Nocturne (18 page)

Brendan, when he came back, sensibly laid the subject to rest. He
’
d
taken a couple of shots of the guys on the jet skis and he
’
d gone up the
road a
nd got the number of the 4x4
they
’
d been driving. Neither
had volunteered a name but the photos of the incident should be pretty
conclusive and he planned to send the file to the local police. They
’
d
doubtless be in touch, and they
’
d probably want a
detailed
statement from
both of us. When he decanted the Rioja and raised his glass the toast
was to windsurfing. Mine, not his.

‘
You were sensational,
’
he said.
‘
Like something out of a movie.
’

‘
What were you expecting?
’

‘
I
’
ve no idea. I
’
d never really thought about it. Windsurfing?
’
he
shrugged.
‘
Piece of piss. You just get on and off you go. Like riding a
bike.
’

‘
Really?
’

‘
Yeah.
’
He nodded ruefully.
‘
Some fucking bike.
’

He had the grace to laugh. Overhead, I could hear Gilbert softly
running through a series of scales on his flute, and I thought briefly
about my conversation with Frankie in the Queen
’
s. But that, like
drowning, seemed to belong to another life. For now, all I wanted was
to be warm, and cosy, and talked to.

Brendan was telling me about what had happened with Sandra.
Apparently they
’
d had an enormous row because Brendan, for once,
had answered back. The way he described it, this was a new
development in their relationship, the result of advice from his
therapist. She
’
d told him he needed to get back on terms with himself.
He needed to stand tall, fight fire with fire. This is exactly what he
’
d
done and Sandra had responded exactly the way his therapist had
warned, by moving the goalposts.

The argument had begun over the loading of the dishwasher.
Brendan, in Sandra
’
s view, was fa
r too cavalier. Brendan had dutifully
raised the stakes and within minutes, inflamed, the issue was whether
or not the marriage deserved to survive. In Sandra
’
s view, it most
certainly did, but emphatically on her terms. Brendan
’
s line was a little
more radical.

‘
I
told her to stuff it. I said I
’
d had enough.
’

‘
Enough of what?
’

‘
Enough of everything. Enough of her going on all the time. She
’
s a
fascist, Jules, an absolute nightmare to live with.
’
He nodded.
‘
And
she
’
s obsessed, too.
’

‘
By what?
’

‘
Money. How we can save it. Why we need more of it. How we can
chisel out an extra quid or two. Jesus, it
’
s not like we
’
re broke, Jules,
believe me.
’

‘
I do.
’

‘
Quite.
’
He nodded.
‘
You should try it some day.
’

‘
Wealth?
’

‘
Marriage.
’

‘
No, thanks.
’

He looked at me over the rim of his glass. He
’
d never been the
slightest bit interested in the small print of my love life but now was
obviously the time to start. I tried to let the invitation pass, but he
wasn
’
t having it.

‘
How about you?
’

I shrugged. A mouthful or two of Rioja had begun to detach my
brain from the rest of me. I heard myself talking about university,
about my lecturer friend, and about where - in my wildest moments -
I
’
d thought the relationship might lead. I didn
’
t spare him any of the
details, a candour I put down to delayed shock.

By the time I
’
d finished, most of the first bottle had gone. Brendan
was standing by the stove, stirring the bolognaise.

‘
You ever see him again?
’

‘
Never.
’

‘
Never tempted?
’

‘
Of course. But that
’
s not the point. The point is he ratted, bottled,
call it whatever you like. It was there for the taking, what we had, what
we
’
d built, but when it came to the crunch he preferred to go back to
his wife. In my book you get one chance, and one chance only. We
blew it.
’

‘
We?
’

‘
Yes, him and me. Had we been stronger, both of us, it would have
happened, I know it would.
’

‘
So how did you feel when he went?
’

‘
Awful. I felt awful.
’

I looked at him, wondering whether to add the bit about the malt
whisky and the sleeping tablets, but I knew I had to draw the line
somewhere. He was still my boss, for God
’
s sake. Why should he give
office space to someone who
’
d seriously toyed with ending it all?

Brendan slopped a little more wine into the bolognaise sauce.

‘
Did you blame yourself?
’

‘
Mostly. He was the one who would have suffered.
’

‘
How come?
’

‘
By losing his wife and kids, by taking that great leap in the dark.
’
I
bit my lip, hearing Harvey
’
s voice. Even the nig
ht he blew
me
out
, he made a
beautiful job of it.
‘
He understood
how to use
language,
’
I told Brendan.
‘
He
understood how powerful it can be. He abused it, like he abused
everything else, but he was a hard man to say no to.
’

‘
I
can tell.
’
Brendan was looking pensive.
‘
Did you love him?
’

‘
Very much.
’

‘
And do you still love him?
’

I thought about the question. Brendan was playing therapist now
but I was too drunk, and too tired to care.

‘
I
love the idea of him,
’
I ventured at last.
‘
I love some of the times we
had. I love what
I thought we could become. But the guy inside
?
’
I shrugged.
‘
Probably not.
’

Brendan was impressed. He
’
d even stopped stirring the sauce.
‘
That
’
s fucking honest, if I may say so.
’

‘
Thank you.
’

‘
Not at all.
’
Brendan frowned.
‘
This Harvey, has he ever
tried to get
in touch?
’

‘
Yes, lots of times.
’

‘
Recently?
’

‘
No, not since I
’
ve moved up here.
’

‘
Why not?
’

‘
He can
’
t. He hasn
’
t got the address. Or the phone number.
’

‘
But what would happen if he did ? Say he phoned ? Say he suggested
a drink? How would you cope with that?
’

‘
I
’
ve ho idea,
’
I
said wearily.
‘
It
’
s been a long time.
’

‘
But you might say yes?
’

‘
I doubt it.
’

‘
Why?
’

I frowned, trying to concentrate, trying to find the phrase that
would bring this conversation to an end. Finally, I realised that the
truth was all too simple.

‘
I don
’
t want to get hurt any more.
’
I closed my eyes.
‘
So maybe I
’
ll
just stick to windsurfing.
’

I heard Brendan
’
s soft laugh.

‘
You think
that
’
s
safe?
’

‘
Safer.
’
I yawned.
‘
Definitely.
’

Brendan left after we
’
d eaten. He didn
’
t push his luck about staying the
night and for that I was grateful. The moment I lay down in bed I
slipped into a long, dreamless sleep and by the time I awoke it was ten
o
’
clock in the morning. Hours late for work, I ran for the bus.

Mid-afternoon, my phone rang. It was Brendan. He sounded warm
and cheerful, nothing like as hectic as usual. After he
’
d checked that I
was OK, he said he
’
d forgotten his camera. He
’
d left it on the side in
the kitchen. Could I bring it into work tomorrow?

I did what he asked. Two days later, we had lunch together at a
bistro in Upper Street. He showed no signs of wanting to talk about his
marriage and I didn
’
t inquire further. After we
’
d resolved most of the
morning
’
s crises on
Members
Only
,
he produced one of those
photographic print envelopes you get from Boots.

‘
Take a look.
’

I began to open the envelope. His face gave nothing away. I emptied
the prints onto the table. Every one of them was black. No beach. No
windsurfer. No jet skis. No Julie. Just black.

I looked up.

‘
What happened?
’

‘
Fuck knows
.
’

I frowned, examining one of the prints.
‘
Was it the camera?
’

‘
No, I
’
ve checked it, ran another film through. Everything
’
s fine.
’

I thought of the lunatics on the jet skis, off the hook now. Might they
have interfered somehow? Opened the camera? Exposed the film?