Pleasure and a Calling (15 page)

I paused on her calendar: here was a string of entries, mainly marked ‘D’, one of them last Tuesday, the day they drove off in Sharp’s car. It was Tuesday today, but there was no entry for it. But now her reminders file came up, and here he was again: today’s date, ‘D. 2 Swans Ebb 1.30’ – clearly a reference to the Two Swans at Ebbidge, a thatched pub five or six miles out of town. I hadn’t been there, but like everyone I’d seen its restaurant get three stars in a Sunday newspaper. A date, then, which seemed out of kilter with my perception of things. What sort of furtive extramarital fling was it that suddenly bathed itself in the aura of romance? Was love the new price of sex? Did Abigail want more than a casual involvement with a married man (if she knew he was married)? Was Sharp playing along to keep her sweet? I found myself growing hot with indignation at his clumsy subterfuge, this attempt to make the sordid resemble something tender and real.

The temptation to watch the two of them together was strong, but was it worth the risk? I’d spent too long in the library recently. No one notices a stranger in the street, but how many times do you see a passing face before it becomes familiar? Anonymity was my strength. Once lost, it was impossible to get back. Sharp had chosen this out-of-the-way pub to reduce their chances of being seen. If Abigail recognized me there, even as a local from the library, it was likely that she would notice me elsewhere in
the future. I couldn’t be confident, either, that Sharp wouldn’t remember my face from our dispute at the gate to the Common if I were suddenly pointed out to him. And then what would they be thinking? Who
is
that guy? A private detective?

And what was there to discover? That the two of them had a mutual fondness for sea bass?

I put it out of my mind, finished my breakfast and thought about going into the office. I could catch up on some work and return fresh to the problem of Sharp in the evening. I might look again at his online gambling. Or maybe there was some harder evidence – something I hadn’t spotted in his correspondence maybe – concerning the blow-up in Cambridge. Life is full of hope.

Katya was manning the office. Her eyes lit up when I walked in.

‘Aha,’ she said. ‘O’Deay’s!’

‘Success?’

‘I think so. They’re asking for another quarter point, we’re asking for another ten properties. I think they will agree. In the meantime, there’s some more of their blurb to look at when you have a minute.’

‘I’ll do it right now,’ I said. ‘Any more news?’

‘I spoke to Mr Cookson, but he just seemed cross when I suggested we try to get some buyers in while they’re away. Didn’t you tell me they were cool about it?’

‘Cool? I may have said cordial.’

‘Cordial – what is that? All they’ve done is given us permission, after months of hassle, to put a sign up on the approach road.’

‘Well, then,’ I said. ‘That’s a start.’

‘How many starts do we give them?’

I went to the back office and buried myself in the O’Deay’s project. Wendy made tea and gave me my messages. It was turning into a bright spring day. It really would be foolhardy to go out to the Two Swans. But by noon I could stand it no longer.

‘I’m just popping out,’ I told Katya. ‘I thought I might cast an eye over the O’Deay’s site on this lovely day. See how things are.’

She glanced up in surprise but I was gone before she could say anything.

Twenty minutes later I pulled into the Two Swans’ car park. The pub hadn’t been open long but two of the smaller outdoor tables overlooking the river were occupied by lone drinkers smoking and reading the paper. Inside there were no customers yet, just staff busying themselves polishing glasses or setting tables in the bar. I walked through to the restaurant. It was reassuringly large, the original low-ceilinged room with exposed beams leading to an extended sun lounge with waterside view and exit to the garden. I was greeted by the manager.

‘Table for lunch, sir?’ she asked.

‘I was thinking of it,’ I said. ‘But later – about one-fifteen?’

‘Let me just see what we have.’

I followed her to a counter, where she opened a folder showing a chart and reservations. I cast an eye over the list. No Sharp, but there was a Douglas. Table three. The last in a row close to where we were standing.

‘Any chance of a table in the sun?’

‘Ah, I’m afraid not. They’re always the first to go. But I can put you by the window. Table for two, was it?’

‘Just one, I’m afraid.’ I smiled.

‘That’s fine then, Mr …?’

‘Williams. Thank you.’

I went back out to the car and called Zoe’s mobile number.

‘Hello?’

‘Zoe, it’s me.’

‘Mr Heming, is something wrong?’

‘On the contrary. I was thinking, if you’re not busy, you might come out and meet me at the O’Deay’s development. See what you think of it.’

‘Well, no, I’m not. Busy, that is. I could, of course, but my car’s in for a service and wax.’

‘Ask Wendy to get you a taxi.’

She paused. ‘But what about Katya?’

‘Don’t worry about that. I was just thinking it might give you some insight into this sort of development. Move you up a little. You don’t have to mention it to Katya.’

‘Move me up?’ she trilled. ‘I’m not sure I know what that means.’

When I arrived at O’Deay’s, Zoe was waiting with her eager smile. We didn’t spend long on site. We surprised the sales manager, who checked with his superiors and then took us on a short tour. The show house wasn’t quite finished, but we got an idea of the layout and concept. I nodded and asked questions that I already knew the answers to. Zoe followed my lead in looking alternately fascinated and enthusiastic but didn’t say much. Frankly, there wasn’t much
to
say. Once or twice I caught her eyeing me curiously. It was true that I had spent very little time alone in her company – perhaps the occasional drive to see a client – since our ‘romantic’ interlude came to a difficult end two or more years before. She looked thrilled when I suggested lunch afterwards. ‘It gets more and more intriguing.’ Her voice was low.

‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘Just lunch. On this lovely spring day.’

In view of our history it probably wasn’t the best idea, but the truth was I felt the need for camouflage. A lone diner in a restaurant could attract a wandering eye. People were far less interested in couples. Not very gallant, I know, but effective, I hoped.

When we were standing in the car park of the Two Swans, her eyes widened at the thatched roof and picturesque setting. ‘Gosh, how lovely,’ she said. ‘We are pushing the boat out.’

‘Only the best for Heming’s,’ I joked. As we both knew, a sandwich wolfed down at the desk was our usual style. Business lunches, I had always argued, were unproductive and took too much out of the day.

‘It’s not your birthday, is it?’ she asked.

I smiled. In the office she had once asked when my birthday was, and I had held out, changed the subject, refused to tell. I’d made it seem light-hearted, but for me it was a matter of principle. But then she had dwelled on this ‘oddity’, as she saw it, returned to it and made a running joke out of it. She seemed somehow to enjoy calling me Mr Heming, as if – given our brief episode of familiarity – the two of us were now acting out some secret charade. On the whole I didn’t mind. Her occasional playfulness was an endearing trait, creating a little esprit around the office and providing a counterpoint to Katya, who was from Lithuania, and didn’t think there was anything amusing about formality. The others had no issue with it, Josh being young enough to do as he was told and Wendy old enough to remember when all bosses were called mister.

The restaurant was busy now. Zoe went to the ladies’ while I explained to the manager that there would be two for lunch after all.

‘No problem. And we’ve had a cancellation, so I will be able to put you in the sun lounge if you’d still prefer that.’

Zoe reappeared and a waitress showed us to our table. I insisted that Zoe have the river view. ‘How thoughtful, Mr Heming!’ she said.

The waitress took our drinks order.

‘Just tonic water for me,’ I said. ‘Best keep a clear head.’

‘Oh,’ said Zoe.

‘You go ahead,’ I said.

‘Should I?’ she twinkled. ‘Perhaps just a large glass of Rioja, then.’

She smiled, as though it was understood that I was trying to get her tipsy, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. I had seen Zoe tipsy on enough occasions to be wary of its effect on her – one moment highly affectionate and the next saddened beyond help, especially when she rightly began to suspect a lack of enthusiasm on my part.

‘How do you see me?’ she had once asked on one of our candlelit evenings out, her eyes quizzical, her chin propped up in her hand.

‘Like this!’ I said, opening my eyes wide.

More than once an evening out with Zoe had ended in tears. As considerate as I tried to be, the most innocuous remark could set her off.

The surrounding tables were filling up now. Zoe flattened her napkin across her lap, flicked back her hair and sighed contentedly. ‘I can actually see swans from here,’ she said.

Of course I wondered if she might be getting the wrong idea, but it was too late to worry about that. The important thing was that she was sitting between me and table three. And if we looked like a couple delighting in each other’s company, all the better. So we chatted about Josh’s progress with the website until the drinks appeared, then detained the waitress while she
decided what to eat. I had picked the first thing on the menu and was already shooting nervous glances at the door. Zoe, clearly delighted to make the most of the occasion, was more leisurely in her choices, and was still deliberating when Sharp and Abigail appeared across the room, setting my nerves on edge as they were shown to their table. Abigail was radiant and demure. Sharp guided her into a chair, his hand almost on her bottom. I suddenly felt sick.

‘So what do you think, Mr Heming – langoustines or the soup?’

The print on the menu danced before my eyes. I couldn’t say what Zoe or I finally chose, or what we found to talk about before it arrived, but bread and olives were somehow on the table followed by some sort of fish and we were eating, and babbling about the O’Deay’s project – what Zoe thought about pricing on the bungalows, how we might squeeze O’Deay’s further in exchange for a lower commission. My eyes flitted back and forth, from Zoe’s mouth, alternately talking and chewing, to table three, where they were busy with appetizers and a carafe of wine.

I wished now I had taken a risk and tried for a table within range of theirs. I felt a desperate need to sample the atmosphere, the quality of their murmurings. The more I watched, the more I longed for it. And now Sharp was leaning towards her. Some unctuous endearment, no doubt. She smiled, her eyes downcast, as if inspecting her salad.

A trellis behind them bordered the greeting area and service hub. Would it be feasible to loiter there for a few minutes without being run down by waiting staff? Perhaps there would be an opportunity later.

We ate. They ate. I realized it was a mistake. I wished we
hadn’t come. I felt I was drowning in the affable, tinkling hubbub of the place.

Zoe, on her second glass of Rioja, gazed across at me with ominous fondness. ‘Do you remember that beautiful bistro we once went to? The little French place in Constable country? And we stopped the car on the bridge on the way back and watched the riverboats moored up under the moon, with their lanterns rippling on the water? The way the music came floating up, and the smell of barbecue?’

I smiled and couldn’t find anything to say, though what I remembered vividly was the two of us squeezed into the front of my small car, Zoe’s head on my shoulder and the smell of her shampoo. I remembered having to wind the window down. How romantic she had thought the boats were, with their little red curtains lit up cosily from the inside. How smoothly she had then skated into the subject of family holidays on the Norfolk Broads with her younger sister, who was now married and had recently given their parents a lovely granddaughter, and how sweet and adorable she was. ‘I can’t believe I’m suddenly an aunt,’ Zoe had said, laughing. ‘I’m the old maid of the family!’

‘Congratulations,’ I had replied, without quite meaning to.

Amid Zoe’s reminiscing, my own thoughts turned to my anguished vigil in the street outside Abigail’s, the glow of
her
room. In my dreams, I had conjured myself into that space I could see from the street, her red curtain the only thing between us, my cheek brushing the satiny fabric as I listened to her settling in her white feather bed.

Zoe paused. ‘I often think of that evening,’ she said.

Across the room the abominable Sharp was offering Abigail a spoonful of something toothsome. Even at this distance I could see his phoney, simpering, ultra-considerate expression,
his suspiciously white smile as he helped Abigail to more wine, touching her hand from time to time and staring into her face. Perhaps there was some other point to this occasion. Doubt and sadness clouded Abigail’s expression from time to time. Maybe they were breaking up! It was hard to see whether Sharp was trying to console or persuade. Perhaps a little of both.

‘Who do you keep
looking
at?’ Zoe said suddenly.

‘Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing. It really doesn’t matter. Why would it? I need the loo.’

Was she cross with me? She left her napkin on her plate and weaved a path through the tables. But now I saw that Abigail had vanished too, leaving Sharp at the table. I tried to read his angular face, which had relaxed into a state of neutral watchfulness, offstage but ready for its next cue. He glanced around the room. I kept my head down.

Zoe was taking for ever. The waitress came to clear the table and brought a dessert menu. Should I order? Perhaps just coffee.

But the waitress had no sooner departed with my order than Zoe returned, moist around the eyes and sniffing. She didn’t sit down. ‘I’m going to head back, actually. Sorry, and thanks for lunch. I’m just not …’