My proffered explanation of the shirt re-buttoning incident occasioned little reaction, and in reply to my question she admitted that Denis had been for a haircut about that time, yes.
There remained the final hurdle, though. The letter. I could, of course, have shown her my alternate version, in which “Sadie darling” figured as the happy valediction. But I instead handed Isobel my original reconstruction, then watched her closely as she read it.
“This is the best you could come up with?” she said dismissively.
“Yes,” I said, somewhat defensively. “It would have been another matter if you’d managed to find the other half.”
“And what makes you think I haven’t?” she said as she dipped one elegant hand into her Louis Vuitton handbag. “I found the left-hand half only yesterday – very careless of Denis!” Here she passed me two halves of a typewritten letter cellotaped together.
“But… but those are typed-” I began.
“Yes, they are. And they are the originals. I made a handwritten copy of the half I had found because I am not a computer person, I have no access to a photocopier, and I wanted to keep the original safe. Do you understand?
“Yes, I understand.”
“I’m a little surprised and, to be honest with you, just a little disappointed that you hadn’t noticed the similarities between the writing on the cheque and that on the letter. I’m also surprised that you put your money on Denis’ prize author. But go on! Read it!”
As I read the letter, I was conscious of Isobel’s green, green eyes upon me, and perhaps I succeeded in showing a wholly bogus surprise – bogus, that is, until I read the office nickname at the bottom: Blondie, aka Jade. Isobel had been right all along then, and I had been wrong. She had correctly guessed the winner of a two-horse race, while I had backed an outsider and lost. As we walked to the front door, I resisted the temptation to defend my ratiocinative powers (after all, the hair couldn’t have been Jade’s). Looking at Isobel for the last time, I wished that… well, that things had turned out differently.
Three weeks later I received a handwritten letter with no salutation and no valediction. It was no matter, though. I recognized the writing instantly. It read:
“Denis and I have agreed upon an amicable separation, so divorce is no longer my dearest wish. I would like you to come and have dinner with me this coming Friday – just the two of us.”
Oh dear! I had already been invited out to dinner at The Randolph on Friday evening by an attractive Anglo-Indian lady with deep dark-brown eyes. She had asked me to mediate in a squabble with her neighbours over her chatterbox of a parakeet from Paraguay, which she had somehow imported into the UK during the bird flu crisis.
In any case, I’ve always preferred dark-brown to startling green.
Well, that’s what I told myself.
THREAT MANAGEMENT by Martyn Waites
I could see her from where I was crouching, behind the bushes. She was walking along the pavement, getting bigger as she came towards me, like all I could see was her. Only her. Wearing her usual stuff, business suit with a kind of belted mac thing over it, a short, beige one. Looked good in it, an’ all, her long black hair loose down the back. Umbrella up. Her heels made that crunchy, clacking noise on the tarmac – kind you only hear in films and think it must be made up till you hear it in real life. There were probably other people around, but I didn’t see them. Cars going past made a wet whoosh in the drizzle but I hardly heard them. Saw only her. Heard only her heels clack-clacking. Sounded louder than bombs.
I have to be honest, I wanted her then. Any man would.
By the way, this is a true story. I’m not making any of it up. I don’t do that any more. Which is something, which is progress. No, this is exactly how it happened. Exactly.
I’ve watched her every day this week. Know her routine better than mine. What time she gets up, what time she leaves the flat. Which bus she catches, tube station she gets off at, train she gets on. Which branch of Costa she gets her regular cappuccino, skimmed milk, at. What time she gets in to the office. In the city. Nice place. All steel and glass. Huge. Know what she does in there. Yeah, I’ve been in. Seen her.
She didn’t see me, though.
A solicitor, she is. A legal mouthpiece.
Then lunch breaks, usually a Marks and Sparks sandwich at her desk, sometimes a trip down to one of those flash new places off Spitalfields Market with a couple of the girls from the office. Sometimes with Tony. Another solicitor. Met at some party. Her boyfriend, so she claims. They’re an item. Not so sure he’d say the same thing.
And then coffee breaks – sometimes she’ll come down to the Costa again, just for a walk, stretch her legs. But no fag breaks. Doesn’t smoke. Too healthy. Know which branch of Holmes Place she goes to, after work sometimes. And what times. Watched her work out.
Well, apart from that time when she had a broken arm. Just straight to work and back home, then. Alone.
That Tony, he’s a cunt. Really, he is. He doesn’t appreciate her, not nearly enough. Not an item. Cunt.
Then all again in reverse: tube, bus, home again. Unless she’s been going out. Cinema, theatre, dinner. A bar. Usually up in town, nothing round here. Well not much. A couple of times she’s been in my local. Once with a mate of hers. And once on her own. Sampling the local atmosphere, I heard her say to Mike behind the bar. But Mike behind the bar wasn’t impressed. If he can’t shag it or make money out of it, he doesn’t want to know. And she wasn’t about to become a regular. And she was way out of his league. So really, she knows no one round here.
Except me.
I unscrewed the small bottle, took a big swallow of whisky. Smacked my lips, savouring the aftertaste, feeling the burn. Good. Kept me warm. Helped me concentrate.
The rest of the pubs on the high road and the estate, she’s too good for them. Wouldn’t want her going in them again, I told her that. The men in there, they’re animals. They’d tear her apart. And I might not be there to protect her. I mean, I try my best, but I can’t be with her all the time.
I told her that the first time she came in the pub. She laughed then, asked what I did. I told her. Showed her the card. She said nothing.
The second time she came in the pub she said plenty, though. It was accidental, really. I just bumped into her in the street. Like I said, accidental. I hadn’t been following her or anything like that.
Honest.
I asked her if she’d like to come for a drink with me. Couldn’t believe it when she accepted. Took her to the pub, squired her round. All the other old bastards in there couldn’t believe it. She was with me. Me.
We had a great time. Talked all night. She really listened, you know? To everything I had to say, no matter how stupid it sounded. She made me feel like the most important person alive. To have a pretty girl listen to you, and talk to you, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.
She made me feel special.
When she left, Mike from behind the bar said I should forget it. Get her out of my mind, she was too good for me. Whatever she had to say, she was just using me, stringing me along. I got angry with him. Told him just because she didn’t like him or want to talk to him he was jealous. He just shook his head, walked off to restock his bottles.
I wasn’t falling in love with her then. Honest.
It was dark now and cold. The fog made big patches of blackness between the street lights. You could see your breath in front of you. I breathed out into my hand, up my sleeve. I didn’t want her seeing mine. I watched.