Wishful Thinking (20 page)

‘The wind off the loch,' Georgie concluded. ‘Yes, we know. Bugger.'

‘He was
sorry
for me,' Lin went on. ‘I can't bear that. He thinks I'm washed up, rejected by everybody. He didn't exactly say so, but that's what he thinks. He said he wished I could find someone to make me happy, as if – as if he knew it was hopeless. He was – pitying me. I can't bear it – do you understand? Not
pity
.'

We understood.

‘I
have
to have a date for the wedding.' Lin's teeth appeared to be gritted. ‘I told him – I let him think I was seeing someone, but I'm not sure he believed me. Even if he did, he thinks it'll be another loser: he said so. So you see, I
have
to find somebody – even if it means working my way through every date on the Internet. There's got to be a guy out there who'll do. After all, I've always found it easy to like people.'

In fact, I reflected, she had found it easy to fall in love with people – the wrong people. Don't we all. And Andy Pearmain, who might have been the right person, was marrying someone else, bemoaning the loss of her flower-like purity. (Stupid fart.) Why couldn't he have done a Colonel Brandon when he rescued her from Reception at the Groucho all those years ago? But no, he had been platonic, protective, disinterested – cretin! – and now he was marrying into the Countryside Alliance. Briefly, I wondered if we could shanghai the unknown Catriona, who was obviously hearty as well as wholesome and liked to kill foxes. But Georgie was already starting on the Great Manhunt with ruthless practicality.

‘We'll get going on the files tomorrow,' she said. ‘We'll weed out anyone who sounds eligible and then you'll have to meet them all. Just a quiet coffee or a snack at lunch to begin with; you don't want to waste an evening on someone unless you're sure he might do. I warn you, this is going to be pretty tiring.'

‘I know,' Lin said. She didn't look happy at the prospect. ‘But I have to do it. There has to be somebody.' Her voice was breaking up. ‘I can't be that much of a dead loss, can I?'

We squeezed her hands, and topped up her wine, and dabbed at her with tissues.

How much babysitting will we have to do? I mouthed at Georgie.

Georgie scowled back.

When Lin was calmer, we shared a taxi homewards. I thought of the Wyshing Well, and how Lin had dreamed of meeting Mr Right, eyes locking across a crowded room. Only she'd been so busy looking for that eyelock she hadn't seen the Mr Right standing just beside her. He'd swept her up, that first evening, just like all the clichés, but she hadn't seen, hadn't wanted to see, until it was too late. And now there was nothing to do but salvage her pride, and try to move on . . .

‘Don't be so gloomy,' said Georgie. ‘Lin's the type who can fall in love with almost anyone, given a little encouragement. She's just been shut up with those kids for too long. We'll sort her out.'

‘I hope you're right,' I said.

Chapter 6

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a watered shoot;

My heart is like an apple tree

Whose boughs are bent with thickest fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these

Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves and silver fleur-de-lys;

Because the birthday of my life

Is come, my love is come to me.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI:
A Birthday

I know no person so perfectly disagreeable and even dangerous as an author.

WILLIAM IV

I returned to Todd Jarman's house the following Tuesday for our wind-up meeting on the manuscript. Since my first session
chez
Beauman was due on Friday I was feeling secretly rather grouchy about all these authors who demanded home visits. Like the doctor, I thought, called out unnecessarily to a patient who was quite capable of coming to the surgery. Editing should happen in publishing houses – although I knew really this was unreasonable of me, since the legendary days of old-fashioned premises with characterful panelled offices were long gone. (I had never seen any, but rumour swore they had once existed. Like green-and-white Penguins, and tooled leather hardbacks, and publishing companies run by publishers.) Ransome Harber was a huge modern hive, air-conditioned and pot-planted, humming with computers, honey-combed with bookcases, where desk backed on desk, and phones shrilled constantly, and the privileged few who had any office space were so hemmed in by novels, proofs and paperwork there was certainly no room for character, let alone panelling. Working with an author at home was far more congenial, provided he didn't live too far away. But I was unenthused by my putative association with Beauman, and determined to stay out of charity with Jarman – if only because it was so much fun.

In his front room, the study was fighting back. Books and files spilled over the glass-topped table, a couple of shabby cushions had found their way on to the sofa, and even the grey rug seemed to be in retreat, though that might have been my imagination. I sat down, much heartened.

‘Tea?' he offered.

‘Coffee.' Start as you mean to go on.

I thought he looked amused, but I wasn't sure. When you have a long, dark, saturnine sort of face an expression of mockery can easily be mistaken for mere amusement. Nonetheless, I decided to be positive. ‘Are you winning?' I asked.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘The room.'

He glanced round, then allowed himself a faint smile. A saturnine smile, of course. ‘Ah, yes. It's stalemate if not checkmate. Helen's determined; I'm obstinate. The irresistible force and the immoveable object.'

‘Something's got to give?' I hazarded doubtfully, remembering the old song.

‘Possibly. There's always the hope of a diversion. At the moment, she's absorbed in the tribulations of an illegal Balkan refugee accused of gun-running who she claims will have no chance of a fair trial in his own country. I'm not convinced he's a worthy cause, but Helen thinks every client is a hero
in potentia
. It's one of her strengths. In spare moments from the fight for justice, she's having a go at the second bathroom. It doesn't leave her much time for this room.'

‘Good,' I said. ‘I mean, I like the study part.'

He gave me a quizzical look – that's another one a saturnine face does well, particularly with mobile eyebrows – and went to get the coffee.

We worked our way through the manuscript in a state of armed truce, disagreeing to differ but holding our fire. I even let myself wax enthusiastic on the new murder. ‘I think lawyers should get murdered much more often,' I said, realising too late I had put my foot in my mouth. ‘In books, that is. Shady lawyers. Not – not like your Helen; she's one of the good guys.' Curse her.

‘She thinks so,' he said obliquely. ‘But I'm not sure upholding the law is about good and bad. It's about the fairness of the system. Every crook has the right to a decent defence, no matter what he's done. Without that, justice means nothing. And someone has to do the defending. It's only on TV that the lawyer-hero believes his client is always innocent.'

‘I know,' I said, feeling belittled. ‘I just wanted to say . . . I approve of your latest murder.'

‘Makes a change,' said Todd. ‘Your approval.'

‘I didn't realise you wanted it,' I retorted.

‘You know how it is with writers. We're such sensitive souls, we're always desperate for praise. Doesn't much matter where it comes from.'

‘Don't you have a fan club for all that?'

‘Good God, no. My hero has a fan club. Any adulation goes to Dick Lancer.' (The actor who played Hatchett on TV.) ‘Not much of it gets back to me.'

‘It's a tough job,' I said. I could do mockery too.

‘I'm glad you appreciate that,' he said, with an edge in his voice.

We broke for lunch, and he produced some rather squashy sandwiches: cheese and pickle where the pickle had soaked through the bread, and ham and egg with oozy mayonnaise. ‘Here's one I prepared earlier,' he said. They weren't the sort of thing a figure-conscious girl should eat, but I accepted one, not wanting to be impolite. Besides, I like cheese and pickle.

‘Is that all you're having?'

‘I'm supposed to be on a diet.'

‘Stand up.'

I stood, realising too late that it was the response of a subordinate woman, and anyway, why should I stand up, just because he said so? He looked me over dispassionately. Horse dealers and fillies came to mind.

‘You look fine to me,' he concluded. ‘Why bother?'

‘Helen's got a lovely figure,' I found myself saying, to my shame. I didn't want him to see that Helen turned me green, Botox or no.

‘Too thin,' he responded unexpectedly. ‘When I first knew her she had tits, but she kept shaving off a pound here and there, worrying about her bottom, or her thighs. She says it's a girl thing.' He added: ‘I can see you've lost a bit and it looks good, but don't lose any more. Stay the way you are – if you want my opinion.'

‘Not really,' I said. But I said it quite amicably.

The tag-end of the working day found me in Publicity, where Georgie was short-listing prospective dates for Lin.

‘I can't go out with
him
,' she was saying wretchedly. ‘His hobbies include macramé and tropical fish.'

‘He sounds very sensitive and caring,' Georgie said. ‘I thought you would like that.'

‘Don't be nasty,' said Laurence, who'd come to join the fun.

‘What about this one?' Georgie resumed. ‘Malcolm Radford. He's really quite a hunk. Look at those muscles.'

‘He's wearing a sleeveless vest,' Lin pointed out with unusual acerbity, ‘and he says he works out six times a week. It's revolting. Muscles like that probably go from ear to ear.'

‘I know someone who does
The
Times
crossword while on his exercise bike,' Laurence volunteered. Nobody paid any attention.

‘This one looks sweet,' Georgie went on. ‘Like you'd want to mother him.'

‘I've done motherhood,' Lin retorted. ‘Three times. I don't want the man in my life to be another child. I want
him
to do the mothering – fathering – whatever. I want him to be big and strong and protective and take care of me.'

‘Don't we all, ducky?' Laurence sighed theatrically.

‘What century is she living in?' Georgie demanded of no one in particular. ‘
All
men are children who need looking after by their womenfolk. It's just that we have to be subtle about it. We have to let them think
they
look after
us
.'

‘Glad to hear it,' said Cal, making a timely entrance. Or untimely, depending on your point of view. ‘So when you got pissed out of your brain at the House the other week, and refused to come out of the loo for an hour because you were sulking, and had to be taken home in a rickshaw – you were just being subtle.'

Georgie didn't even falter. ‘Absolutely,' she averred. ‘I do subtlety in a big way. I believe in being obvious about it.'

‘We're supposed to be sorting out potential dates for Lin,' I said, feeling it was time everyone got back to the matter in hand. ‘This guy looks okay.'

‘He's got glowing red eyes!' Lin.

‘You know perfectly well that's the flash. At least, I
think
so.'

‘His chin is too long.'

‘He's lantern-jawed,' I said, grasping thankfully at the familiar metaphor.

‘I couldn't possibly go to Andy's wedding with a chin like that. I'd be a laughing stock.'

‘Andy's got a beard,' Georgie said. ‘Who's he to make fun of people's chins?'

Lin, normally easy-going and open-hearted to a fault, was being uncharacteristically difficult, but it would have been tactless – and counter-productive – to make an issue of it. Eventually we sorted out a couple of candidates for tentative e-mail correspondence and headed for the pub to recuperate.

Over the next few days we scrutinised Lin's e-mail regularly. Results were not encouraging. One guy sent her several jokes which managed to score in every area of political incorrectness including sexism, racism, homophobia, and even, if you counted the one about the sheep, cruelty to animals. Another contributed some embarrassingly bad poetry. A third complained at length about his previous girlfriend and said he hoped Lin would never expect him to do the washing up, or gossip to him while the football was on, or object to him leaving his dirty socks in the sink. A fourth said he was witty, clever, attractive, making good money selling (dubious) pension plans, and he was sure Lin would find it a privilege to go out with him. ‘This is hopeless,' said Lin, the tolerant. ‘These guys aren't even sad and lonely. They're just . . . yuk.'

‘Maybe they're sad and lonely
underneath
,' Georgie said, trying to stir her compassion. ‘Nobody could be as repulsively overconfident as that last one pretended. I expect he's just shy.'

But since her dinner with Andy, Lin's compassion was working to rule.

‘I don't care,' she said. ‘I don't want someone shy. Or sad and lonely. I just want a nice ordinary bloke who'll adore me to bits. Like Dad adores Mum. Why've all the men in my life been bastards? Don't they do nice guys any more?'