The Red Room (11 page)

13

When you've got somebody awkward coming to dinner,
all the agony aunts agree on what you should do.
You need to find your very best friends. You talk to them
and explain the situation. You invite them round but
on the firm promise that you'll repay 167
them by inviting them for a really enjoyable evening in the
near future. I considered this and then I had a
moment of inspiration. I thought: Fuck it. Why
should I put anybody I care about through an evening
like that? I had a much better idea. I had a
small group of people in the corner of my brain like a
migraine that was always waiting to happen. They were like
something stuck to my coat that I couldn't get rid
of. They were the people to whom I owed hospitality but
whom I never got round to inviting.
There was Francis at the Welbeck, for
example. He had invited me to dinner at his
flat in Maida Vale. There had been a
terrible argument--I couldn't remember what about--
and somebody had left early, and Francis had
got very embarrassed and very drunk. I had
described the event to Poppy and she thought it
sounded funny and even enjoyable, in a Blitz spirit
sort of way, but it really wasn't. In fact,
Francis had actually avoided catching my eye
for days afterwards, and had never referred to the evening
again. Still, I suspected I ought to reciprocate
in some form, someday, and this seemed like a good
opportunity, not least because it was such short
notice that he almost certainly wouldn't be able
to come. I rang him at work and said that I was having
a few people round the next day, could he come? Great,
he said. See you then.
Then there was Catey. I had met Catey because
at university her boyfriend was the best friend of someone
I had gone out withfora while. It was a distant enough
connection, God knows, and it wasn't as if we
had hit it off especially. There were dozens of
closer friends with whom I'd lost touch gradually
or suddenly but my tepid relationship with Catey
had been kept going over the years by a stubborn,
persistent drip of invitations, a dinner party that
year, a drinks party the next, and I would
respond with an invitation ratio of about one to every
four of hers. Once more I hoped that she wouldn't
be able to come, and that that would be my obligations discharged
for another year or two. Indeed, when I got
through to her it turned out she was engaged for the evening, but
then she said "No, no, I'm sure I can put
them off," and that she wanted me to meet
Alastair, her new boyfriend, in fact, almost her
fianc@e. She rang back three minutes
later. That was fine, she said. See you tomorrow.
Lovely, I said.
Julie insisted on cooking and I 169
agreed to that without any protest since the entire
imminent disaster had been her idea. When I
arrived home just before seven the flat was full of
rich smells. The table was laid. The main room
was tidy. I went into the kitchen. On one side
there was a large dish I had forgotten I had.
She must have been rooting around in the back of my
cupboards. It was full of vegetables. I could
see tomatoes, aubergines, courgettes,
sliced onions.
"You said to keep it simple," Julie said.
"That's the first course. Marinated vegetables.
Then there's a risotto. I've got the liquid
all ready. And I got some fruit and ricotta
round the corner."
"I bought some wine," I said, faintly.
"Then we're all done."
"How do you do all this?"
"What do you mean?"
"All this. This stuff, the laid table, the dish
with vegetables that could be put in a magazine. There
are no cookbooks lying around wedged open with
stains where you spilled oil on them."
Julie laughed. "I don't know how to cook.
This isn't cooking. I just fried or boiled a
few vegetables and poured some olive oil and a
splash of vinegar over them, sprinkled a few
herbs. This is just fast food."
"Yes, but where did you learn how to do it without
planning and worrying and complaining and making a
mess?"
She looked puzzled. "Compared with what?" she
said. "Are you comparing boiling up some rice with going
and looking at dead bodies and thinking about how they
died?"
I pulled a face. "That wasn't exactly
what I had in mind," I said lamely.
"But your dress," Julie said. "You haven't
changed your mind about that?"

Julie looked almost too sensational in the
dress. With her tousled hair and still-tanned face
and arms and legs, lipstick and just a touch of
mascara, she looked as if she should be performing a
torch song in an exotic bar rather than having
dinner with a selection of my more drab friends.
"You look amazing," I said, and she gave a
half-grin as if it was all a joke, as if we
were both going to dress up in grown-ups' clothes
to play a game. "I'm not going to be 171
able to compete. I think I'll dress down this
evening."
"Is this all right?" Julie said, looking
slightly alarmed. "You want this back for this
evening? I'm sure I can dig out something."
I shook my head. "That's your dress," I
said. "That dress does not want to be worn by me
ever again."
I tried on five different dresses. I was
after a complicated and subtle effect. I
didn't want it to seem as if I'd made an
elaborate, rather pathetic attempt to impress
at what was, after all, a casual dinner. On
the other hand it wouldn't do to appear insultingly
casual. I settled on something simple and
black, which didn't look as if it had been
sprayed on but neither did it look as if I was
going to a barn dance. When I emerged from the
bedroom, Julie gave a whistle which made me
laugh. "That's amazing," she said. "You look
incredible. Is that what you call dressing down?"
I went over to her and turned her toward the
large antiqued mirror on the wall. I leaned
on her shoulder and we scrutinized each other and
ourselves with a critical eye. "We're wasted on
this crowd," I said. "We should be going out somewhere so
trendy that I haven't even heard of it."
"I thought these were your best friends," Julie said.
"More like obligations. You remember that
detective, Oban?"
"Course."
"He thinks we're gay."
"What?"
"I think so."
Julie giggled and then her face wrinkled with
concentration. "Was it something we did?"
"I think it was just that we were two women living
together, you doing the cooking, all that. You know, a
cozy set-up."
"And a turn-on for him as well, I
suppose."
"Maybe."
She turned her back to the mirror. "I can
see the attraction," she said thoughtfully. "It's
just that it's always been men with me. Don't know
why."
There was a ring at the door. I looked at my
watch. It was one minute to eight. "Don't they
know that eight means nine?" I said, going across to the
door that led down to the street. It was 173
Catey, with Alastair hovering shyly behind.
Catey was prettily dressed in pale green,
and Alastair wore a suit and a tie. He
looked as if he had come straight from work. They
kissed me on both cheeks then gave me a
bottle of sparkling wine and a large bunch of
flowers.
"I've heard so much about you," said Alastair.
What, I wanted to say in reply, could you
possibly have heard about me? But I just smiled.
"We've got so much to catch up on," said
Catey, and ran up the stairs.
With a bit of desperate improvisation, there was
just enough to catch up on to last us until eight
minutes past eight when Francis arrived. He
was wearing a white shirt with no tie and a suit that
looked so terrible--as if it had been made out of
some Terylene substitute, left out in the garden
for a week and then not ironed--that I realized it must
have cost more than my car. He had brought some
champagne. He looked round the living room.
"This is an exciting moment for me," he said.
"This is the flat that Kit never lets anybody
come to."
Catey and Alastair looked round it with new
interest. It was like one of those moments in the National
Gallery when you give a painting a casual
five seconds. Then you look in your
guidebook and discover it's the most important
German painting of the fifteenth century and you
retrace your steps and say to yourself, "Come to think
of it ..." I flashed a look at Julie, which
was the closest I got to explaining that, to be more
precise, this was the flat that I didn't let
Catey or Francis come to.
"None of you know each other," I said. "This is
Julie, who's staying with me and has done the
cooking tonight and, well, everything, really. And this is
Francis, who works with me at the clinic. And this
is Catey, who, er, who's an old friend. And this
is Alastair."
"Alastair works in the City," Catey
interjected. "At something totally
incomprehensible, of course. Do you know? I
heard on the radio the other day that sixty percent
of people have no idea what their partner does at work.
By the way, Kit, what happened to that person you
were, you know ...?"
I was tempted to say, no, I don't know, but
I said in a meek voice that we weren't 175
seeing each other anymore, and there was a silence.
Francis opened his champagne and filled a
glass for himself, then wandered around the room looking
at the furniture, pictures, books as if
he was compiling a psychological analysis of
me, which of course was what he was doing. He made
me think of the days in summer when a big fat
bumble bee would get in through a window and chunter
around the flat until I could flap it back out
of the window with a magazine. Meanwhile Catey
began to talk about what an interesting area this was and
how clever of me it had been to get in early.
His unofficial tour concluded, Francis
sat down on the sofa between me and Julie.
"How's the return to work?" he said, terminating the
London property conversation.
"That's a big question," I said.
"Are you still doing the same thing?" Catey asked
brightly.
"Well ..."
"I was telling Alastair about what you do in the
taxi. The reason it came into my mind was that I
was wondering whether you know anything about this terrible
murder the other day."
I was puzzled. How could Catey--whicho, as far
as I knew, still worked in a gallery--possibly
have heard about my connection with the Lianne murder?
"Which one?"
"The one on Hampstead Heath. That mother who was
killed with her daughter there. Philippa
Burton."
"No, I'm not involved with that."
"It's like Lady Di. People have been laying
flowers on the road nearby. They go on for more
than a hundred yards. Someone's left a book
of remembrance. Ali and I walked over there just
to have a look and it's extraordinary. There's a
traffic jam, lots of police, queues of people.
Women were crying, men were carrying their children on their
shoulders so that they could get a glimpse. Why do
people do it?"
"What do you think, Francis? What's your
professional opinion?"
He looked alarmed. "It's not really my
field, of course. Maybe people believe that at the
spot something happened, a good thing or a bad thing,
there's a special energy. Like heat. People go there
to get close to it."
"It's exciting," I added. "People want to be
near to feel involved in all the 177
drama."
"And they care," added Julie. "They were
upset when they heard about it and they wanted to show
it. There's nothing bad about that, is there?"
"No," I said, and I looked over at
Catey. "I'm working on a murder in a place
where people aren't leaving flowers."
"Why?"
I shrugged. "The victim was homeless. Her
body was found by a canal. I don't think
anybody cared much at all."
"That's sad," said Catey. But she didn't
pursue the subject.
At ten past nine when Will Pavic still hadn't
appeared, I decided that we would start eating.
We sat down, leaving, on Julie's insistence,
a space next to her for him, should he arrive. The
vegetables, olive oil and exotic bread that
Julie had conjured up from somewhere or other were all
extraordinary. It was like being in a restaurant but
with the added benefit of having my own furniture.
The risotto was wonderfully chewy and flavored
with sorrel, which I had thought was a weed, but
hugely impressed Catey. I seemed to get
some reflected credit for Julie's food, as
if I had been the impresario for the occasion.
The main course was almost finished when there was a
ring at the door. Will was standing there in jeans and a
blue shirt, rough trainers, carrying a jacket
under his arm. Suddenly I felt overdressed, which
was ridiculous. He was the one who ought to be
apologetic. "It's been a bad day," he
said. "I should have rung to say I couldn't come, but
I haven't got your number."
"It's in the phone book," I said shortly.
"Well, I don't know if it is in the phone
book anymore. You could probably have got it
somewhere. Come and eat. We started, I'm
afraid."
He followed me upstairs. Indoors, in the
brighter light, he looked tired and drawn. I
introduced him to the people around the table, who looked
sheepish suddenly, as if they had been caught
eating when they weren't allowed to. Julie came
forward, with a charming smile, shook his hand and
didn't let go, leading him to his place beside
her. He tossed his jacket on to the sofa as he
passed it.
"You'll have to catch up," said Julie. "Do you
mind if I pile everything onto your 179
plate?" He smiled and shook his head. "Red
or white?"
"Whatever."
For the next few minutes, he ate steadily,
glancing around the table, but mainly concentrating on
his food.
"Maybe we should try and bring Will up
to date," Julie said. "Like in a soap opera.
We talked about this area. I did my normal
spiel about traveling around the world. You've never
heard that, W. I'll tell it to you later. And
Catey and Alastair went to look at where a
murder was committed on Hampstead Heath and they
signed the book of remembrance ..."
"We didn't actually--was
his... and Alastair was just talking about working in the
City."
Pavic looked round at Alastair. "Where do
you work?"
"Just off Cheapside."
"What firm?"
Alastair looked puzzled.
"Hamble's."
"Pierre Dyson."
"Well, yes," said Alastair. "I mean,
I've never actually met him, but, yes, he's
the chief. Do you know him?"
"Yes."
There was a pause. "Sorry," said
Alastair. "What was your name again?"
"He's called Will Pavic," I said.
"Hang on, hang on. I remember.
Wahl Baker, right?"
Will looked uncomfortable now. "That's right."
"It's great to meet you, W. I've heard so
much about you."
"You mean about the hostel?" I asked.
"No, no," said Alastair contemptuously.
"I don't want to embarrass your guest, but he
managed the Wahl Baker fund for ten years.
Legendary years. Fantastic."
"It wasn't so fantastic," Will said
quietly.
"I'll be the judge of that," said Alastair.
"I didn't know you worked in the City," I
said.
"I don't," said W. "Not now." And then he
fell silent as the conversation drifted off in
another direction.
For the rest of the meal I sneaked glances 181
across the table at Julie and Pavic. I heard
fragments of her conversation about something in Mexico
and something else about Thailand. His replies were
brief and I couldn't make them out.
After the meal we sat on the sofa with coffee,
tea, or, for Catey, a concoction that smelled
medicinal. Will was clearing the table and we found
ourselves in the kitchen at the same time.
"Not exactly your sort of people, I
suppose," I said.
He didn't smile. "What do you know about my
kind of people? They seem all right."
"I meant me as well."
He gave a smile that might have been
sarcastic.
"Julie's nice, though," I volunteered
dutifully.
"She seems nice," he said.
There was a pause. "I can't believe you
swapped being in the City for that hostel in Kersey
Town."
"You know the City?" he said.
"I know Kersey Town."
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"What about now?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, and
seemed to think before talking. "Sorry," he said.
"I think it's too big a subject for this
kitchen in this dinner party."
"Then I suppose I should be sorry," I
said. "By the way, I talked to someone who knows
you."
A flicker of interest. "Oh yes?"
"A detective called Furth. He's working
on the Lianne case. Know him?"
"Yes, I know him."
"He warned me against you."
"That sounds like Furth."
"I don't like him either."
Will piled the plates carefully by the sink and
turned to face me. "I don't know what you
want, Kit, but I don't care what you think
about the police or anybody else."
That was it. I tossed the towel onto the kitchen
table and took a combative step toward him.
"What the fuck did you come here for? You come
late, and then slouch in the corner like some
adolescent with your sarcastic comments and grumpy
expressions. You think you're better than me, do
you?" 183
Will shoved his hands in his pockets and frowned.
"I came because I was taken by surprise by your
friend's invitation and couldn't think of anything to say.
And I'm sorry I was late. As I said, it was
a bad day."
"I had a bad day."
"I'm not going to have a bad-day competition."
"I'm not the enemy," I said.
"Aren't you?" he said, and he walked out of the
kitchen. I went after him so we arrived almost
together. I was flushed and furious. I don't know
what he looked like.
"We were just saying," said Catey, "how amazing
it was to do what you did, to give up everything, a
fantastic job, and work in this hostel."
I thought he was going to be as horrible to Catey
as he had been to me, back in the kitchen, but his
expression was almost benign. "It wasn't so
amazing," he said. He turned to Alastair.
"I mean, why don't you give up your nice
job?"
Alastair looked startled. "Well, that is,
I don't know, really. Because I don't want
to, I suppose."
Will spread his hands. "I did want to.
That's all."
Julie came over--noto, slunk over, if
that's the word--with a mug of coffee and handed it to W.
"Why are you bad-tempered with Kit?" she asked.
He gave a start and looked across at me,
almost shiftily. "Bad-tempered?" he said.
"Maybe I'm over-sensitive. When I first
started the hostel, I expected help from people, from the
police, from social workers. It didn't work out
like that. Now I just want them to leave us alone. So
sometimes I snap at people."
"I just want to help," I said, realizing as
I spoke how pathetic that sounded.
"You're too late," he said. "She's dead.
I was too late as well." He gave a sad
smile. "There. That's something we've got in
common." He sipped at his coffee, then gulped
it down. "I'm sorry," he said. "I think
I'd better go."
"Don't," I said. "Not because of me."
"It's not because of you. I'm not fit to be seen in
public just now."
He said goodbye quite graciously to everybody and
was nice to Julie about the meal. Julie saw him
out and when she came back murmured 185
to me, "The search goes on." I managed a
splutter of a laugh but I felt shaken and on the
pretext of making more coffee I retreated to the
kitchen and did all the washing-up. When I
returned with the jug, I saw that my plan
to revenge myself on these people hadn't entirely worked.
Francis was talking about himself, Julie was
talking about the Taj Mahal at dusk, Catey
was talking about Alastair, Alastair was looking
modest. I was able to pour out coffee, drink
coffee and say almost nothing.
After too long, they left with ominous cries of
how we must get together soon, and I even saw
Francis and Alastair exchanging phone
numbers on the stairs, a nightmare vision of my
burdens joining together and becoming even bigger ones.
Julie and I were left alone. I pulled a
face. "Sorry to inflict all that on you," I
said.
"Don't," she said. "I liked them. And they
like you. They all care about you--you're lucky to have so
many friends, you know." For a brief moment, she sounded
almost wistful. "I should be apologizing to you. My
Pavic plan didn't really work."
"Doesn't matter. There was nothing wrong with the
plan. It was Pavic who was the problem."