Some clients seemed to know Beth as well, and I saw a different side of her, a glow about her, confidence, as she flirted with the men or gossiped with the women. As I listened to her – and it was impossible not to – I came to realize I had entered a different world, a richer one than mine, with its own rules and standards and culture.
Of the visitors, several were smartly dressed women who seemed to have a lot of time on their hands. I might have felt a jab of resentment at this if I hadn’t forced myself into this situation. Anyway, the less Frances and Beth did, the more chance I had to learn something. I sat on the far side of the room, with my back to them, my head in my hands, covering my ears so that I could concentrate.
Shortly after three I heard a visitor come in. I was faintly surprised to hear a man’s voice and looked round, and was jolted.
It was Hugo Livingstone. A man I had seen just once, at the inquest. For a moment I was pointlessly and ridiculously angry: what on earth was he doing there? Then I cursed my stupidity. He was Milena’s husband. Wasn’t it natural for him to visit his dead wife’s office? Hadn’t I done the same thing myself? I tried to think of a way, any way, of getting out of the room without him seeing my face. I could crawl; I could climb out of the window. But I knew it wasn’t possible. All it would take was a glance. The idea of being seen, recognized and forced to attempt an explanation was so terrible that I felt feverish anticipating the nuclear explosion of exposure and embarrassment.
I tried to continue working or, rather, to make it look as if I was working. I bent over some papers as if I was scrutinizing them with particular attention. Other people had come and gone without paying me any heed. If I could just sit tight, maybe he’d go away. I tried to make out what he was after, but he was speaking in a mumble from which I could only hear the occasional word. There was no such problem with Frances. I heard murmurs of sympathy and talk about the chaos she was in, and then I knew what was coming.
‘Oh, that’s Gwen,’ she said. ‘She’s been an absolute treasure. She came from nowhere and she’s sorting things out. Gwen?’
Frozen in panic, I grasped for something, anything, that could prevent me having to turn round. There was no trap-door, no rope to climb, but my mobile phone was on the desk. Switched off, so nobody could ring me. I picked it up.
‘That’s right,’ I said into it. ‘Could you check it? Yes, it is urgent. Yes.’
I turned my head about half a degree and raised my free hand in a gesture much like the one I’d seen from Frances earlier. I hoped it meant, ‘Sorry, I’d love to be introduced, but I’m caught up in this absolutely crucial phone call and can’t possibly be disturbed.’ I decided I was talking to a builder who was doing some emergency work on my bedroom. I tried to picture him at the other end of the line so that I would seem more convincing. I continued to say yes and no, to murmur half-sentences. Even though I was becoming more and more used to living in a fantasy world, and now a fantasy world within a fantasy world, it still sounded pathetic and unconvincing to me.
In the gaps between my fatuous outpourings, I tried to listen to what Frances was saying. My fear was that she would tell him I had been a friend of Milena’s and then he really might stay, however long I remained on the disconnected phone, to find out how I knew her. But then Frances started talking about people I had never heard of, and after a few minutes more I heard footsteps, then the front door opening and closing. I made myself continue the conversation for a bit longer. ‘So we’ll talk about the colours when we meet?’ I said brightly, loudly. ‘That’s great. Maybe I’ll see you when I get back… Oh, you’ll be gone, then? All right, tomorrow. ’Bye.’
‘Everything okay?’ Frances said sympathetically.
‘It’s my so-called builder,’ I said. ‘You know how it is.’
I hoped desperately that Frances did know how it was, because I couldn’t bear to lie any more. There would be too much falsehood to fit into my brain. She just nodded. I don’t think she wanted to find out too much about my life.
I really was organizing the company’s papers. I wasn’t lying about that. But at the same time I was also jotting down every reference to where Milena had been on a particular day. If I compared it to the chart I had constructed for Greg, perhaps I could find somewhere they had been together, or nearly been, or a route that had crossed. It didn’t have to be a night in a hotel, it could be a train, a petrol station. Indeed, as I worked I decided I would stop off at the stationer’s on the way home for more card and coloured pens and that I would make a separate chart for Milena.
I worked with such concentration that when I heard Frances say my name it was as if I had fallen asleep and woken up to find the world dark.
She wasn’t alone. A man was standing with her, tall, distinguished, rich. He made me feel dishevelled and a little ill-at-ease. He must have been in his mid-fifties, with short dark-grey hair, silvering at the edges. He was wearing an overcoat with a navy blue scarf.
‘This is Gwen, my good fairy,’ said Frances, and once again I had to stop myself looking round to see where Gwen was. ‘This is my husband, David.’ He gave me a slightly wry smile and held out his hand. It was beautifully manicured but, then, everything about him looked beautifully manicured, his hair, his black leather slip-ons. His handshake was dry and limp.
‘David, you’ve got to persuade Gwen to stay.’
He regarded her coldly, then gave a small shrug. ‘Don’t you see how much you’re valued?’ he said, in a voice that managed to combine sarcasm with indifference.
‘It’s just a holiday for me,’ I said.
‘Funny sort of holiday,’ he said.
‘She’s a maths teacher,’ said Frances.
‘Oh,’ said David, as if that explained everything.
‘Time to go,’ said Frances. ‘But wait a second.’ She went to her desk and scribbled on something. Then she came back and handed me a cheque.
‘I can’t take this,’ I said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I really can’t take it.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘You mean the tax? David, could you give me your wallet, darling?’
He sighed and handed it over. She riffled through it, pulled out some notes and offered them to me. I wanted to say no but I thought that a person who comes and works for you, sorting out your office, then refuses any payment, stops looking like a saint and starts looking a bit creepy, maybe even suspicious. I took the money. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Tomorrow?’ she said.
‘Tomorrow, at least,’ I said.
We left the house together.
‘You know how we all love you,’ said Frances.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said.
‘I mean, Johnny completely adores her,’ she said to her husband, who smiled distantly and moved away from the hand she laid on his arm. I saw her wince as she registered the slight. She was too eager with him, I thought, and too anxious, while he treated her with something close to contempt. I felt a spasm of pity for Frances – a beautiful woman in her privileged life, yet she was clearly unhappy.
The old lady behind the counter at the Oxfam shop in Kentish Town Road seemed disconcerted when I gave her the banknotes and said I didn’t want to buy anything. She tried to make me take a dress or even a book, but I wouldn’t be persuaded and she reluctantly gave up. I left feeling as if I’d been shoplifting, but in reverse.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Do you think,’ I asked, ‘that it would be a good idea for me to go through Milena’s emails and check there aren’t any more nasty surprises waiting to jump out at you?’
Frances had just discovered that she and Milena had been expected at a client’s large house in Kingston upon Thames to discuss plans for her daughter’s wedding. Even from the other side of the room, I could hear the woman’s voice coming down the phone, high and irate.