“Don’t!”
It was only whispered, an exclamation all the same, sudden, like a hiss of brakes.
Still, heads turned. Grabianski only smiled the same eager, sure smile. His hand rested on her knee, the hem of her skirt where he had pushed it high, not moving, only the thumb moving, the soft ball of it making soft circles against her leg, the slight catch of her tights, round and round below her knee, the meeting place of calf and thigh.
“Is everything all right?” asked the waitress, showing bored concern.
Maria could only narrow her eyes, arch back her head and sigh.
“Why don’t you go away?” Grabianski said pleasantly enough. “We want anything, we’ll call.”
“What are we doing?” asked Maria. It was minutes later and Grabianski’s thumb was still and she could speak.
“Morning coffee,” he smiled. “Elevenses-isn’t that what it’s called?”
It’s some kind of torture, Maria thought, that’s what it is. He started to pry with his thumb again and she caught at it, leaving her fingers meshed in his. He brought the outside of his left leg inside her right and pressed so forcefully she had to push back or be turned around in her chair.
“People are watching us.”
“You only think that.”
“They can see.”
“What?”
“What you’re … doing.”
“What am I doing?”
Driving me crazy, Maria thought.
“They’re spreading butter on their teacakes,” Grabianski said, “making neat little ticks on their shopping lists, wondering if they should go for a pee. They’re not watching us.”
“Look,” she started.
“Yes?”
“You still …”
“Yes?”
“You haven’t told me …”
“What?”
“You said, on the phone, you said … there was something you wanted.”
Grabianski laughed deep in his throat and Maria was surprised by the sound, almost a growl, and she imagined him in bed beside her-well, not beside her, quite. He laughed again and squeezed her leg. How does he know, Maria worried, whatever it is I’m thinking?
“Excuse me,” said Grabianski. The waitress had her black-uniformed back towards him, taking someone else’s order. “Excuse me.”
“Yes?” She was tired and young and there was a dull wedding ring on her finger, at the front of the shiny black dress was a frilly white apron of the kind Maria thought were only worn in the pornographic videos her husband sometimes found exciting after just enough cocaine.
“The bill.”
“In just a moment, sir, I’m …”
“We’re leaving.”
“I’ll be with you in …”
“Now.”
The waitress looked down at the pad that hung from her waist, made a fuss of fumbling back and forth, snatched at a sheet and ripped it down the middle, tore away the rest and set both parts on the table alongside Grabianski’s second, untouched, cup of coffee.
“Thank you,” he said, placing a five-pound note into her hand and steering Maria around her and towards the stairs. “We’ll be sure to come back again.”
“Are you always like this?” Maria asked once they were out on the street.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Excited. Full of yourself.”
“No,” he replied, “I don’t think so.” He was heading her towards the taxi rank on the south side of the square. “No.”
“You’re not on anything, are you?”
“On?”
“Yes, you know.”
Grabianski shook his head. The Asian taxi-driver broke away from the conversation with his friend and helped open the door of his cab. “Never seen the need,” Grabianski said, climbing in after her.
They sat there for several seconds, the driver looking at them over his shoulder.
“Go on, then,” said Grabianski.
Maria turned to him, uncertain.
“Give him your address.”
Resnick had finished his two espressos, skimmed the local paper, exchanged with Sarah their ritual sentences. A glance at his watch told him there was no time to wait for Lynn, still feigning interest in the coming fashions at Miss Selfridge or Next. He stopped at the first delicatessen for a pound of smoked sausage, a quarter of dried mushrooms (an extravagance that went a long way), two ounces of dill and a slice of poppy-seed cake; from the greengrocery stall adjacent to the fish market he bought a January King cabbage and half a cucumber; at the cheese stall he chose feta, Jarlsberg and a strong cheddar; finally he bought pickled herring, horseradish and sour cream from the delicatessen near the exit. Here, as at the first, the saleswoman spoke to him in Polish, knowing that he understood, and Resnick answered in English.
There were idle moments when he thought he should do more than sell the house, sell up altogether, apply for a transfer to another city, another town.
He knew he could never do it: this was his life.
Here.
Beyond the other end of the market, close by the escalator and the Emmett clock, a dozen or so Poles stood in overcoats and checked caps, cigarettes cupped inside their hands, talking of the past. Medals and military campaigns: bortsch and cold winters. The airfields or the mines had brought them here and they had stayed. Vodka for these men would always carry the taste and scent of tarragon or bison grass, cherry or wild honey.
When Resnick had been a young man the only vodka he had known had been made in Warrington.
He pressed the button for the lift, descending to the car park. Ten minutes would see him at Midlands Television, hopefully speaking to Harold Roy.
Eleven
Mackenzie had been up since five to six. Two freshly squeezed orange juices, cereal sprinkled with wheat-germ and bran-before that he had swum lengths of the pool for twenty minutes, up and down, thinking his way through the day. Now he was on his feet in the production office, crease in his trousers, gold clip attached to his tie; in the smoked glass of the partition window he saw himself reflected, a straight-shouldered man in a blue wool blazer, double-breasted. Not a day over thirty-five: ten years less than truth.
He sat at his desk, swiveling the chair towards the television monitor and leaning forward to slot a cassette into the VCR. The first scene from the previous day’s shooting appeared on the screen.
Mackenzie pulled a stiff-backed book towards him, uncapped his pen and began to make notes. He was hoping that Harold would remember their 8.30 appointment-if it was necessary to come down on him heavily, he would prefer that it happened before the others arrived. Not that he would find their presence off-putting; merely, experience told him that rumor made legends faster than fact.
He grimaced at a scene on the street and wondered how many viewers would pick up the slight flinch, the moment of hesitation before the leading man went into a fierce clinch with his leading lady. Even then, they might put it down to her bad breath rather than his sexual preference.
“Mac…”
Mackenzie depressed the pause button as he turned.
“Mac, I wanted to catch you …”
“In early this morning, Robert.”
“This scene, I wanted you to take a look at it.”
“Ah, Robert, I would if there were any chance.”
“It’s not a lot, only a few changes.”
Mackenzie shrugged. “I’ve got to review what we shot yesterday before the others come in. Meeting at 9.15.” He treated Robert Deleval to a dismissive smile. “You know how it is.”
Deleval glanced down at the green script pages in his hand. “Maybe I should have a word with Harold, then?”
“Don’t you think he’s got enough on his plate already?”