The Godmother (29 page)

“He did say that the girls took up a lot of your time.”

“So this is my fault?”

“I didn't mean it like that. That is just Caspar's adolescent perspective.”

“They do, though. There are two of them for a start, and they are considerably younger.”

“This is not your fault. This is Caspar's fault. You have been a model parent. They don't come better than you and Nick.”

Francesca just looked at me sadly.

“What does Nick say?”

“He's ready to throw him out.”

“I don't think that would help.”

“Nor do I. So now we're arguing too.”

“Well, it's working then, isn't it? Caspar is getting your attention. Then again, he might actually have a real problem.”

Francesca frowned. “Do you think he does? He's so young!”

I had to tell her what I knew. “He did steal £50 from me.”

“What! When?”

“The day I came home.”

Francesca stood up.

“I'm sorry, I didn't want to have to tell you.”

“I've got to go.” She ferreted around in her bag.

“Leave it,” I said. “I'll do it.”

“I can write you a check for the money Caspar stole.”

“Absolutely not. Caspar will work off his debt and if you want to send him
over to mine this week, I have millions of little jobs that need doing.”

“None that would be horrid enough.”

“The gutter on my balcony is blocked.”

“No, it's gone beyond that. Way beyond.”

“You know, Fran, I'm sure he didn't think of it as stealing. Not from me.”

“You think your relationship is that special?”

I didn't like the edge in her voice.

“Well, you're wrong. He has been stealing from us for ages.”

“But you said—”

“I didn't want to think it was true. But it is. It's been in front of my nose for months. Sorry, Tessa, I really have to go.”

“OK.” She turned to leave, but I foolishly grabbed her arm. “Do you mind if I get Helen to call you for a chat?”

“About what?”

“About how to stop making mistakes with her boys.”

“Tell her to get used to it.”

I screwed up my face. “Huh?”

“Honestly Tessa, I would have thought it fairly obvious right now that since I am still making those mistakes, I am not the ideal person to talk to.”

I watched her go. On reflection, perhaps I should have waited for a better moment to mention Helen again.

I walked back to my car when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn't recognize the number so I left it to go on to answerphone. I never used to be so guarded. It comes from having been spied on by an obsessed man. No wonder I haven't moved on to the next stage of life. I was too busy fending off a man who, having spent the day sending me crazed emails, went home to his wife and children. Kind of puts you off the whole thing. But as I walked I knew this was another lie; like the lie of telling yourself that your son isn't stealing, when he palpably is. I told myself that love couldn't be further from my mind, when actually, it provided the background musak to my life. My phone bleeped. I called the message service.

“Hi, Tessa, it's James Kent. Last time you ran out on me, this time you disappeared into thin air. Maybe you've got this weird witching hour thing when you get all hairy and start sucking blood, so I thought daytime might
be safer. Are you hungry?” He left a number. I scribbled it on the back of my hand and stared at it. If not now, then when? What the hell was I waiting for? Ben to leave Sasha? No. Ben not to leave Sasha? No. Life was passing me by. If I wanted to dip my hand in the lucky gene pool of life, I had to buy into the game. I dialed.

“You mixed your fairy tales up. Vampires aren't hairy. Werewolves are, but I don't think they suck blood, they just rip you from limb to limb. It's more a total consumption thing with werewolves.”

“Hello, Tessa King.”

I liked the way he said that.

“Hello, James Kent.”

“So are you?”

“Not unless there is total amnesia after the change,” I replied.

“I meant hungry, but we can continue with the nonsense if you like.”

“I like the nonsense.”

“So do I, but it doesn't get me a date, does it?”

I felt a tingle. A real one. I ought to reply. But I couldn't. I was too busy grinning.

“Starving,” I finally mustered.

“I thought for a second you'd vanished again.”

“Sorry. Right now, actually, I'm starving. Had a measly breakfast.” I glanced at my watch. “Is 11:07 too early for lunch?”

“Not at all. Where are you?”

“At the gates of Hammond School.” As I said it I knew it was a mistake.

“Not more godchildren?”

“No, but I was on godchildren business.”

“Don't you work?”

“I accept charitable donations. Where shall we meet?”

“What about lunch at the Ivy?”

“I'm not dressed for the Ivy.”

“Even better. The scruffier you are, the more important they think you are.”

“I don't believe you.”

“You're right not to, but if you are with me they'll think you're some comic genius on the cusp of international stardom.”

“Does that mean I have to be funny?”

“Real comic geniuses aren't funny.”

“Is the Ivy open so early?”

“No.”

“So this was all a bluff?”

“Complete bluff. I couldn't get a table for love or money.”

For some reason I didn't believe him. I looked at my watch again. I'd go and check on Helen afterwards. “So where do we go for lunch at 11:09?” I asked.

I followed his instructions to the letter and half an hour later parked down a dodgy-looking side street off the Edgware Road, just north of the Westway flyover. I filled the meter with coins, crossed the road and pushed open the door to an easily missed Burmese restaurant. I was greeted by the owner with overt fondness and was shown to our table. Since the restaurant was not much bigger than a card table, I thought that was a nice touch. James was already sitting at the table, a strong black coffee in front of him and a bottle of unlabelled mineral water. The cooks clattered behind an open hatch in the wall behind him and an extremely elderly Burmese woman sat next to a plastic banana plant in the corner. She was chewing betel nut. I knew that because her mouth was stained a telltale red. I'd seen women all over Vietnam do it. I decided it was a good omen.

James stood and kissed me gingerly hello on one cheek. We sat. The owner brought me a small thick black coffee, poured out some water in a mismatched glass and then asked me how hungry I really was. I told him I was ravenous. He smiled and retreated to the kitchen.

“Strange place, this.”

“I know it's a little out of the way, but it is the best food in London.”

“Burmese?” I asked, not completely convinced.

“Go with me on this one. You don't even order, he just brings you the food.”

“So how come you can get out of work at a moment's notice?”

“Because it's my name on the letterhead.”

“Impressive.”

“Not really. A few quid at Prontaprint gets you fairly decent stationery.”

“The clients take a little longer.”

“Yeah, but I've been at it long enough.”

“How long?”

“Twenty-four years.”

I was quite taken aback by that. He looked my age. “Did you start work when you were three?” I thought I should be generous, since what I was really saying was, “How old are you?”

“No, after university. I'll put you out of your misery. I'm forty-six.”

Wow. Four years off fifty. I was surprised. Yes, he had greying hair, but he was so sexy. Ah well, being with an older man made me feel like a spring chick, which was no mean feat these days.

“What about you?”

“Sixty-four, but the virgin's blood gives me an excellent complexion. Do you think it's too early for a beer?”

“Nice change of subject.”

“What my father would call a run down the blind side.”

“Do you get on well with your dad?”

“Very. I came late in life and I'm his only daughter, child, in fact, so naturally I can do no wrong.”

“And you haven't found a man to match him?”

I felt Ben's lips on mine. Heat flared up my face. I'd involuntarily put my hand to my mouth. James misunderstood my expression. Or maybe he read it perfectly because he pulled my hand down and held it.

“Sorry, that came out more intrusive than it meant to sound. Let's make a pact now, no rehashing of past love lives in any shape or form.” He shook the hand he was holding. “As of now, it is a banned topic.”

My first reaction was to be suspicious, ask him what he had to hide. But I had to stop finding excuses to keep people away from me, because at our age, who didn't have something to hide? So imagining a fairy-tale ending, I held his hand and shook it back. “Deal,” I said with a smile.

“Tell me why you're not working at the moment,” he asked.

So I did, because my ex-boss did not fall under the heading of love life, in any shape or form. For once I did not relay what had in fact been an incredibly stressful time with the jovial inserts that I usually did. I did not laugh about having my boss stand sentry under a lamp-post outside my flat. I did not add
how flattered I was by the pictures taken of my flat from across the river, and how the grainy effect of a long-distant lens did wonders for my complexion. I did not imitate, with an am-dram voice, the middle-of-the-night phone calls from his furious wife who called me a whore. I did not pretend that I was in two minds about sending back the Gucci handbag, the Hermès scarf, the invitation to a weekend at the Cipriani in Venice. He listened beautifully and I felt a great weight lift from my shoulders. I felt the guilt ease. My ex-boss had been punished with a mental breakdown. I was here, having lunch with a lovely man, and I was OK. I had not imagined it, I had not exaggerated it, I had not started it, but I had needed this break to get my head back together.

“Do you feel bitter that it was you who had to go?”

Interesting question.

“I mean, you worked there for how long?” he continued.

“Nearly ten years, but I couldn't face that battle at the time.”

“And now?”

“Nothing I can do. He's gone now. Anyway, I signed an agreement, took the hush money and the letter of recommendation that my mother couldn't have written.”

“Glowing?”

“Blinding,” I replied.

“I've no doubt you'll be snapped up in no time.”

“Hope so. All this leisure time leaves far too much time to think.”

“To be avoided,” said James.

“At all costs,” I agreed.

The dishes came and went. We shared them all. I quickly realized I had underestimated how well lunch would go, and had to go and move the car and fill another meter up with more coins. I returned to find the table covered with new dishes. I began to feel as if our host was breaking me in gently to Burmese cuisine, though it was obvious that James had eaten there many times before. When I'd finally stopped talking about myself I asked him why he had chosen this spot above all others.

“You never see anyone you know,” he replied. “Business lunches in my field mean you go to the latest, best restaurants but never get to enjoy the place and see far too many people you are supposed to know, but don't remember
the name of.” He scooped some spinach dish on to his fork and proffered it to me. I ate it. He'd done this two or three times already and it felt wonderfully intimate. I was really enjoying myself. “You can't do that at a business lunch. You can't say, ‘Wow, this is delicious, try it,' and stick your fork in some TV producer's mouth.”

“My goddaughter—”

“Cora?”

I was impressed. “Yes, Cora. Well, she was very premature and is still little for her age.”

“What is she, five?”

“Seven.”

“She's so slight.”

“Billy has had huge trouble getting her to eat. Cora just isn't interested, which the doctors say not to worry about, but of course Billy worries about. Anyway, she realized she'd gone too far when she was holding out yet another spoonful of something nutritious saying, ‘Try it, it's delicious,' and Cora, who is the only child I know who doesn't do tantrums, flung the spoon across the room and yelled, ‘I HATE delicious!'”

I gave myself another mouthful of food that I didn't have room for to stop myself talking about my godchildren. It didn't augment the sex-kitten feel that I should have been exuding but kept forgetting about. James made it far too easy for me to be me, whoever that was.

“I envy you. I have a godson whom I don't like. He whines all the time and his parents always make excuses for him—he's got a cold, he's over-tired, he needs refueling—when actually he is just a whingeing little Mummy's boy. Naturally, I overcompensate horribly, and spend more money on him than anyone in my entire family.”

“How old is he?”

“Fifteen.”

I laughed. “Something else we have in common. I too have a sixteen-year-old godson, but he's a pickpocketing, dope-smoking truant.”

“Nice.”

“Children,” I said, with a slight guffaw. “Who'd have 'em?”

James looked at me seriously for a second.

Oops. Don't get me wrong, I'm not the child-catcher, but, well, you didn't
see my friend Francesca this morning, or my friend Helen yesterday, or my friend Billy sitting in the bus stop so she could pocket my twenty quid to buy her daughter some healthy food which will take all her imagination and powers of persuasion to get down her throat.

“You don't want kids?”

“I haven't really thought about it.” Which was the moment I stopped being me and started being the person I was supposed to be.