Jenny had been a friend, not a lover like Emily, but they had come close, and there was no doubt about their mutual attraction. Perhaps if he hadn’t been married, things would have turned out differently. As the waiter poured the wine, Banks looked across the table at Jenny in the candlelight and thought how lovely she still was. As she studied the menu, she gently bit the end of her tongue between her front teeth. The candlelight was reflected in her eyes. She had a silk scarf around her neck and was wearing a V-neck rust-coloured top, which showed just enough cleavage. Her arms were bare, and she had silver bangles around her left wrist that moved and jingled as she turned the pages, and a tiny watch with a loose chain on her right. He had forgotten that Jenny was left-handed.
‘What?’ she said, flashing him a smile.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ muttered Banks, flustered at being caught staring. He reminded himself that this was a working dinner, though he didn’t think he could sneak the expense of the Amarone past AC Gervaise’s eagle eye.
‘My mistake. So what do you fancy?’
Banks buried his head in the menu again. ‘I thought I might start with a small Caesar salad and then perhaps the lobster ravioli or spaghetti and meatballs. You?’
Jenny closed her menu. ‘I’ll have the same.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Of course. I always find it easiest to do that when I’m out with somebody.’
‘What if you absolutely hate what he orders?’
‘Then I get a little more creative. But it’s not always a “he”. Honestly, Alan, spaghetti and meatballs sounds fine, and I’m sure it will go with the wine a lot better than lobster ravioli, delightful as that sounds.’
Banks closed his menu. ‘Done, then.’ They gave the waiter their orders and returned to the wine. ‘Am I losing my mind, or didn’t you used to be a redhead?’
Jenny laughed. ‘Can’t a girl change her mind? We women are arch-deceivers when it comes to things like hair colour. It was henna,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t you tell?’
Banks had believed the red hair to be genuine. ‘I never got close enough to find out,’ he said.
Jenny arched her eyebrows. ‘And whose fault was that?’ She touched her head. ‘This is my natural colour. I grew into it. You were going to tell me about the Porsche.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not a happy story. That’s why I went for a diversion when you first mentioned it. It used to be my brother’s.’ Banks explained about Roy’s murder and the new-found wealth for his parents that resulted from it, along with the Porsche for him.
‘That is sad,’ said Jenny when he’d finished. ‘But you solved the case, found the killer?’
‘Oh, yes. That’s not always... I mean, it doesn’t always help. You know. Whatever’s lost, you can’t quite make up for that.’
‘True,’ said Jenny. ‘You know, I’ve often thought of this moment, or one like this, over the years. Us, meeting again. Wondering what it would be like. I was so nervous. Would it be awkward? Would we have moved so far apart we had no common ground? Other than murder, that is. Would there just be nothing at all, like two strangers?’
‘And?’
Jenny laughed. ‘In some ways it’s like I’ve never been away. I know it’s a bit of a paradox, that so much has changed, that we have both changed, but I honestly don’t feel any different in your company than I used to do.’
Banks leaned back in his chair. ‘Comfortable like an old pair of slippers, eh? But you’re right that so much has happened. Sandra left me, for a start.’
‘Oh, I know, but I’m not talking about that. Not the details. Just the essence. We have to be something more than the accumulation of things that happen to do us, don’t you think?’
Banks worked on that one as he tasted some more Amarone. As he looked into her eyes again, he realised that what he thought had been sadness the other day was a depth of experience, an air of having lived, with all the suffering, joy, hope, loss, dreams, grief and occasional despair that living involved. Their salads arrived and they put their wine aside. The waiter quietly topped up their glasses. Banks had heard the door open a few times and he looked around to see that the place was now almost full.
‘I hate it when they do that,’ Jenny said. ‘I get so pissed. I can’t tell how much I’ve had to drink.’
‘You’d rather count your glasses, mark your bottle?’
‘Well, no. That’s a bit sort of anal, I suppose.’
Banks laughed. ‘At these prices, I don’t think getting pissed is an option.’
‘Then I won’t worry about it again.’
‘So what happened? In Australia. Why did you come back?’
‘Just couldn’t stay away, I suppose. The English weather, the healthy food, the politics. You. And then the job offer.’
‘Seriously.’
‘I got divorced.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘Don’t be. Anyway, the job offer was important. I’m not independently wealthy. But the marriage? The divorce wasn’t nice. I don’t suppose it ever is, is it?’
‘No,’ said Banks. ‘Mine certainly wasn’t. After all those years, you think you know somebody, then... they’re strangers.’
‘Yes... Well, I’m sure you’ve heard about Australian men. All they’re interested in is beer, Aussie rules football and dwarf-tossing.’ She shook her head. ‘No. That’s not fair. Henry was a dear fellow, a true thinker and a very creative type. Sensitive. Things just didn’t work out for us, that’s all. I don’t know why. Listen to me, the psychologist who can’t even understand her own psychology.’
‘Physician, heal thyself?’
‘Something like that. Mutually incompatible, let’s say. That covers a multitude of sins. Best leave it at that.’
‘There’s no possibility of a reconciliation?’
‘No. You?’
‘Lord, no,’ said Banks. ‘It’s been years now. Sandra’s happily married to another man. They’re living in London. They have a child together.’
‘Do you ever see one another?’
‘No. Not for years. I’ve lost track. I see the kids often enough, though. Brian. Tracy.’
‘The Blue Lamps are pretty big down under, you know. You must be a proud father.’
‘Don’t tell him that, but yes, I am. And Tracy’s had her ups and down, but she’s turned out all right, too. Seems to have settled down. She’s living in Newcastle now, working and studying at the uni.’
‘You’re lucky then.’
‘I suppose I am. Kids?’
‘No. It was a matter of choice on both our parts, so it’s OK. I never thought of myself as the maternal type. Lovers?’
‘One or two,’ said Banks. ‘You?’
‘Three or four.’ Jenny’s expression was inscrutable.
The waiter delivered their main course and emptied the last of the wine into their glasses.
‘You never wrote,’ said Banks, when the waiter was out of earshot.
‘Nor did you.’
‘I didn’t have your address.’
‘You’re a detective. You could have tracked me down.’ Jenny stared at the table. When she looked up again, her mouth had taken a downward turn. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
‘No, really.’
‘I mean it. Never mind. It’s nothing. I just needed to get away. Completely away. That’s all. Now eat your spaghetti like a good boy.’
They tucked in. The food was good, the tomato-based sauce piquant and the meatballs moist and spicy.