension.

‘Hey,’ said Larkin, wearing the flimsiest of smiles, ‘that was almost an argument. Just like old times, eh?’

From the look she gave him he couldn’t tell whether
she wanted to kiss him or kill him. ‘It wasn’t all like that. We had good times as well,’ she said reproachfully.

They concentrated on eating for a while. Eventually Charlotte summoned up her courage.

‘Do you miss your wife?’

Larkin took a long time to answer, searching for the right words. ‘Yes. All the time. And my son.’

Another awkward silence; then Charlotte said, ‘Did you ever think about me?’

Larkin stared at her, holding her gaze, his eyes unflinching.

‘I’m sorry …’ Charlotte began.

‘Yes, I thought about you. I thought about you a hell of a lot. You were everything to me once.’

He hadn’t wanted to say it, but there it was. The statement hung there, like the coyote in the Roadrunner cartoon, suspended
in mid-air after running off a cliff, prior to meeting a sticky end on the valley floor.

Charlotte steered the conversation back to safer ground. ‘What’s your impression of Mary?’

‘I think – I feel sorry for her.
Felt
sorry for her. I mean …’ He was struggling to make his thoughts coherent. ‘She … this singles club she went to – what kind
was it?’

‘I don’t know. Just a lonely-hearts club. The Rainbow Club, it was called.’

‘It wasn’t one of those “Can travel, no timewasters” affairs was it? A sex-contacts kind of thing?’