Hi. I hope all is well in Morocco. Work has been keeping me pretty busy, but virtue has its reward. My book has gone to the printer, and over New Year I’m going to a five-day conference in Sydney. I’ll stretch it out of course with a week’s holiday. Greetings to Mum, and have a Merry Christmas if we’re not in touch again before then.
E-mail from Soblewski to Martin:
Just a quick note to say that I’ve talked to BC and there is no problem. Let’s stay in contact. My best to your lovely wife and dog.
E-mail from Gertrud to Martin:
What are you up to nowadays? I got your e-mail eventually. Lennart and I have split up, so I’m as free as a bird. It would be great to meet and pick up the threads again, don’t you think?
Nothing from Bergman, nothing from G. I was grateful for that, especially the latter. The message from Gunvald could just as well have come from a cousin or a distant acquaintance. And as for Soblewski — greetings to your wife and dog?
Gertrud aroused suspicions, of course. Who is she, and what the hell does she mean by picking up the threads again? And why had I given her Martin’s e-mail address so casually when Bergman asked for it? But I couldn’t really get het up about it — whatever might have taken place between her and Martin belonged to a different life. For a few seconds I considered sending her a reply, just to amuse myself: but I let it pass. And didn’t write to Gunvald or Soblewski either.
E-mail from Synn to me:
Hello, Mum. I hope all is going well in Morocco. I’ll probably stay in New York over Christmas and the New Year — I assume you won’t be going home either. Business is going well, I’ve applied for a green card and expect to get it. I agree with Woody Allen: there’s hardly ever a good reason for leaving Manhattan. Greetings to the old bastard.
E-mail from Christa to me:
Dear Maria. Dreamt about you again. I think it’s odd, I hardly ever remember that I’ve been dreaming, never mind what about. This time you really were in danger, you cried for help and I was the one who would be able to help you. But I didn’t understand what I could do. There was a man in a car chasing you. You ran like mad to get away, and I really wanted to save you but I was so far away all the time. In another country, or something like that. Never mind, but it was both very clear and very horrible in any case. Write and let me know that all is well. Love, C
I thought for a while, then wrote to both of them. I wished my daughter a Merry Christmas and reported that both I and the old bastard were in good shape, all things considered. Christa was duly informed that everything was under control down in Morocco, and that I would try hard to behave myself rather better in her next dream. I took the opportunity to pass on season’s greetings, and asked her to pass on greetings to Paolo.
I didn’t bother to chase up the latest news from Sweden — nor news from anywhere else, come to that. Instead I thanked Alfred Biggs, and went with Castor to The Royal Oak for dinner.
Six days have passed since my last visit.
And it feels like a month since I sat here talking to Mark Britton that last time, which just shows how my conception of time is going off the rails. When he now comes in, less than a minute after I’ve ordered my food and got a glass of wine on the table, I suddenly feel grateful — and just as suddenly uneasy as well, in case he is only going to sit at the bar, drink a pint of ale and then leave.
But I needn’t have worried. When Mark sees me he gives me a broad smile and sits down at my table without even asking.
‘How are things? How’s it going with the writing?’
‘Fine, thank you. A bit up and down, but that goes with the territory.’
‘It’s nice to see you again. You brighten up my mealtimes, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘All right, I’ll allow it. But you’d better hurry up and order or we’ll get out of step.’
And so we are sitting here again. I think that either I’m so starved of everything to do with human relationships, or that it has something to do with this man. Most probably a combination of the two. I can feel butterflies in my stomach, and am relieved that I smartened myself up before coming here. Mark looks very smart, a little darker under the eyes than I remember, but newly shaved, well combed and wearing a wine-red pullover instead of the blue one. Corduroy trousers and a Barbour jacket that he’s hung over the back of his chair. Indeed, I think he could well be a sort of semi-noble country squire after a successful afternoon’s shooting, and I can’t help smiling to myself when I realize that I’ve given him a title that my father used to like using. Country squire.
‘I gather you don’t come here all that often,’ I say, ‘or is it just that we happen to have missed one another?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I usually come here at least twice a week — but I like cooking, so that’s not why I come. I reckon you need to see somebody else’s face besides your own occasionally. Don’t you agree?’
‘Mine, for instance?’
He leans forward over the table. ‘I prefer your face to Rosie’s and Henry’s and Robert’s, I’ll admit that. And I’m grateful that you can put up with me now and again.’
I manage to shrug and assume a neutral smile. Being a television hostess for a quarter of a century does leave its mark. ‘You’re welcome,’ I say. ‘Being with you doesn’t cause me pain.’
‘But you have done,’ he says, suddenly becoming serious. ‘Suffered pain, that is. Things are a bit rough for you up there in your house when darkness descends to gobble us up. I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘What do you mean? You’re not sitting there again and reading my mind, are you?’
‘Only a bit,’ he says. ‘I see a bit and guess the rest. Who could spend a whole winter up there and survive with their mind in one piece? The moor is best for people who are born on it. In the winter, at least. Cheers, by the way.’
We each take a sip of our wine and look each other in the eye for a second too long. Or maybe I only imagine that extra second: it’s not the kind of judgement that is part of my repertoire any longer. Good Lord, I think, if he stretches out his hand over the table and touches me I’ll wet myself. I’m as emotionally unstable as a fourteen-year-old.
The new young waiter, who is called Lindsey and is undoubtedly as gay as the Pope is Catholic, comes with our food and we start eating. A couple arrive with an elderly terrier, and there is a pause while the dogs greet each other and we indulge in doggy talk before our four-legged friends settle down under their appropriate tables. I am grateful for the interruption, as it gives me time to get a grip of myself. Mark wipes his mouth.
‘Good, but not five stars. What was yours like?’
We had both chosen fish: me cod, him sea perch.
‘Pretty good. Five stars plus or minus a half.’
‘I would have cooked it more slowly at a lower heat,’ he said, nodding at his plate. ‘But of course, then the customer needs to be patient and wait a little longer. Would you like to try it?’
I don’t understand what he means. ‘Try what?’
‘My cooking. You could come round to my place for a meal one evening, and see what I’m capable of.’
I’m taken completely by surprise, but at the same time must ask myself why. What is so remarkable about a single man inviting a single woman to dinner?
‘You’re doubtful?’ he has time to say before I can squeeze a response out of myself.
‘No! Of course not. . I mean, obviously I’d love to go to your house for dinner. Forgive me, it’s just that I’m a bit socially retarded.’
That makes him laugh. ‘We’re in the same boat, then. I. .’
He pauses and looks embarrassed for a moment.
‘Well?’
‘I really wasn’t at all sure if I would dare to invite you. But anyway, it’s done now.’
‘Are you saying it was planned?’
He smiles. ‘Of course. I’ve been thinking about it all the time since we first met. If you think I’m some sort of village Casanova, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you. But I’m pretty good with fish, as I’ve already said.’