There was a funky jazz trio playing in the back room where they’d planned to go after eating, but all that reached them among the front dining tables was its steady bass beat and the occasional forceful vocals or saxophone burst.
At one point Jennifer paused again more thoughtfully, as if, despite his efforts to put her at ease, something still perturbed her.
‘Look — about my father. My mother too, to a lesser extent. I feel I should say this now, before things get too far on, because if you found out later, you’d only be upset.’ Jennifer glanced briefly towards the bar before looking back at him directly. ‘All of this was my father’s idea, with my mom, as always, meekly backing him up. And mainly because of my boyfriend — who they don’t happen to approve of. Rock musician, you see, but just small gigs here and there. And, as my father likes to put it, not heading anywhere fast. Young lawyer with a blue-blood background looks a much better bet.’ She shook her head briefly and reached out and lightly touched Jac’s hand again. ‘But now that I’m here, don’t get me wrong — I’m glad I came. You’re a really sweet guy.’
Jac resisted filling the gap with ‘But?’ — it would only make her feel more awkward, when it was obvious what the answer was: there wasn’t any sexual spark between them, and wasn’t going to be. He appreciated her boldness in speaking openly and, because it took the pressure off him, he felt the least he could do was return the gesture.
‘Same here with me — with my Aunt Camille doing the pushing. Except in my case it was because I haven’t had a serious relationship the past few years. Not since I split up with my girlfriend in France, Madeleine.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
Her hand reaching out and consoling again. Though Jac wasn’t sure whether the ‘sorry’ was for his split from Madeleine, or because with him not having much of a love-life these past years, he might have expected more from this date now.
Jac shrugged. ‘I don’t do too badly. I get the occasional fresh date now and then.’ He didn’t want her to feel awkward for things not heading anywhere between them, but he stopped short of mentioning he had one of those fresh dates the night after next.
‘Like this one.’ She smiled. She started picking at the breaded prawn and calamares the waiter had just brought up. ‘Lawyer and blue-blood was the bait used to get me here. So, what did Camille use with you?’
‘Money.’ No point in tip-toeing around it; blunt honesty had been the order of the day so far.
‘Oh, that.’ She said it with the disdain that comes only from those who’ve had big money for a while: so used to it that it invokes only boredom, and by now sufficiently well-schooled to be wary of the associated problems and baggage that come with it.
Jac went on to explain the tragic chain of events that led to them leaving France — his father’s financial collapse, illness and eventual death — and as a result being forced to live in Aunt Camille’s grace and favour.
‘What didn’t help also was me choosing to switch from corporate to criminal law. Otherwise things might have been a bit easier financially, and I’d have got my mother and sister out from under Camille’s wing by now.’
Jennifer sipped thoughtfully at her wine. ‘Looks like you take after your father in that respect. You’re not that bothered about money.’
‘That’s exactly what Camille says. That, like him, I’m foolish when it comes to money, a dreamer. As a result, I make bad choices.’
Jennifer shook her head. ‘I wasn’t criticising. I meant it actually as a compliment. Kelvin, my boyfriend, is exactly the same. Just follows his dreams and where his nose might lead him, doesn’t give a damn about money. That’s what makes him so different, so refreshing. The problem I always found was that guys either came sniffing around me because of the money — put more effort into trying to impress my father than me — or they got intimidated by it and were frightened off.’
Jac studied her closely for the first time. More Belinda Carlisle than Britney Spears, a touch of red in her blonde hair hinting at depth and fire beneath. And Jean-Marie had been right — he did like her, she was far from the spoilt rich brat he’d feared. Though ‘cute’ was without doubt too lightweight, didn’t embrace her strong savvy streak. Jac wondered for a moment that if she didn’t have a boyfriend and if he didn’t have his thoughts filled with the girl next door — since setting the date, he’d kept running through mental scenarios of how it might go — whether anything might have developed between them.
But they were past that point now, and almost two hours later when they’d exchanged more likes and wants and stories about family and work and put half the world to rights — she was again reaching that hand across the table, this time to set in stone how their relationship would be in the future.
‘Friends?’
He nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, friends.’
She said that she’d like to see him again and he nodded.
‘Yes, I’d like that too.’ Though with the main reason for them continuing to see each other gone, he doubted that either of them would keep to it.
Although, two consolations, Jac thought: he’d had an enjoyable evening when he’d feared originally it might be a nightmare, and in part it would be like a dry-run for his date the night after next, would help ease his nerves.
But it wasn’t, and it didn’t.
Watching the reaction in Francine Durrant’s eyes as Jac explained his dilemma with her husband was like viewing one of those old-fashioned, jolting-frame movies: pain, regret, fear, sadness, smiles and triumph — though the last were rarer, fleeting seconds, and always tinged with irony, as if they had no place amongst such an overriding swamp of regret and sadness. The past thirteen years of her life with Durrant condensed into a rapid succession of flicker-frames mirrored through her eyes.
The home she shared with her partner was a small wood-framed bungalow in a sector of the Upper Ninth Ward close to Bywater clinging to middle-classdom by its fingernails, with half-derelict project complexes and shotgun houses only three blocks away. Green-painted shutters and a mass of terracotta-potted-plants on its front veranda assisted that clinging; though perhaps it was just to brighten its facade and make it more homely.
Since the one photo Jac had seen of Francine in Durrant’s file, taken at their wedding, she’d aged well. Maybe she’d gone up a dress size from an eight to a ten, with a few faint lines now around her eyes, and her wavy hair was tinged lighter and redder now, stronger contrast against her coffee-light-on-the-cream skin tone — but otherwise, little change; except perhaps that her open smile from then was now far tighter, more constrained. Although possibly that had more to do with his visit and the subject being discussed. Maybe as soon as he left, her old easy smile would return.
As he got to the part about the e-mails from their son, Joshua, her mouth became tighter still and she could hardly bear for him to see her reaction any more. She looked down and away, chewing at her bottom lip. When he finally finished, she was slow in looking back up at him.
‘And who told you all of this? Larry himself?’
‘No, he was pretty close-mouthed and defensive when I started asking about family. It came from his close prison buddy, Roddy Rodriguez.’
She smiled crookedly. ‘Figures. He was pretty close-mouthed during our marriage, too. Rarely told me what he was up to.’ The darker flicker-frames were quickly back again. ‘…Including that night he was at the Roche woman’s house.’
Jac reached a hand towards her, but fell a few inches short of actual physical contact. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Durrant. I know how difficult this is for you. And if there was any other way of doing this without coming here to see you, believe me…’
‘It’s okay.’ She forced the smile back after a second, but it was more laconic and bitter now. ‘That was actually one of the biggest sources of argument between us, you know: Larry’s reluctance to communicate openly — along with the drink, the drugs, the shooting pool and card nights when I suspected he was with other women and I would start phoning round his friends.’ She shook her head. ‘The “Stone Mountain” they used to call him when he was boxing. Not because he was particularly big, he was just light-heavyweight, or could take a lot of punches — but because he never said much. Never gave away what he was feeling inside.’ She clamped one hand to her breast. ‘And maybe that’s okay when you’re preparing for a boxing match and want to appear like a lump of stone, immovable, to your opponent — but let me tell you, Mr McElroy, it’s pretty hard to take day in, day out in a marriage.’