Wishful Thinking (30 page)

‘I
did
tell him,' Georgie said. ‘He didn't believe me.'

There was a depressed silence. ‘Are you sure it's the Real Thing with Cal,' I asked, invoking more capitals, ‘or is it just romance?'

‘It ain't romance,' Georgie said. ‘He was the office lech, for Christ's sake. He had a sexy smile and a great body. It was just a fun way of passing the time. I never thought he could get under my skin – until it was too late.' She took a mouthful of cold tea, and resumed unexpectedly: ‘I used to be a starfucker, before Franco. I try to make a joke of it now, but in those days I
really
went for the fame thing. I had an affair with a TV presenter for years – he said we had to keep it quiet, he didn't want the paparazzi pursuing us. I thought he was serious about me – one day we'd go public – get married. I fantasised about doing the stuff Lin hated:
Hello!
mag and the tabloids. Basking in his reflected glory. Well, he went public, but not with me. She was an up-and-coming actress, not even pretty but she added gravitas to his image. They were a golden couple – for fifteen minutes. He still wanted to go on seeing me, though. But I ended it. I felt such a fool. I was disillusioned with the world of the glitterati – I wanted something
sincere
. Ha. So I went to Italy, and fell for Romance. Trading one fantasy for another. I was still a fool.' She concluded, bleakly: ‘
J'accuse
 . . . me. A fool forever.'

‘What happened to the TV presenter?' I inquired.

‘The actress divorced him and went on to higher things, and he fell from grace and ended up in digital radio. So it's just as well I didn't marry him, really. I'd have been awfully disappointed.'

‘In fact, you'd be perfectly fine now,' I said, ‘if you weren't in debt. And if Cal wasn't married.'

‘Too many ifs. I always said my wish was the most difficult. Lin seems to have got hers, and you look sensational—'

‘I could use a man to prove it.'

‘What you need is an occasion at which to shine,' Georgie maintained. ‘It's high time we gave it some thought. That's better than moping or gnawing my liver – in any case, gloom and envy don't suit me. We want a major event – an awards ceremony or something. A chance for you to wear a posh dress that shows off your curves.'

‘I don't have one,' I said.

‘You will, Oscar, you will. What's coming up on the party front? There's the Mallory launch – but that's not glam enough. A Sci-Fi do at Waterstone's – no. That'll be all geeks and nerds. What about the Ultraphone Poetry Awards? They're being televised this year.'

‘
Are
they?' I said, impressed. Poetry rarely made TV.

‘It's only BBC4, so it doesn't really count, but everyone will dress up for the cameras. They're holding the do at the Reform Club. That's a cool location since it featured in the Bond movie. I was going to get something new myself.'

‘No,' I said. ‘Think
debt load
.'

‘I tell you what,' Georgie said, grinning like a Cheshire cat, ‘if you get a new dress, and I go with you, that'll do instead. How about it?'

I gave in, not too reluctantly. ‘As long as I don't end up contributing to the debt mountain as well.'

Georgie didn't comment.

At work next week we had to spend far too much time being bored by interminable details of Lin's meeting with Ivor, his many perfections, and all the amazing things he had said to her, by phone, text, and e-mail, since then. As Georgie was in the office with her, she got the worst of it. But of course, this is what friendship is all about. You suffer the ongoing saga of your friends' joys and sorrows so you can impose on them in your turn. And, while a trouble shared is, if not precisely halved, at least spread around, happiness should be communicable. Which was why it bothered me that, although I was happy for Lin, it took a bit of an effort. Unlike Georgie, I didn't have any major reservations about chatrooms, or even dimples. My doubts, I feared, were rooted in a sort of cynicism which filled me with secret shame. I couldn't really believe in that eyes-across-the-room thing. Lust at first sight, yes, but the L-word Lin kept using wasn't lust. It was fine in books – you could get away with anything in books – but reality was always somehow more mundane, short on glitterdust, and much harder work. In my admittedly limited experience, it still seemed vaguely wrong to me that love could just
happen
. You should have to slog at it, to build it up brick by brick, fill in the cracks, putty the window-frames, install central heating. You couldn't just buy the whole edifice ready-made. Lin was opting for instant love, which is rather like instant coffee, a distant cousin of the real thing with much less flavour.

(Sorry about the mixed metaphors.)

Maybe – like Georgie – I was trying to justify feelings based on envy, because Lin's wish had been fulfilled and she was floating on a pink cloud of bliss. I half hoped, half feared that – at least jealousy was commonplace.

Maybe my relationship with Nigel had soured me, leaving me bitter and twisted, unwilling to believe in anything good.

I told Lin how pleased I was for her, I agreed that Ivor sounded wonderful, that the lightning-strike of true love had come to her at last. But behind my words the niggle persisted, an ugly little worm of doubt. ‘We need to meet him,' said Georgie. ‘Then we'll know if he's okay.' She had every confidence in her own judgement, but I wasn't so sure. I had failed to suss out Nigel, after all. ‘Go slow,' we advised Lin – Lin with fairy-dust in her eyes, and a radiance about her of youth renewed.

‘I know,' she said. ‘I'm going to be sensible. I'm too old to be swept off my feet again.'

But she didn't look sensible.

On Thursday, they had their first dinner date. Lin, who never agonised over what to wear, agonised over what to wear. Her wardrobe consisted mainly of skirts and dresses with tie-dyed or batik patterns, curly embroidery and ragged hemlines, but she wondered if she ought to borrow something off Georgie. Should she look more sophisticated? ‘Look the way you want to look,' Georgie said. ‘Look like yourself.' Evidently it went down well with Ivor. He told her she was beautiful – which was true, but no man had said it to her for some time – and that he didn't like women in lots of makeup or over-priced designer clothes. He had always dreamed of finding a woman like a Pre-Raphaelite painting, pale and pure and untouched by whatever trials and tribulations life had thrown in her way.

Pure, thought Lin. I'm pure again. I've rediscovered my innocence . . .

When they went to bed together, on the Saturday, she confided that she had felt like a virgin.

‘Ugh!' said Georgie, but only to me.

On the Wednesday, he came to Ransome and met us all for lunch.

He was definitely attractive, I decided, though slightly too boyish for my taste. Not that he was in any way like Nigel: it was a manly boyishness, as if maturity and assurance were overlaid by a patina of youthful enthusiasm, possibly an essential in dealing with teenagers and pre-teens – though another teacher that I knew said he preferred a machine gun. Georgie encouraged him to talk about his job and he responded initially with flippancy (‘Try reading Milton to a chimpanzee'), then with flashes of something more earnest. ‘I know it's a cliché, but children are the future. If I can broaden one tiny mind – eradicate one prejudice passed on by the parents – open the window of opportunity an inch or two for someone who can't spell
window
, let alone
opportunity
– Well, anyway, that's the aim. You can't do more than that. I'll be lucky to achieve as much.' He taught in a school in South London, with pupils from mixed social backgrounds with assorted religious and ethnic origins. His subjects were English, History and Current Events. I couldn't help being impressed.

When Lin went to the Ladies, he said: ‘I'm glad of the chance to have a word with you two on our own. I know you're Lin's best friends: she's told me a lot about you. You must feel very protective towards her—'

‘No,' said Georgie, showing hackle.

Ivor looked nonplussed, for the first time thrown off his stride.

‘She's an adult,' Georgie said. ‘Why should we feel protective? She can look after herself.' Bullshit, of course, but at least Ivor was disconcerted.

He struggled to pick up his thread again. ‘Anyway, you care about her a great deal. Everybody must: she's so gentle, so lovely . . . I want to tell you that I would never hurt her. I really do love her. This must seem very quick to you – though we got to know each other by e-mail over several weeks—'

‘Three,' Georgie said. ‘Not exactly several. Three weeks.'

‘I'm not sure. It seemed longer. We had so much to say, swapped so many ideas . . . When we met, it was the same for both of us. A sort of recognition . . . I don't know if it's ever happened to you.'

‘No.' Georgie again.

‘From now on, I'm going to take care of her,' Ivor persisted. ‘Nothing and no one's going to hurt her again. You don't have to worry about her any more.'

‘We weren't worried,' Georgie snapped.

Afterwards, when we had left Lin alone with him, she declared sweepingly: ‘He's a phoney.'

‘He sounded okay when he talked about teaching,' I said. ‘Anyhow, it's always hard for a guy to explain his – his intentions to family and friends. Think of the prospective groom in
Father of the Bride
. Sincerity is difficult to do when you really mean it.'

‘I've never tried,' Georgie admitted.

‘English isn't a good language for expressing genuine feelings,' I asserted, profoundly. ‘We're too reserved – too ironic – the stiff upper lip – the floppy lower lip – all that stuff. It works better in French.'

‘
Merde
,' said Georgie.

Two days later, Ivor and Lin had their second dinner date, and he moved in.

I'm running ahead of myself here. Lin's new romance wasn't the only thing happening in our lives at that time, but once you pick up a story-line, it's simpler to run with it until you reach a convenient place to stop, regardless of any action on the side. I know that's not how it's done, of course. I managed better in the previous chapter, jumping about from scene to scene, following everyone at once. Modern writers usually do it that way, and if they don't, editors are supposed to correct them. Today's reader – so we are told – has a short attention span and is easily confused. The book is competing with other distractions: the portable CD player, the computer screen with all its charms, the conversation of fellow travellers on train or tube. So the reader needs to be able to dip in and out of a book without getting lost. Zooming to and fro in time is therefore discouraged (except in fantasy and SF, where you can get away with anything, on the assumption that your readers are sad freaks who have few distractions in their lives and, as a result, phenomenal powers of concentration). However . . .

Going back a few days, I took Todd Jarman to lunch. This is traditional after intensive editorial effort and an equally strenuous response from the author: in theory, it's a treat for the latter, but in practice it should be a treat for both. Of course, a few editors disdain tradition, and some authors don't want to see any more of their colleagues than is strictly necessary (this is called being a recluse, and is generally popular with publishers), but overall the custom has survived, unlike the defunct wood-panelling and gentlemanly contracts of yore. The literary lunch remains a staple of doing business in the publishing world.

I looked forward to my date with Jarman (if you could call it that) with mixed feelings. I didn't like him, naturally I didn't, he was arrogant and difficult and a pain to work with. But I'd enjoyed editing his book, being difficult back – I'd been exhilarated by the sense of freedom I experienced, so far only with him, the freedom to be spiky, provocative, even offensive. With anyone else, the smart remarks – if they occurred to me – stayed in my head. And at a previous meeting, he'd been almost complimentary about my figure, though Helen Aucham would doubtless still consider me a lump. More than almost. Of course, perhaps he was merely being kind, perish the thought – but saturnine types aren't usually given to that sort of kindness. It doesn't go with saturnity. Anyhow, rejecting the charms of Mean Cuisine, I hovered indecisively over several possibilities before consulting Georgie. Like all the best PR people, she knows every restaurant worth knowing and can get a table at short notice even in the most sought-after venues. ‘The Gay Hussar,' she said promptly, when I had explained my requirements. ‘Leave it to me.'

She was looking a little happier that day, almost back to normal levels of vivacity. Apparently, she and Cal had had a brief but polysyllabic exchange that morning, which indicated the ice might be about to thaw.

‘Don't push it,' I advised. ‘Let him come to you.' As if I would've done any such thing. It's so easy to know the right moves – for other people.

‘It's okay,' she said. ‘I'm older than you: remember?' When not bewailing her advanced years, she makes use of them. ‘I've been around the block – much too often. I can be patient.'

I didn't comment. Patience is
not
one of Georgie's virtues.

However, she sent me an e-mail shortly after confirming the booking at the restaurant and I met Todd Jarman there later that week.

On the way, I found myself thinking about his hero, D.I. Jake Hatchett – a far more complex piece of self-portraiture than Jerry Beauman's Disneyfied alter ego. The Beauman character resembled the original only in the most superficial, rose-tinted way, Jerry as he wished to be seen, or possibly as he saw himself: trusting, wronged, oozing noble qualities, yet intelligent and capable of outwitting his enemies. Having worked with Jerry, I was quite prepared to believe that he suppressed any awareness of his own cunning, manipulative, criminal nature, or any of the defects which had earned him public derision and private disdain. He saw himself as a one-dimensional, cardboard figure, and wrote (or tried to write) accordingly. But Todd had penned his own likeness with perception, some depth, a glimmering of artistic truth. That's a quality you can't define, but you always know when it's there. Hatchett was mean and moody, difficult to get along with, a pain to colleagues who failed to understand the ragged principles to which he clung. Those in authority rarely praised him, even when he got his man – which, of course, he usually did. In some ways the classic hero-cop, he was a survivor rather than a success, cast in a mould that has actually varied little from Dirty Harry to Inspector Morse. But he was also self-doubting, occasionally wrong-headed, a failure in his relationships, above all, a man who made mistakes. And Hatchett, beneath his gritty exterior, was capable of the odd act of kindness, though only to homeless alkies or junkies, a rent-boy dying of AIDS, a whore whose 'eart of gold had been transformed into lead by the touchstone of life. (He would have had no time to be kind to a dumpy bourgeoise with an Oxford degree who presumed to tell him how to be a good cop.) Jarman saw the world as a dark, violent, grubby place where Hatchett walked alone, trying to change some small thing for the better, and generally failing.