Fire After Dark (5 page)

Just the thought of Hannah (my God, I’ll never be able to forget seeing her lying there naked, her breasts bare with dark nipples crowning them, her belly damp with sweat) and the ice cream curdles in my mouth. I put the tub down, annoying De Havilland by leaning across him. He stretches out his claws and sinks them lightly into my bare leg, just enough to let me know he doesn’t like my change of movement, and then relaxes them.

‘Ouch, you naughty puss,’ I say, but not crossly. The little pinpricks of his sharp claws are not unpleasant and, in a way, they bring me back to the present. ‘Stop it. I’m sorry. I won’t disturb you again. Now, I want to watch.’

Mr R is taking the bottle out of the ice bucket. The woman picks up the glasses from the table and holds them. She’s laughing and saying something as Mr R rips the foil from the bottle neck and starts untwisting the wire cage around the cork. He’s laughing too. No doubt she’s witty and intelligent as well as beautiful and stylish. How come some people get all the good fairies turning up and loading on the blessings? It’s just not fair.

It’s weird observing them but being able to hear nothing. I’ve got visual with no audio and it’s making me want to find the remote and check I’ve not muted the volume by mistake.

The cork pops silently, white spume erupts from the bottle. The woman holds out the glasses and Mr R pours the froth into each of them, waiting for it to settle into golden liquid. He puts the bottle down, takes a glass and they raise the flutes to one another before sipping. I’m watching so hard that I can almost feel the prickle of bubbles across my own tongue as they drink. What is their toast? What are they celebrating?

In my imagination, I hear him say, ‘To you, my darling.’ I bet she thrills to the sound of his voice saying something so intimate and sexy. I want to be a part of their world so much, it’s all I can do to fight the impulse to jump up and wave, and then, when they noticed and opened the window, to ask if I could come over and join them. It looks so calm, happy, so adult. I watch them drink and talk, move to the sofa and sit down while they talk some more, and then watch Mr R go out of the room, leaving the woman on her own. She takes a call on her mobile phone, leaning back on the sofa as she speaks and listens. Then her face suddenly changes. Her expression is harsh, cruel and proud, and she begins to talk rapidly and, I sense, loudly. After a quick tirade into the phone, she ends the call with an emphatic tap of the screen and a toss of her head.

Mr R comes back into the room carrying some dishes of food. Surely he could hear her, she was obviously talking loudly, if not actually shouting – but they are quite normal, still smiling at one another. She gets up off the sofa and comes over to the table to inspect the food, while he goes out again and returns a second later with more dishes. I can’t see what they contain but four seem to be enough. They begin to settle down at the table, and I watch them almost longingly, wishing somehow I could be there. Not just with them, but part of a different world altogether, one with more grace and style than my own ordinary existence.

The evening light is fading and the room I’m staring into is getting brighter and more vivid as the twilight deepens around it. Then Mr R gets up, walks over to one side of the window and looks out. I hold my breath. He’s looking straight at me, surely he must be able to see me . . .

What’s he going to do?

Then, suddenly, the view is gone. A white blind has dropped down, softly but sharply, blanking out my view just like that.

I breathe out, feeling bereft. They’ve gone. I didn’t switch them off, they switched me off. Behind that blind, their charmed life goes on while I’m left outside by myself.

I can’t believe how alone I feel. I lay my hand on De Havilland’s body, feeling its warmth, trying to get some comfort from the serene sleep pulsing through him. But I want to cry.

Chapter Three

The next day I sleep late, which is unusual for me. When I push back the curtains, the sky is a flawless blue and warm sunlight floods everything. I spend a lazy morning doing odds and ends, singing along to the old transistor radio as I finally finish unpacking my bags and tidy up the kitchen. I had meant to make my trip to the National Gallery and then walk down to Westminster Abbey, but somehow the morning slips away. At lunchtime, I make a sandwich and grab an apple and decide to find a way into the gardens down below and eat my lunch there.

The porter is friendly and tells me how to get through the back door to the gardens. The only way in is through the apartment building so the gardens are exclusive to the people who live there. I head out, walking along the shadowed gravel walkway, my gaze flicking up to where Celia’s flat is, and across to where Mr R lives, but soon I’m out in the sunshine. The building widens out around the large green space that has been made into a magnificent garden, like a miniature park. There’s a well-tended area with flower beds and plants laid out with benches and a fountain, and then a stretch of grass that’s been allowed to grow a little long and hazy, like a lazily tended lawn that’s on the brink of becoming a meadow. Beyond that is a pair of tennis courts, well kept and evidently often used. A couple of ladies are gently knocking a ball back and forth to one another.

I take my rug, found in Celia’s hall cupboard, and put it down on the cool grass near the tennis courts. The thwack of the ball on the strings and the occasional shout of ‘sorry!’ is rather comforting, and I settle down to my lunch and my book as the sun blazes down, the light moving slowly across the lawn, dousing first my toes and then my calves in sunshine. By the time it reaches my thighs, I’ve finished my lunch and am lying sleepily on my rug, half reading my book and half dosing. I’m only vaguely aware that the ladies have gone and that their gentle ping-ponging of the ball has been replaced by a different, forceful hitting, and masculine grunts and shouts.

‘Good – follow that forehand through. Come in to the net! Volley, volley, volley!  . . . Excellent, good work.’

It’s a tennis coach shouting instructions at his pupil. The voice floats over my consciousness. I’m mostly aware of the brightness of light on my closed lids and the heat of the sunshine, and don’t even notice when the voices and the shots stop. The first I know of it is when the light on my eyes darkens and I feel the slight coolness of a shadow falling upon me. I open my eyes, blinking, and realise that someone is standing over me. It takes a second or two before I can focus: whoever it is glowing like an angel and I realise that it’s because they’re wearing white. Tennis whites.

Oh my God. It’s him. Mr R.

Before I can do much more than stare upwards at him, noticing that his dark hair is pushed damply back and that his nose is glistening with beads of sweat –
he’s even more breath-taking like this
– and that he’s staring straight at me, he speaks.

‘Hello again,’ he says, and smiles.

‘Hi,’ I say, breathless, as though I’m the one who’s been playing tennis, not him.

‘You’re the girl I saw yesterday, aren’t you?’

I struggle up into a sitting position, not wanting to talk to him while lying flat, but I still feel at a distinct disadvantage as he towers over me. ‘Yes,’ I manage.

He comes down to my level, crouching beside me. Now I can see close up those amazing eyes under the strong black brows, and he seems to be taking in everything about me. I feel very vulnerable to his gaze. He says, ‘And you’re staying in Celia’s flat. I’ve made the connection now, I saw you there a couple of nights ago.’ His smile fades and his expression becomes concerned. ‘What’s happened to Celia? Is she okay?’

His voice is low and musical and in that smart, well-educated accent, I can catch a slight foreign intonation but I can’t place it. Maybe that explains his dark looks. As he moves, I get a wave of warmth from his body heat. It’s sweet and salty with his exertions at the same time.

‘Yes, she’s fine. She’s gone away for a while and I’m looking after her flat.’

‘Oh, okay.’ His face clears. ‘I was worried there for a moment. I mean, I know she’s amazing for her age, but . . . well, I’m glad to hear she’s all right.’

‘She’s . . . fine,’ I finish again lamely.
Come on, talk to him, impress him!
But the picture that floats into my mind is that of the polished woman in his flat the night before. Lying on my picnic rug, still dazed with sleep, I’m pretty fair from that.

‘Good.’ He sends me another dazzling smile. ‘Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. Just let me know if you need any help.’

‘Okay,’ I say, wondering if I’d ever have the courage to do such a thing.

‘I mean it. Don’t be afraid to ask.’

‘Yes . . . thanks . . .’

‘Goodbye for now.’ He stands up, regards me for one long moment, almost as if waiting for me to say something else, then turns away.

‘Bye.’

Was that the best I could manage?
I want to groan out loud.
Talk about making an impression, Beth. You had marginally more conversation than the park bench over there. He’d have got more sparkling wit from the fountain.

But, honestly, what do I really think is going to happen? A man like that will be interested in me? I can’t even keep my boyfriend and anyway, I remind myself, he’s taken.

Then, as he walks away, heading back towards the building, his tennis lesson over, he suddenly stops, turns round and looks at me again. His stare lasts only a few seconds before he turns back on his way, but it’s long enough for me to feel a pleasurable thrill spreading out over my body. Is it my imagination or did his look mean something more than just friendliness? His proximity is having a strong effect on me. My drowsiness has gone and the buzzing summer life around me makes me feel lighter than I have in a long time. I squeeze my toes in the cool tickling grass as I watch him disappear into the door of the apartment block, then look back towards the tennis court where the coach is retrieving tennis balls.

Lucky tennis balls, being whacked by Mr R,
I think, and laugh.
Okay, so I’ve got a crush. I might as well enjoy it. It adds a little something to my summer. And it can’t do any harm, can it?

That tiny exchange creates a golden glow to my whole day. In the afternoon, I go for a walk and discover the grandeur of Piccadilly, with the imposing and famous institutions along it: the Ritz, Fortnum & Mason, the Royal Academy. I wander down St James’s Street, passing old-fashioned shops: milliners, vintners, purveyors of leather luggage and cigars; I walk between grand, castellated houses and find myself on the wide expanse of the Mall. At one end I can see Buckingham Palace, while before me is an idyllic-looking park. I’ve found the heart of tourist London, the dream of red, white and blue and monarchy. There are so many different aspects of this enormous city, and this is just one. I walk through the park, watching children scampering about, feeding ducks, playing on the swings, and then find another face of London: the Houses of Parliament, dark, gothic and craggy, sitting alongside the ancient pale majesty of Westminster Abbey, where I’d planned to come this morning. Tourists mill around the area and queue to get into the church. I decide not to join them, but watch for a while, wondering what they make of this place, before I head for home, returning the way I came.

That evening, she’s back.

The blinds are up now, and I can see clearly again, so I eat my supper sitting in my chair by the window, watching as Mr R and his girlfriend carry on their silent movie for my entertainment. They sit at the table and share a delicious-looking meal, talking and laughing together. I’m prepared for this to follow the same pattern as last night – the sudden dropping of the blinds just when it might get interesting – when something unexpected happens. They get up from the table, the woman picks up a jacket and puts it on and the next moment, they are heading out of the sitting room, Mr R switching off the light as they go.

Where are they going? What’s happening?

I’m startled by the sudden change of expected events. And then a crazy impulse overtakes me. I jump up, tipping a sleepy De Havilland off my lap, and run to the hall cupboard. I’ve already seen that Celia has a motley collection of hats and coats there, and I grab a vintage Burberry trench coat and run out. The little lift is on my floor and a moment later, now in my improvised disguise with my hair loose and the coat collar high, I’m stepping out into the foyer just in time to see the front door close and Mr R and his girlfriend heading down the steps towards the streets.

What am I doing? I’m a spy now?
I feel excited but also aghast at myself. What if they see me? What if he recognises me and wants to know what the hell I’m doing following him? Can I bluff it? Who knows – but it’s too late. It’s madness but now that I’ve started, I’m going to see it through. I want to know where they’re going, I feel, strangely, as though I’m part of their life now, and they’re part of mine. Besides, they’ll probably hail a cab any moment and roar off away from me and I’ll head back to the flat and try and regain my sanity.

But they don’t.

Instead they walk through the back streets, talking to one another in voices that I can’t make out, taking what is evidently a familiar route though it’s completely foreign to me.

If I lose them, I’m going to be in trouble. The map is in my bag back at the flat and I don’t have the faintest idea where I am.

The darkness makes it all the harder to distinguish direction and take note of landmarks, particularly when I’m intent on keeping their figures in my vision without getting too close. I’m lurking behind them at what I hope is just the right distance. I have no idea whether I’m fading into the background or sticking out like a sore thumb. Let’s hope they don’t decide to turn around suddenly . . .

They walk on, the woman’s high-heeled shoes tapping loudly on the pavement. She’s wearing a dark dress today with a well-tailored jacket over the top, while Mr R has kept on his business suit, not needing a coat or jacket in this hot weather. In fact, I’m the one who looks conspicuous in a raincoat, considering that most people around us are in T-shirts and light tops.