The Cradle in the Grave (19 page)

The white-painted wooden steps directly in front of me are heaped with books and papers. Every step has a pile of something on one side, though not the same side in each case: anyone who wanted to go upstairs would have to zig-zag. I see JIPAC-headed paper, and several copies of
Nothing But Love
: one hardback and two paperbacks. I bet Helen Yardley didn't write any of it herself.

If I wrote a book, would Laurie read it?

I am not jealous of Helen Yardley. Helen Yardley lost all three of her children. Helen Yardley was murdered three days ago
.

I pick up the hardback of
Nothing But Love
and turn it over. On the back cover, there's a photograph of Helen with her coauthor, Gainer Mundy. They've got their arms round each other to suggest deep friendship as well as a close professional relationship. Bound to have been the photographer's idea, I think cynically – the two women probably loathed each other.

I'm about to put the book down when I notice Helen Yardley's hand, draped over Gainer Mundy's shoulder, and my mouth turns dry. Those fingers, the nails . . .

I drop the book and root in my handbag for the cream envelope. I try to feel pleased that I didn't bin it, but part of me wishes I had. If I'm right, I don't want to think about what it might mean.

Pulling out the photograph, I compare the fingers gripping the card in the picture to Helen Yardley's fingers on the cover of her book. They're the same: small square nails, neatly cut. Without stopping to think, I tear the photo and the envelope it came in into little pieces and drop them into my open bag like a handful of confetti. I notice that I'm shaking.

For God's sake, this is ridiculous
. How many people must there be who have well-trimmed squarish fingernails? Millions. There is absolutely no reason to assume Helen Yardley is the person in the photograph I was sent, holding the card with the sixteen numbers on it – no reason whatsoever. There's no reason to think that because she was murdered . . .

I shiver, and force my attention away from my silly morbid fears. ‘Laurie, are you there?' I call up the stairs.

Still no reply. I look in both downstairs rooms: a wet-room twice the size of my kitchen that contains a shower, basin, loo and more small square black tiles than I think I've ever seen before in my life, and a huge L-shaped kitchen-dininglounging space; from its elegant finish in several different shades of nut and earth – brown and beige for posh people – I guess that it would prefer to be described as a space than a room. It looks as if it recently contained a party of eighteen who panicked mid-way through a slap-up meal and did a runner. Was Laurie one of them? How many of the twelve empty wine bottles did he drink, and who helped him? Did he host some kind of JIPAC shindig here last night?

I swan-neck my way up the stairs to the first floor, treading carefully, aware that one misplaced step could provoke a paperquake and do irreparable damage to Laurie's filing system. I spot an envelope addressed to Mr L. H. S. F. Nattrass and a cardboard Nike shoebox with the word ‘Accounts' scrawled on it in green-marker pen. L.H.S.F.: that's three middle names he's got, as well as all his awards, money and the world's admiration. I've only got one middle name and it's a terrible one: Margot. If I weren't so tired of psychoanalysing my romantic impulses, I'd wonder if my love for Laurie might be misinterpreted jealousy. Do I want to be his girlfriend, or do I wish, deep down, that I was him?

I come to a landing and a choice of four doors, one of which is ajar. As I move towards it, I see shapes in the gloom: the end of a bed and the lower part of a pair of legs. ‘Laurie?'

I push open the door and there he is: Mr L. H. S. F. Nattrass, in a crumpled grey suit. The curtains are closed. Laurie's sprawled on a double bed that I assume is his, staring at a small TV on a chair in the corner of the room – an ancient one, by the look of it. There's a metal aerial balanced precariously on top that's almost as big as the TV itself. On the screen, a woman is crying in a man's arms, but there's no volume. Laurie stares at them as they mouth words at one another. Can he tell what they're saying? Does he care? A purple silk tie lies on the duvet beside him.

I turn on the light, but he still doesn't look at me, so I decide I won't look at him either. Instead, I take the opportunity to have a good nosey at his room, something I never thought I'd get to do. It's disappointingly similar to his office.
My office
. There are framed posters of constellations and planets on the walls, two globes, a telescope lying beside its case, a pair of binoculars, some weights, an exercise bike, three books:
The Nazi Doctors
,
Knowledge in a Social World
and
Into That Silent Sea: Trailblazers of the Space Era, 1961 – 1965
. Wow, they sound like fun bedtime reading.

Poking out from under the bed is a dustpan and brush with a packet of disposable razors and a canister of shaving gel in the pan, as if they've been swept up off the carpet. Coins – silver, copper and gold – are scattered everywhere: on the bed, on the floor, on top of a chest of drawers. It makes me think of the bottom of a wishing well.

‘What do the H, S and F stand for?'
Laurie Horrible Selfish Fucker Nattrass
.

‘Hugo St John Fleet,' he says, as if these are perfectly normal names to have. No wonder he's a nutter.

‘I love black and white films.' I nod at the screen.

‘What about technicolour sentimental crap on a black and white TV—do you love that?'

‘Why are you angry with me?'

‘You leave a message for me saying you're trying to set up an interview with Judith Duffy and you need to ask why I'm angry?'

‘I've set up interviews with lots of people,' I tell him. ‘Judith Duffy's the one person so far who's refused to—'

‘Judith Duffy ruins lives! Turn off that drivel, for fuck's sake.'

Is he talking about
his
television, that
he
switched on when I wasn't even here?

‘I'm not your servant, Laurie.' With feeling, I add, ‘And I don't love black and white films – I only said it because it's . . . well, it's so hard to talk to you, and I have to say something. Come to think of it, people who bang on about how they love black and white movies really annoy me. It's blatant film racism. A film can be good or bad whatever its . . . colour scheme.'

Laurie examines me through narrowed eyes. ‘Ring your GP. Tell him the anti-psychotics aren't working.'

‘Who's Wendy Whitehead?'

‘
Who?'

‘Wendy Whitehead.'

‘Never heard of her. Who is she?'

‘If I knew, I wouldn't need to ask you, would I?' I make a show of looking at my watch. ‘I've got things to do. Was there something you wanted to say to me?'

Laurie hauls himself off the bed, looks me up and down, then turns to pick up his tie. He drapes it round his neck and, holding it at both ends, pulls it back and forth so that it scratches against his shirt. ‘Judith Duffy'd cut off her own legs sooner than talk to anyone from Binary Star,' he says.

‘I thought of that. I didn't tell her where I worked, just my name.'

‘Are you waiting for me to pat you on the head and tell you how clever you are?' he sneers. I'm glad he's being so rude and offensive; it's the best thing that could have happened. As of this moment, I officially don't love him any more. That deluded phase of my life is so over. ‘You want me to make this film, don't you?' I say icily. ‘How am I supposed to do that without—'

Laurie grabs my shoulders, pulls me towards him. His mouth collides with my lips. His teeth bang against mine.
A tooth for a tooth
, I think automatically. I taste blood and try to push him away, but he's stronger than I am, and makes a cage out of his arms to trap me. It takes me a few seconds to realise that what he thinks he's doing is kissing me.

 

I have just had sex with Laurie Nattrass. Laurie Nattrass just had sex with me. Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God. Proper, complete sex, not the silly Bill Clinton kind. Or rather, not only the silly Bill Clinton kind. Which, of course, isn't at all silly as long as no one suggests it's an end in itself. Bad choice of words. What I mean is, it's no substitute for the real thing, the thing that Laurie and I just . . . oh, my God.

It can't be true. It is true. It only doesn't seem true because he's now acting as if it didn't happen. He's staring at the TV screen and doing that thing with his tie round his neck again, as if his hands are having a tug of war. Would he notice if I discreetly reached for my bag, pulled out my phone and rang Tamsin? I could do with talking to someone impartial. Not about the sex itself – that would be crude, and I'd be too embarrassed to use any anatomical words – but about the weirdness that started when the sex finished. That's the part I'd really like to put under the microscope of gossipy analysis: the way Laurie managed to have all his clothes back on within three seconds, and what he said as he sat back down on the bed beside me, seeming not to notice that I was still naked: ‘Stupid mistake. My fault.' At first I thought he was talking about us, but then he said, ‘Her phone number was in the files I gave you. I should have taken it out. Thought you'd have more sense than to ring her, though.'

Can it have happened the way I remember it? Surely there was an organic, transitional phase I failed to notice, some word or gesture on his part that bridged the gap between intimacy and discussion of the film. I wish I could check with Laurie that until a few minutes ago he was lying on top of me, but I'm getting the strong sense that he's moved on and wouldn't welcome a recap. Besides, how would I put it: ‘Could you be so good as to confirm the following details?' Ridiculous. Obviously.

I don't need to check anything with anyone, for God's sake. I was here, wasn't I? The trouble is, it's too recent – maybe four minutes, maximum – since we . . . er, brought things to a conclusion. I've been mulling it over and I've decided that the temporal proximity of the event doesn't mean my memory's any more likely to be accurate than if it had happened five years ago. In five years' time, I hope to be able to be clinically objective about this afternoon, so that knowing what actually happened between me and Laurie won't be a problem then as it is now.

I wish I could talk to Tamsin.

If I lie still and don't put my clothes back on, will Laurie have sex with me again?

‘Duffy won't ring you back,' he says. ‘She'll assume you're an enemy. By now she thinks everyone's an enemy.' He seems pleased about this, as if it's what she deserves. I'm not convinced it does the world any good for any person to have only enemies, not to mention the individual involved, no matter what they've done, but I say nothing. ‘Every detail of her personal and professional life has been judged by the tabloids and been found wanting,' says Laurie with relish. ‘From her neglect of her own children when they were small in favour of her career, to the beefed-up qualifications on her first ever CV, to the two marriages she sabotaged by being a workaholic. By now the whole world knows what a bitch she is, and she knows it.'

‘Mm-hmm,' I say brightly, this being the best I can do in the circumstances. As subtly as possible, I shuffle to the edge of the bed and pull on my knickers, bra, shirt and trousers. I can see my bag. It's not fully zipped up; I can see the edge of my phone poking out. Oh, what the hell. If Laurie can stare at the TV, mess about with his tie and talk about work . . .

I reach for my phone and switch it on. The message icon flashes on the screen, but I'm not interested in what anyone might have to say to me, only in the earth-shattering news I have to impart. I send Tamsin a text saying, ‘Laurie pounced on me. We had sex. Immediately after, he dressed, acted like nothing had happened and started talking about Judith Duffy. Good sign that he can be himself around me instead of putting on false romantic act?' I sign off with an F and two kisses, and send it. Then I turn my phone off again. Just because I was desperate to tell Tamsin doesn't mean I'm ready to deal with her reaction. I smile to myself. By deliberately including in the text a question that only a self-deceiving lovestruck fool would ask, I have inoculated myself against becoming that self-deceiving lovestruck fool. Tamsin will realise I was sending up the sort of girly women we hate, who never swear or burp in public and are much less canny than we are.

‘I read the article you wrote,' I tell Laurie. ‘“The Doctor Who Lied”.'

There, see? Sex, love – they're just bodily functions as far as I'm concerned. I've forgotten all about both, in fact. They're trivialities, to be squeezed into the gaps between making brilliant, award-winning documentaries
.

‘Best thing I've ever written,' Laurie says.

‘What? Oh, right: the article.' It's hard to concentrate when every inch of your skin is fizzing, and you feel as if you're lurching through space, high above the real world and the ordinary mortals who inhabit it.
Concentrate, Fliss. Be a grown-up
. ‘I'm not sure you should publish it in its present form,' I say.

Laurie laughs. ‘Thank you, Leo Tolstoy.'

‘Seriously. At the moment it comes across as . . . well, biased. And nasty. As if you enjoy sticking the knife in. Doesn't that kind of . . . I don't know, weaken you? Undermine your argument? You present Judith Duffy as a hundred per cent evil and everyone who takes a stand against her as flawless: brilliant, trustworthy, heroic. I lost count of the enthusiastic adjectives you used to describe the people who agree with you. You talk about Dr Russell Meredew as if he's the second coming. It makes the whole thing sound too much like a fairy story, with handsome princes and boo-hiss villains. Wouldn't it be better to present the facts and let them speak for themselves?'