* * *
At God’s desk I fell asleep for an hour or two and dreamed Anna Addison was standing by a window, looking at me. I woke up in freezing darkness and stumbled around disoriented until I remembered where I was. I locked up the shop and drove home in a bizarrely altered state, dazzled by sleet and memory and oncoming headlights. I undressed in the bathroom and crept into bed beside Miranda, who grumbled and shifted over, her naked side hot as a ham against my hand.
The next morning I got up late. Miranda had already left for work. I made myself breakfast and ate it standing up, staring out of the kitchen window. I went for a long walk, which didn’t solve anything. I didn’t call the number on the answering machine.
The day after that, Sam came home from university. I picked her up from the station and was almost overcome by her breezy hug. My eyes watery, I told her I loved her and she patted me complacently on the knee, already deep into a story about someone called Susanna, who had an orange Beetle and wanted to take her horseback riding in Wales. The girl with the neat row of teddies waiting on her bed had acquired a nose stud and a noticeably different accent, a layer of London posh sprinkled over her ordinary voice. She was, she said, a bit disappointed with law. She was thinking of switching to psychology. It was all too much to absorb at once, this sudden fluidity, these changes. She seemed so happy. I was so happy for her.
I dropped her at home and while she unpacked I went out to buy something for lunch. When I got back, I heard voices in the kitchen.
“Hello, Dad. I’ve been hearing all about you.”
I froze in the doorway. It took me a moment to assemble the
scene. Miles at the kitchen table, his black coat draped over the chair-back, a mug of coffee in his hands. He smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Hi, Mike,” he said, emphasizing the name slightly, just enough so I’d pick up on it. “I came by on the off chance.”
“I see.”
Sam laughed. “Miles says he knew you in the old days. He says you weren’t always such a goody-goody.”
“Is that what he says?”
Her tone wouldn’t have been so light if he’d told her anything serious. I put the shopping down. They were, I saw, both smoking cigarettes. I lit one too. Miles sat back in his chair, enjoying himself. Sam adopted a conspiratorial tone. “Miles says you got arrested together. Protesting against the war, man!” She made a peace sign at me, giggling.
“What else does he say?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” drawled Miles. “I haven’t been telling her about the really naughty stuff.” Sam’s grin faltered a little when she saw the look on my face. Miles distracted her by telling a tall story about how he and I had supposedly spent an evening with the Rolling Stones. His anecdote had a rehearsed quality. It was, at least as far as my involvement in it was concerned, a complete fabrication. Miles evidently assumed Sam would be impressed by the mention of the Stones, but she listened with a polite, slightly puzzled expression. It was possible she didn’t know who they were.
How was I going to get him out of my house? I asked whether he’d like to go for a walk. “Pub?” he suggested, then theatrically corrected himself. “Oh, yes, I forgot. You don’t drink.”
“We could go to the pub if you like,” I told him. His smile broadened. He knew I was begging. “It’s a bit cold out,” he said, warming his hands on his coffee cup. “Much more cozy in here.”
Just then I heard the sound of the key in the front door. Miranda smelled the smoke before she even entered the room. “What on earth are you doing?” she asked me angrily, flinging open the back door and letting in a blast of icy air. Then she noticed Sam and Miles. “Hello, darling. And — hello.”
Miles got up from his seat. “Miles Bridgeman. Old friend of Mike’s.”
“Miranda Martin.”
They shook hands and she turned to me in genuine surprise. “You didn’t say you had anyone — I mean—”
Sam stood up and embraced her. “Hello, Mum.”
“Hello, darling. You stink of cigarettes.”
“That’s a nice welcome.”
“Well, you do. It’s disgusting. I’m sorry, Mr. Bridgeman. I don’t like smoking in the house.”
“I’m so sorry. Mike, you should have told me. Now I’ve gone and embarrassed myself. And please, Miranda, call me Miles.”
“Of course. I’m sorry — were we, I mean — I was — was Mike expecting you? I didn’t know. He never tells me anything.”
Miles adopted a raffish expression. “No, I think I came as a surprise. You know, we haven’t seen each other for years. I was visiting friends near here and thought I’d look him up. You have a beautiful house, by the way. I love what you’ve done to this kitchen. So real. What gorgeous flooring. Is it slate?”
“Yes. Welsh slate.”
“Beautiful colors.”
“Exactly.”
Soon Miles was asking her about the old glass medicine bottles and the bunches of herbs drying over the hearth, demonstrating a suspiciously perfect knowledge of the properties of lemon verbena. Miranda chattered to him, so taken with my charming friend that before I knew it she’d invited him to stay for dinner. I sat at the table while she cooked a risotto, and he bared his teeth without mirth, toasting me ironically with his glass of elderflower cordial. “Next time,” he said, “I’ll bring a bottle.”
“So what kind of work do you do, Miles?” asked Miranda, as we sat down to eat.
“Consultancy.”
“What kind?”
“Public affairs. I spend a lot of time at Westminster, doing
strategy work for various people, generally oiling the wheels of democracy.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“It’s very dull.”
“So are you Labour or Tory?” asked Sam.
“Neither. I’m my own man. I like to think of myself as a progressive.”
His own man. Whatever Miles was it wasn’t that. Miles Bridgeman would always be someone’s creature. To Sam and Miranda’s delight, he told more anecdotes about our supposed exploits back in the old days, slaloming in and out of the truth, adding deft little touches, hidden allusions, subtle reminders to me of all the other things he wasn’t telling. I was completely powerless, as removed from the situation as an accident victim, floating above the scene, looking down.
He made a few slipups, such as telling Miranda we’d known each other at university. Unlike Chris Carver, Michael Frame hadn’t gone to university. I improvised. “I was only there for that one term, remember? Then I dropped out.” He was quick to take the hint and I had the disturbing sense that we were now colluding with each other, jointly spinning a yarn. It was a story tailored to its audience, a confection of swinging London and San Francisco flower-power, as phoney as one of those television nostalgia shows where they soundtrack archive footage with old Top 4o hits. Miranda and Sam lapped it up.
“It’s so great you came, Miles,” said Miranda. “Mike never talks about any of this. I had no idea he was so involved in that sixties milieu.” She made it sound remote, historical. Waterloo or the Armada. Miranda’s youth was all punk bands and cider, or whatever they had to drink in Hendon. Sam’s primary reference point was probably Austin Powers. “You know, Mike doesn’t have any photos from back then,” mused Miranda. “He barely mentions it at all. He’s so unsentimental. Actually, I think you’re the first person I’ve met. .” She trailed off.
I knew exactly what she was thinking. Miles was the first person she’d ever met who’d known me for longer than she had. I could