The A-Z of Us (25 page)

At 7.55 p.m. the bar gets suddenly busy. A group of people enter. Neil is nowhere to be seen. At 8.05 p.m., the barman comes over to me.

‘Fancy another?'

I look up at him.

‘No. Thanks.'

When he turns his back, heading to another table, I stand, take my coat and bag and walk from the bar.

Outside in the street, I call Neil's mobile. He answers, breathlessly.

‘Gemma, I'm sorry, the tube was late, I'm almost there…'

‘Don't come.'

‘What?'

‘I can't see you.'

‘Look, Gem, I'm sorry I'm late, but there was a signal failure at Kennington…'

‘No, Neil.'

‘I'll be five minutes…'

‘This isn't right, Neil.'

I am surprised at the firmness of my voice. He is silent for a moment. A police car passes, siren wailing in distress.

‘How do you know?' he asks, quietly.

‘I don't. Maybe I'm wrong.'

Silence. Then he speaks.

‘No. Maybe you're right.'

I didn't expect him to be so easily dissuaded. But I've set out on a path. I can't turn back.

‘Let's see,' I say, more gently. ‘Take a time out. Okay?'

‘Okay.'

Silence again. Does he hate me?

‘Will you be okay?' I ask, loudly. ‘You're staying with friends, right?'

‘Yeah. Look, why don't we just meet up, have a quick drink…' His voice lacks conviction, as if he thinks these words are expected of him.

I think about it for a moment. You cannot relive the past. It's another country. I read that somewhere, ages ago. I've drawn a map, high up in my balloon, but it bears no resemblance to the reality on the ground.

‘No. I can't, Neil. I'm sorry.'

‘You're sure?'

Silence. I'm not sure of anything.

‘Yes. I'll call you.'

More silence. I want to hear him breathing, but there is static on the line.

‘I'm seriously thinking about going to Canada,' he says, resolutely.

‘I think you should.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes.'

‘Okay.'

Another silence. I don't know what I'm doing.

‘There was a signal failure. At Kennington…'

‘I believe you.'

‘I…'

‘I'll call you, Neil,' I say, conclusively and put down the phone. Standing there, by Farringdon Station, the Monday night crowd surrounding me, passing this way and that, men and women laughing and shouting, I know I won't call him again. I feel unbelievably sad. I reach into my bag, take out a £20 note and hand it to the man sitting on a dirty sleeping bag by the ATM machine.

‘Ta, gorgeous,' he mutters, with a vacant, happy stare.

As I approach the house on Raleigh Street I slow. The light is on at the entrance to number 22. The black door shines brightly. By comparison, three houses away my own front door is dark.

It starts to rain. I walk quickly. I take a breath, and hit the knocker against the door, three times.

Nothing. No sound inside. I withdraw my hand. As the raindrops hit the pool of light from the lamp they seem
to glint like diamonds. My heart is beating. I feel like I'm watching a film.

I knock again. Nothing. Films aren't real. This isn't real. I turn to go.

‘Yes?'

He stands there in a black suit, with a black polo neck. His hair, I realize, is dyed, pulled back in a small pony tail. He looks like a retired member of a seventies rock band. I want to laugh.

‘Can I help you?'

‘I'm your neighbour. At number twenty-six. Gemma… er… Singh.'

I hold out my hand. He takes it. His hand is very warm, his hold soft and gentle, like a girl, I think.

‘John Major.'

‘No? Really?' I stifle a giggle. He smiles.

‘Yes. Unfortunately. Do come in.'

The house is beautiful. Not in my modern style, but in period Edwardian, all dark hues, lush curtains and elegantly upholstered furniture. Green plants stand in porcelain pots. On the walls are several large antique maps, surrounded by gold frames against the dark green painted walls. I try to list the countries as I walk by. Russia. Romania. Albania. I follow him to an antechamber containing a dark brown Chesterfield sofa and two armchairs. He gestures to the sofa. I sit down, smoothing my skirt, my hands clasped in my lap protectively. Suddenly I feel very young, as if I'm back at school.

‘And what can I do for you, Gemma?'

‘Er…'

A clock ticks somewhere. The house smells of incense. The dark blinds allow a soft dusky light to bathe the room. It's a light that reminds me of my room as a child, as I lay awake hearing the evening birdsong, waiting for my sister to come upstairs (our bedtimes were 45 minutes apart until I turned 14). Then I hear a voice. It sounds like mine.

‘I might have cancer… I'm so scared. I didn't tell my husband. He's seemed so distant, like his work was always more important. So, I told him that I didn't love him. I think I wanted him to fight to keep me, but he just packed his bags. He ran away and left me… People always leave me. My father died of a brain aneurysm when I was fourteen. I'm terrified of dying. I don't know what to do.'

Half an hour later, I walk down the steps feeling lighter. At my door I pause. I wonder for a moment if anyone has seen me leaving the man's house. Then as I unlock the door, closing it softly behind me, I realize that I don't care. I feel light, I feel brave. I don't know what I'm going to do next, but I know I feel stronger. I check the small plastic bag in my left pocket, and step into the dark, empty, unfinished house.

It's going to be Molly's best party ever. I've decided to host it at her flat, with the help of a catering company. There are three reasons for this:

1. It's a fabulous apartment that everyone will get a buzz out of being in.

2. It'll be easier to dupe Molly into turning up at her own home without suspicion.

3. It's free. I can spend my limited budget on top-class booze and catered nibbles.

Gemma thinks it's a great idea. She has spare keys so we can set everything up. She's even offered to be the lure – she's going to call Molly half an hour before our fake dinner reservation at Moro and ask her to pop back to her apartment to bring Molly's favourite cashmere cardigan for Gemma to wear to an important business meeting the following day. It's going to be perfect.

I've tasted the wine and champagne, I've negotiated a good deal with the catering company. I've called all Molly's friends from the list Gemma supplied me with. I've even drawn out the timetable, in five minute intervals, right up to the point at approximately 8 p.m. when Molly enters her apartment and we all shout ‘surprise'.

I know I'm being pedantic, but I don't have much else to put my efforts into at the moment. A few further calls to travel editors of publications with even smaller
circulations has yielded three ‘no's and one ‘call back in the spring'. Gemma keeps suggesting that I think up a proposal for a book, but I have no ideas and anyway the publishing industry is in as much trouble as the newspaper business, isn't it?

The truth, I suspect in more desolate moments, is that I have messed it all up. That I've chosen the wrong path. Now I need to get back on track.

My plaster cast is due off in five days' time. I can't wait – I've decided that the removal of the punishing plaster shackle will herald the start of a new era. A new Ian Thompson. I will be free. I will start again, the curse of the Venezuelan Virgin Mary lifted once and for all, to be replaced by the blessing of the Far-From-Virginal Molly.

My new plan will be revolutionary, I tell myself at secret moments during the day. I will stay with Molly, emotionally and physically, I will think of a book idea, and Molly and I will get married.

I can't believe it. I can imagine myself putting the ring on her finger. I can imagine her, in luxuriant white (will she wear white knickers, perhaps a white thong?), at my side. I can imagine our intoxicating honeymoon, perhaps on a beach on Lamu, or perhaps Salvador in Brazil, or maybe that amazing hotel I stayed at once on Haggerstone Island just off the Great Barrier Reef. I will get her to travel, to share the joys I feel every time I walk up to the check-in desk at Heathrow.

I call my parents, but I don't tell them of the potential value of the map. Instead I say I'll come back to Cambridge to pick it up soon, in order to get it framed.

‘It's fine Ian. I can get it done here in Cambridge. I know you're a little short of funds at the moment.'

‘No, Dad. I'd like to. All right?'

To my surprise, my father says he'll bring the map up to London himself. He's attending a Church of England working group on asylum seekers at Lambeth Palace on the day of Molly's birthday. We arrange to meet for lunch. My father sounds unduly pleased.

‘We'll have a bite and a chat,' he says brightly. As I put down the phone, I can't help but feel a little pang of joy.

I meet my father in an old-fashioned coffee shop in Soho, one of those establishments that seem stuck in a smoky, paper-doily age long before the invention of cappuccinos and comfy sofas.

‘How's the ankle?' my father asks, as if this is a joke.

‘Fine. Just another week to go.'

‘Splendid. Any luck with finding a new flat?'

‘I've seen a couple of places. I've a few to see this week.'

‘Something will turn up.'

‘I know.'

My father hands me the map of Palestine. I inspect it, heart racing. It appears identical to the one on the TV programme. I flip it over. I want to sing. The two signatures are there. Sir Mark Sykes. Monsieur Charles Georges Picot. My two new favourite people in the world.

‘It's very kind of you to get it framed for me.'

I nod. The money from the map could really help them. Ian, their only son, could really help them. I decide the moment is right to reveal my good news.

‘I was watching
Antiques Roadshow
the other day…' I begin. My father cuts in.

‘Your mother watches it occasionally. Can't say I'm a fan. Dull as dishwater, if you ask me.'

‘This map was on it. Or at least one that looked a lot like it.'

‘What's that?'

‘They said there were only four drawn up, for some agreement to divide the Middle East in 1916.'

‘Really?'

‘Yeah. Look, here are the signatures of the diplomats involved…'

I turn the map over. The Reverend John Thompson reaches out for it. His right hand trembles. I know I have to ask him, I have to confront it, confront him, but I don't know how. I'm too scared of what it means.

‘Dad…' I stammer. My father interrupts me.

‘Well I never. Is it… valuable?'

‘Thirty thousand pounds, or more.'

‘No! My goodness.'

‘That's what they said.'

The map quivers in the Reverend John Thompson's right hand. I raise my left hand and grasp the map firmly. The parchment stops trembling.

‘I got it from that antiques market behind St Paul's.'

My father looks up, eyes clear and focused.

‘You have to take it back.'

‘What?'

‘The poor man who sold it to you evidently had no idea of its value. You have to take it back.'

‘Why? I bought it. It was a fair deal.'

‘But he didn't know its true value.'

I feel like screaming. It's as if my father delights in creating hardship for himself. There is something masochistic about him. Or perhaps he just likes putting his only son in his place.

‘It's thirty grand, Dad! In case you had forgotten, you and Mum are not exactly rolling in it!'

‘He didn't know its true value.'

True value. My father has the infuriating habit of making any sentence containing an abstract word sound as if it belongs in a sermon.

‘That's his problem!'

‘No, Ian. It's our problem. We have to be honest and return this valuable item to its rightful owner.'

‘Rightful? He probably bought it for a fiver off some old lady!'

‘We don't know that. He may just have made a terrible mistake. I strongly believe we must return it and tell the vendor its true value. It will be up to him to decide whether he wants to share any ultimate financial gain.'

‘Oh don't be so bloody self-righteous!'

The Reverend John Thompson looks at me. He shakes his head slowly.

‘Please don't get angry with me, Ian.'

The tone is sad and weary.

‘Angry? I'm not angry…' I lie, instant and familiar shame spreading from my chest to my face.

We both fall silent. I look down at the white tablecloth with the embroidered flowers at the borders. I wonder if it is handmade, imagining a little old woman sitting in a small low-beamed room darning cloth after cloth. My
father coughs. I know this is a ruse, to get my attention, but I continue staring at the yellow daisies.

‘I'm sorry, Ian.'

I look up. My father is sitting with his hands in his lap, shoulders hunched. The map lies on the white tablecloth. I wonder if I've heard correctly. I decide to wait and see if the words are repeated.

‘I've been somewhat stressed recently.'

Maybe I did imagine it.

‘Well, you'll be retired soon. You'll have all the time in the world to relax.' I know that my father will never relax. He'll probably be busy in his grave, directing the worms and lecturing the beetles.

‘Not really.'

‘Why not?' I ask, the two words seemingly charged suddenly with all the years of rancour and pent-up bitterness.

My father doesn't answer. I wonder if he's trying to contain himself, trying to be the forgiving disciple of the Lord. If only he wasn't so righteous, if only he could lose his temper, curse and stamp his feet. If only he could be human. I watch my father pick up the tea cup, then place it down in front of him. When he looks up to meet my gaze, his eyes are solemn and watery.