My gasp brought Poppy to a halt. I didn’t waste time saying things like ‘Sam would never do that.’ I didn’t point out that it was hardly likely Jilly would appreciate anything I had to say and there was a good chance that she would be very angry. Or I might be very angry. Or that I had no wish to interfere. Or, even, it might be Jilly who found someone else. Instead, in simple acknowledgement of my Other-Womanness, I said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Would you? Would you?’ Poppy was surprised by her own success. ‘You don’t mind?’ She rattled on: ‘I know it’s a long shot but I couldn’t think of anyone else. Or, rather, you seemed the best person… and everything seems a bit muddled at the moment.’
There was sufficient upset in Poppy’s voice for me to take a risk. I took a deep breath. ‘How’s the poker?’ I asked. ‘Are you winning?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Then she fell silent. Finally she said, haltingly, ‘Does Dad know?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve said nothing. It isn’t my business. But he and your mother are worried about you.’
Poppy began to cry and I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Eventually, I heard, ‘I’m going to have to ask Dad for money. I’ve had a bit of a bad patch…’
‘No, you’re not,’ I flashed back. ‘He has worries enough about money as it is. You know he does. Can’t you ask Richard?’
‘No.’ Poppy sounded terrified. ‘I can’t.’
‘I won’t let you bother your father.’
Poppy stopped crying and her voice was icy cold as she said, ‘As you said, this is none of your business.’
‘Maybe.’ I rolled Poppy’s dislike round my head. ‘But it doesn’t alter the situation.’
We said goodbye, more or less politely, and almost immediately Deb was on the line. ‘Deb, you sound very cheerful. Have you won an Oscar or something?’
The words almost choked Deb, so anxious was she to spill them. ‘Actually, I spent the evening hooked up with Chris Sharp. Quite by chance. He’s fascinating. Done lots of things.’
I supposed – correctly – that this information was the real point of Deb’s call. ‘Chris is your new best friend.’ I tried to make it sound like a question, not a statement.
‘My new best… yes, friend. What I was calling about is Middle Age’ Deb’s incredulous lilt underlined how remote it was from her own situation. ‘There’s a whole new lot of stats come in, one of which gives a rather shocking percentage of widows living below the breadline. Might be something you should build in?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
‘By the way,’ Deb added, ‘does the name Rose Lloyd register with you?’
‘No,’ I said. No, no, no. ‘I mean, yes. She’s my husband’s first wife.’
There was a small silence. When it was clear I was not going to elaborate further, Deb said, ‘Someone mentioned her as a possible presenter for my city-gardens edition. I’m having trouble finding anyone and apparently she’s considered good news. I think I might pursue it’
‘I thought Barry wasn’t keen on the idea?’
‘I’m not giving up on it,’ Deb said stubbornly.
When the phone rang yet again, about one o’clock, I pushed aside my notes with resignation.
‘This is Sam.’
‘And what can I do for you, Sam?’ If my voice was a trifle hysterical, it was to be expected.
He was taken aback. ‘Are you all right? You sound a bit odd. Is Dad home? I’m trying to track him down and the office said he was on a personal lunch but his mobile’s turned off.’
‘He isn’t here,’ I said, cheerfully enough, but unease and suspicion were running invasive fingers down my spine.
‘Oh, well, not to worry. He’ll be somewhere.’ Sam sounded positive. ‘Did he tell you about my new job? It’s a big leap but I have an idea it’ll work out. Jilly isn’t so happy but I reckon, if I can get her out there, she’ll settle. If not, we’ll just have to improvise… or maybe Jilly can come out every six months. We’ll miss each other, of course.’
‘Sam… do you think that’s wise?’
His tone cooled. ‘We’ll manage, but thanks for your concern. Are you sure you don’t know where Dad is?’
But I was no longer listening. As soon as I could, I terminated the conversation. I was aware, of course, that old habits died hard. That’s how addiction clinics make most of their profits. On the warm summer evening when Rose had brought me to number seven to meet Nathan for the first time, the three of us had discussed loyalty and Nathan had said, ‘You end up being loyal simply because you’ve known someone a long time.’
Rose and Nathan had known each other for ever and there was nothing I could do about it.
I really imagined I’d cracked the problem of the future when I offered Nathan the alternatives to habit of a glossy body, hot blood, excitement, a – to quote Rose – ‘comforting gaze’. I pictured our life together like postcards: a firelit winter scene with snow outside; sunny uplands, with hay baled in neat lines. I had imagined, too, that tenderness and laughter lasted.
I snatched up my bag and keys and found myself in the car, driving down the street, telling myself I had no idea where I was heading.
I lied.
As I approached the river, I lowered the window and smelt the sludge of low water. The city unravelled before me: dirty, assured and industrious, new buildings springing up like dragon’s teeth in every empty inch. This was the city I admired, and melted into. It hustled and busded: unsentimental, indifferent, surviving the knocks. It did not crave love.
There was a space outside Rose’s flat, and I slid the car into it. I turned off the engine and dropped my head into my hands. I considered what I was doing. I considered switching the engine back on and driving away. I considered how badly spies were rated in the food chain.
After a while I raised my head. The building on which I focused was a tiny, pretty, flat-fronted Georgian house with large clean windows.
And there was Rose. She was sitting in what appeared to be the bedroom of her ground-floor flat talking to someone out of sight. She was dressed to go somewhere smart, in a black linen skirt and tiny jacket to which was attached a fake camellia corsage.
She picked up her brush, ran it through her hair and the sun caught a glint of diamonds in her earlobe. Then she shook her head in an impatient gesture, ran her fingers through her hair. She looked grave – the exchange between her and the unseen person appeared to be intense.
Just discernible in the corner of the window, the bed was covered with a blue and white vintage quilt. Very pretty, very Rose. Rose sat down on it.
Had Nathan occupied that bed? Had he sneaked away from the office with a bottle of champagne? Had he drawn his first wife down on to the blue and white expanse and placed his lips on her bare shoulder as he had on mine? Had he propped himself up on his elbow and asked ‘Can you forgive me, Rose, for what I did to you?’ Or, had he murmured, ‘I can’t live without you’?
Was he sitting there now, out of sight?
I turned my head away, so sharply that my neck protested. Rose might have been beaten by the circumstances of her life but, plain as day, she had not. I don’t know quite what I had envisaged – that she should live out her life on some prison ship with hard labour? And I have no idea why I thought that someone to whom I had done such wrong should suffer more. But I did.
I could taste my hatred and despair, and I could smell the musky odour of sweat springing under my arms in the heated car. I turned back to look through Rose’s sparkling windows, and I was peering into my mind’s secret mirror, with its reflected darkness and turbulence.