“You know,” he said, drawing in his legs, “I can read this thing from cover to cover, front to back, every word, and if you asked me five minutes later a single thing about it, I wouldn’t have a clue.”
Lynn had still to move.
“Here,” he offered the paper towards her, “test me. Name the prime minister of Bosnia-Herzegovina. The Father of the House of Lords. Define once and for all the obligations of the Treaty of Maastricht. I couldn’t do any of it.”
“How long have you been here?” Lynn asked.
“Oh, you know, I haven’t exactly been counting, but possibly one or two hours.”
She turned away, past the chalked graffiti, to look at the light falling in a spiral at the foot of the stairs. Rain drawn across it like a veil.
“You’re not angry?”
“For what?”
“Me being here.”
Angry? Was that what she should be? Looking at him sitting there, Lynn’s shoulders rose and fell and she tried to avoid the smile sidling into his eyes: how long had it been since anyone had waited for her five or ten minutes? “No, I’m not angry.”
He was on his feet in a trice. “Shall we go, then?”
“Where?”
Disappointment shadowed his face. Doubt. “You didn’t get my message?”
“No. What message?”
“About dinner.”
The iron of the railing was cold against her hand. “There wasn’t any message.”
“I left it where you work.”
“You don’t know where I’m stationed.”
“I phoned personnel.”
“And they told you?”
He had the grace to look a little sheepish. “I told them I was your cousin, from New Zealand.”
“Somebody believed you?”
A laugh, self-deprecating. “I’ve always been quite good at accents, ever since I was a child.”
Lynn nodded, moved one step higher, two. “Where was that? That you were a child?”
“What do you think?” he said. “Is it too late for dinner or what?”
He had booked a table at the San Pietro. Red tablecloths and candles and fishermen’s nets draped from the walls. Crooners murmured through the loudspeakers in Italian, more often than not to the accompaniment of seagulls and a mandolin.
“I’ve no idea what this place is like,” Michael said, pulling out her chair. “I thought we could give it a try.”
The waiter appeared with the wine list and a couple of menus.
“Red or white?” Michael said.
“Nothing for me, I’ve had enough already.”
“Are you sure? You …”
“Michael, I’m positive.”
He ordered a small carafe of house red for himself, a large bottle of mineral water for them both. For a first course, he had prosciutto ham and melon, Lynn a mozzarella and tomato salad. They were well into their main dishes-fusilli with gorgonzola and cream sauce, escalope of veal with spinach and saute potatoes-when Michael asked his first question about her day.
“I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised you were late, this terrible business, it must be driving you mad.”
Lynn set down the fork she had half-raised to her mouth. “Which business is that?”
“That poor missing girl.”
“What makes you think I’m working on that?”
“Are you not? I suppose I thought you all would be, trying to find her, you know, twenty-four hours a day.”
“Well, I’m not, not directly.”
“But you must know all about it. I mean, what’s going on.”
She lifted up her fork again; the veal was tender, sweet to the taste, the breadcrumbs surrounding it not too crisp.
“This latest business, this ransom that was never collected and everything, isn’t that all very weird? Didn’t I read that setting that trap for him cost so many thousand pounds?”
“You seem to know as much about it as I do.”
“Ah, well, it’s only what I read in the papers, you know.”
“I thought,” Lynn said, “you forgot all that the minute you’d taken it in.”
Michael smiled back at her and summoned the waiter, ordered himself another carafe of wine.
“You’re sure you won’t?”
“Quite sure.”
For the remainder of the meal, he asked her about the damage to her car, her father’s health, talked about plans for setting up on his own again once the recession had really started to turn around. Distribution, that’s the thing, wholesale; anything but stationery, deadly stuff, try as you might, never get it to really move. And he’d glanced up at her, grinning, to see if she’d got the joke.
They were back in the courtyard, the cold biting round them; Lynn with her scarf wound twice around the space between her upturned collar and her hair, Michael’s hands deep in his pockets all the way back from the restaurant, but now …
“You know,” Lynn said, “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”
“What would that be now?”
“Whatever it is you’re wanting.”
His hand was on her arm, inches above her wrist. “To be friends, is there anything wrong with that?”
“No. Except that’s not all you want.”
He was close enough to have kissed her with scarcely a dip of his head, not a tall man, not really, three or so inches more than she was herself. “Am I so transparent, then?” he smiled.
Something happened to his face, Lynn thought, when he smiled. He came to life from inside.
“And am I not going to get my kiss, then? My little peck on the cheek?”
“No,” Lynn said. “Not this time.”
When she glanced down from the balcony, he was still standing perfectly still, looking back up at her; before she could change her mind, she let herself quickly in, bolted and relocked the door.
Michael only then starting to walk away, whistling softly. Not this time, he was thinking. Well, doesn’t that mean there’ll be another?
The bath as hot as she could take it, Lynn lowered herself through the rising steam. How clearly had he known she had wanted him to kiss her, standing there with little more than their breath between them? His mouth pressed against her, no matter what. So long since a man had thought of her that way, made love with his eyes. Despite everything, she shivered, imagining his touch.
Forty-three
Alice Skelton was in her bathrobe, towel wrapped around her hair, cigarette between her lips. It was twenty past six in the morning. She had heard his daughter-that was the way she tried to think of Kate now, it made things easier-returning home closer to three than two. Not bothering to be quiet about it any more, no more guarded whispers as she gave some youth a last wet kiss and reached down to slip off her shoes. These days-these nights-it was a slamming of doors and a shout of thanks, and whoever had driven her home turning back up the volume of the car stereo before the end of the drive. Alice had lain awake, said nothing, waited for the raid on the fridge, the toilet flush, the bedroom door. Christ, girl, she thought, what would I have done with my young life if I’d enjoyed your freedom? Would I have screwed it up any less or more?
Beside her, rolled as far towards the edge of the mattress as was possible, Jack Skelton slept on, his body twitching every now and then as if cattle-prodded by his dreams.
At four, Alice had given up all pretense and gone downstairs. Sweet biscuits. Ice cream. Coffee with a little gin. Cigarettes. Finally, just gin. She ran an early bath and lay back in it, her head resting against a plastic cushion, listening to the World Service: Londres Matin, the early morning news in French.
Out and dried, she had been considering going back upstairs and getting dressed when the phone rang.
“Hello? Mrs. Skelton? This is Helen Siddons.”
“It’s also practically the middle of the night.”
“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have called at this hour if …”
“If it wasn’t important.”
“That’s right. Is your husband there?”
If he’s not with you, Alice thought, I suppose he must be. “I expect he’s still sleeping, don’t you? He tires easily these days.”
“Could you get him for me? It is …”