‘I was telling Mr Elliot,’ Tuk said, ‘that he must speak to you of Cambodia. He and Mr Slattery intend visiting it in the not too distant future.’
A look of surprise flickered momentarily in her eyes, but she knew better than to ask. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘If I can be of any assistance.’
Tuk stood up. ‘And now, gentlemen, I have other business to attend to. At which hotel are you staying?’
Elliot rose. ‘The Narai.’
‘Then I shall pick you up this evening at seven and take you to my warehouse to examine the merchandise. And we can also make arrangements for our trip tomorrow.’
His dismissal was brief and pointed. Slattery raised himself to his feet and grinned at La Mère Grace. ‘Pleased to have met you, ma’am.’
She smiled perfunctorily and held out a card to Elliot. ‘Call on me tomorrow night. Both of you. I’ll expect you at nine.’
She watched them walk across the lawn towards the house. ‘He doesn’t say much,’ she said. ‘The dark one.’
Tuk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It is often the quiet ones who are the most dangerous. We would, each of us, do well not to underestimate him.’
Chapter Twelve
David poured the last of the wine into their glasses. Lisa had drunk most of the bottle, since he was driving. Before the meal she had gone through three gins and tonic. He wasn’t sure now whether she meant to be vague or whether it was the drink. It was she who had called and suggested they go out for a meal — the first time she’d called him in days. But she had been strangely formal and uncommunicative, and done nothing to assuage his growing exasperation with her. He was beginning to lose patience.
She was toying absently with her glass, staring vacantly at some spot on the table. It was as though he wasn’t there. He felt an anger welling in him. He did appreciate that she was going through an emotional crisis — the death of her mother, the discovery that her father was alive. But she was refusing to share it with him, to let him in, to let him help. Now he was feeling used. Why had she asked him to take her out for a meal, and then sat through it silent and morose, refusing to give a direct answer to any of his questions? He restrained an impulse to snap at her, and asked with a patience that he did not feel, ‘Why won’t he see you?’
She lifted her head and seemed surprised. ‘Oh, it’s not that he won’t see me. He can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he — he’s out of the country. He doesn’t even know I know he’s alive.’
‘So how do you know he’s out of the country?’
She sighed. She hadn’t wanted to go into it all. She could have told him over the phone what she was going to do, but felt she at least owed him an explanation in person. But faced with him like this, she wasn’t finding it easy. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said.
‘I’ve got time.’
She hesitated, then reached a decision, drained her glass and said, ‘Alright, I’ll tell you. But take me home first.’ She didn’t want a row in the restaurant.
He bit back a retort and signalled the waiter that he wanted the bill.
They drove back to the house in silence. He glanced at her once or twice, but she was still miles away. The house was cold and dark when they got in, and she lit the gas fire in the living room, drawing the curtains and turning on a small table lamp. ‘You want a drink?’ she asked.
‘I’m driving.’
She nodded and poured herself a large gin and tonic.
He said, ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough already?’
‘No,’ she replied simply. ‘If I want to get pissed I’ll get pissed.’ She took her glass, almost defiantly, and squatted on the rug in front of the fire. He sat in her mother’s armchair and thought how childish she was being. What had he ever seen in her? She was a good-looking girl, intelligent, brimming with potential. But if he had once believed it was a potential he could shape, he was already beginning to entertain doubts. It wasn’t as though they even had any kind of sexual relationship. She’d always been strange about that, as if sex frightened her. And, like most things about her, he didn’t begin to understand because she would never tell him. Anything. She was like a book with an exotic title that excited the interest. But she had never allowed him to open it.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You were going to tell me.’
She looked at him and wondered why she had felt she owed him anything. She didn’t love him. Oh, she had thought so at first. He was so good-looking. Thick red hair swept back from a fine face. A voice that came from his boots. He looked as though he should have led a Bohemian existence in the Paris of the nineteen-twenties. And he had seemed so caring and sincere at first, with all his deeply held views on social justice. Social justice! she thought with irony. The only social justice he was interested in was his own. He was so possessive about everything: his job, his future, his life. And she was just another of his possessions. The only reason, it occurred to her, that he hadn’t already given up on her was because he would have counted it a failure. His failure. And David couldn’t bear to fail at anything. And, yet, in spite of it all, there was something about him she still liked. She shied away from the idea that it was the sense of safety she felt with him. She wanted to believe it was more than that.
‘Well, are you going to tell me or aren’t you?’ he asked. She sipped her gin then took a deep breath and told him. Everything. The mews house in Chelsea where there was never any reply, the searches through the phone book, the visit to the Sergeant’s house, everything that he had told her, everything she had told him. David listened gravely, just letting her talk. It occurred to him that it would make a good feature for one of the Sunday papers, then he was shocked that he had even thought of it and realized how little he really cared. It worried him, sometimes, how little he felt for other people, how little their problems touched him. Life was all a performance, the way you were expected to behave. And hurt was only what you felt, never what the other person felt. He decided to be sympathetic.
He sat down on the floor beside her, slipping an arm around her waist, squeezing her gently, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. He ran his hand back through her hair, then traced the line of her nose, lips and chin lightly with his fingers. The smell of her perfume, the warmth of her closeness, began a stirring in his loins and quickened his heart. What was it about her that made him want her so much? ‘Poor Lisa,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. You must have thought me very unsympathetic.’ For the first time he felt he was making progress. That she was on the point of opening up the book to him at last. And he relaxed as he felt her respond to his touch.
Lisa closed her eyes and felt the drink spinning her head. She should have known David would understand. But she’d been frightened to give him the chance. He’d been so antagonistic when she had gone to see the lawyer.
Now, just having told him felt good. Someone else to share the weight of it all. She felt his lips on her neck, gently brushing her skin. His breath sent a shiver down her back. He bit her softly and she felt the first stirrings of arousal. She turned her head towards him and his lips found hers, barely touching. He kissed her — a light, loving kiss. Then again. This time more fiercely. She felt herself responding, felt his hand slip under her top and push up her bra, felt it warm on her breast. A thrill ran through her, leaving her weak. She pushed herself against him and they slipped over gently on to the floor, the softness of the rug beneath them, the warmth of the fire on their skin. His mouth was everywhere. Her lips, her neck. Her bra had come away, her top pushed up. She heard herself moan, a distant voice that belonged to someone else. She felt him hard against her leg. She opened her eyes and saw him looking down at her, the strangest look on his face, eyes burning with a passion so violent that suddenly it frightened her. She went cold.