Suzy from two tables down the line came over for a look. ‘These two were at my table last week,’ she said, ‘and after they left I was missing a brooch. Did you catch them in the act?’
‘Not proveably,’ I said. ‘Let him go,’ I said to my vigilant friend. ‘It’s your word against his and I’ve still got the ring.’ To the woman and the man I said, ‘I’d rather not see the two of you again and I’ll pass the word to my colleagues.’
‘Pfft,’ said the woman. ‘You got nothing we want.’ She gave me a finger and strode off with her consort.
‘Thanks,’ I said to my security man of the moment. ‘I always expect a certain amount of thievery but I’m glad not to lose that ring. I’m Sarah Varley, by the way.’
‘Roswell Clark,’ he said, and as we shook hands he noticed that my eyebrows had lifted at his name. ‘I’m a little strange,’ he said, ‘but I’m not actually an alien life form.’
‘Anyone in the family in the UFO business?’
‘No.’ He seemed a little embarrassed, and began to whistle a tune very quietly, almost under his breath, as he looked at the things on my table. Giles suddenly came to mind; he used to whistle in that introspective kind of way as he worked on his first dolls’ houses. Even the tune seemed familiar. Was it one that Giles had whistled? Yes, because I was able to anticipate where it was going next.
‘What’s that you’re whistling?’ I said to Roswell Clark.
‘“Is That All There Is?”,’ he responded with a half-smile.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I have no further questions at this time.’
‘That’s the title of the song.’
‘Oh. Do you know the words?’
‘“Is that all there is?’” he sang very quietly. ‘“Is that all there is?/If that’s all there is, my friends,/Then let’s keep dancing,/Let’s break out the booze and have a ball/If that’s all there is.”’
‘Is that all there is?’ I said. ‘To the song, I mean.’
‘That’s just the refrain but it pretty well says it all. The recording I have is by Peggy Lee. In the song she tells in successive verses how her house burnt down, how her father took her to the circus, how she fell in love with a wonderful boy who went away and she thought she’d die but she didn’t, and after each verse she asks, “Is that all there is?” to a fire or to a circus or to love. Then she sings, “I know what you must be saying to yourselves — If that’s the way she feels about it, why doesn’t she just end it all?” But she says no, she’s not ready for that final disappointment because she knows that when she’s breathing her last breath she’ll be saying, “Is that all there is,” and so on. Are you all right? You’ve gone pale all of a sudden.’
‘Funny thing about songs,’ I said, ‘what they’ll bring back.’
He was looking at me as if I’d blurted out my whole history with Giles. ‘Do you think that’s all there is?’ he said.
I don’t open up for strangers and not all that much for friends but he seemed so much in need of a straight answer that I said, ‘Not until you’re dead. As long as you’re alive there’s still a chance for more than there’s been so far.’
His face brightened, he really had quite a nice smile.
‘I’m glad you said that. Let me buy a coffee for you and your neighbours.’
‘Thanks.’ I introduced him to Alison and Linda. ‘Small black coffee for me, with sugar,’ said Alison. ‘Large milky tea with sugar for me,’ said Linda. ‘I’ll have a white coffee, not much milk, no sugar,’ I said.
As Roswell left, the buskers in the Apple Market were doing the habanera with a rather good contralto. Her voice rose above the hubbub of the market, drifted on the sunlight and the heat of the day.
Alison nodded approvingly in Roswell’s direction. She’s a tall stout woman with green butterfly spectacles and red hair that she wears short. She’s fifty or so and looks like the cynical friend who’s seen everything but she’s not cynical at all. ‘New friend?’ she said.
‘Acquaintance,’ I said. ‘I met him at the V & A.’
‘I picked up my first husband at the V & A,’ said Linda. She’s a small woman closer to sixty than fifty, neat figure, close-cropped grey hair, does yoga, mostly wears black.
‘But you put him down again,’ said Alison.
‘Nothing’s for ever,’ said Linda. ‘It was OK for three years.’
Carmen was now into the seguidilla. I visualised her tied up and sitting in a chair in the Apple Market while Don José passed the hat. I too was tied up, by a very large woman who was almost as wide as my table and effectively blocked it from other punters. I’d seen her several times before this and she’d never bought anything. She’s from Leeds and she collects Scottish terriers — figures, brooches, whatever. ‘I’ve got two real ones,’ she said, ‘Glen and Fiddich. They’re adorable. Do you have a dog?’
‘I’ve got a Butler & Wilson French-poodle brooch here but no Scotties.’
‘I mean a live dog, the kind you take for walks.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘My two are so clever — when they see me getting ready to go out they run and get their leads and wait for me by the door. They love to get into bed with me when I watch television. They especially like those old Lassie movies. Children might disappoint but dogs never.’
‘Do you have any children?’ I was trying to see around her for prospective customers but I wasn’t having much luck.
‘No,’ she said, and at this point Roswell appeared with the coffee and tea and gently and apologetically overlapped into the space she was occupying so that she was eased out of it. ‘Don’t forget,’ she said as she removed herself, ‘I’m always in the market for Scotties!’
As we drank our coffee and tea there appeared one of my regulars, a pleasant and enthusiastic woman from New York who likes to spend money on costume jewellery. Florence, her name is, but I always think of her as Floradora because of her flamboyance. She’s a small woman but dresses as if she were a large one, favouring large prints in bold colours and jewellery that can be seen clearly from a distance. Today her frock featured red cherries as big as oranges on a black background. She wore her grey hair in a beehive, with red-framed spectacles, red plastic hoops in her ears, and a necklace of shiny plastic cherries and green leaves. Florence is secure with her style; she knows what she likes, has fun looking for it, and enjoys being herself. I like her for that. Plus she puts her money where her taste is.
‘What’ve you got for me?’ she said. ‘I haven’t bought anything yet this trip, I’ve been saving myself for you.’
I took out the Schiaparelli necklace and earrings I’d been keeping under wraps with her in mind. Purply and iridescent, shimmery and splendid, they would have looked good on a six-foot showgirl. ‘What do you think?’ I said.
‘Mmmm!’ said Florence. ‘You know me too well. I surrender. Will I leave here with enough money to get back to the hotel?’
‘You’re a regular,’ I said, ‘and I’ll give you a friend’s price which is a little better than I’d give a dealer.’
‘I appreciate that. How much?’
‘Three hundred.’
She blew out a little breath and nodded. ‘Worth every penny too; there’s not enough sparkle in the world.’ She counted out six fifties, I wrapped the necklace and earrings in tissue paper, put them in a small Harrods bag, and we shook hands. ‘Now I’ll need a new dress,’ she said. ‘A woman’s shopping is never done.’
‘Life is hard. Be brave. Come back soon.’ We were all smiling after Florence left. The money made this a good day but my main satisfaction came from having judged correctly that she’d go for the Schiaparelli. The buskers in the Apple Market had finished with Carmen some time ago and were waltzing with Johann Strauss, Tales from the Vienna Woods. All the aisles between tables were full of people by now, eyes hard with acquisitiveness, their mouths busy with buns and coffee, the money in their wallets and purses eager to jump into ours. The lilt of the music lifted the sounds and smells of the market, the voices and the footsteps and the pigeons plodding on the cobbles, and I hummed along with it.