Nocturne (40 page)

Walking back to Napier Road, I took a detour through the park off
Lordship Lane. After the recent heatwave, the grass was parched and
brown and I settled myself on a bench, feeling fat and bewildered,
replaying a phone call in my head. The phone call had come from
Brendan in Australia. When he
’
d rung to tell me he
’
d been delayed,
there
’
d been no explanation, no small ta
lk, none of his usual gush, and
the moment I
’
d risked a little intimacy he
’
d rung
off. At the time I
’
d
thought that was strange, wholly out o
f character, but only now did I
remember that Sandra, too, had go
ne missing. The weekend Brendan
hadn
’
t come home was the weekend
she
’
d so abruptly disappeared.
Who was to say she hadn
’
t left the c
ountry? What was to stop them
meeting abroad? At some agreed location?

The harder I thought about the coincidence, the more convinced I
became that something must have happened.
It was after the Australian trip that Brendan had started to duck and dive again, to cloak our relationship in a thin tissue of evasions.
We were both maniacally busy
and it had taken me a while to reali
se how distant he was becoming.
But tracing it backwards, I ha
d absolutely no doubts that his
Australian trip had been the start of it all.

Next to the sandpit was a phone box. I dialled Andi at Doubleact.
Two little black girls were trying to build a fairy castle. When Andi
answered, I told her what I thought was the date of the mystery
weekend. She
’
d have access to payments made t
hat month.
What
might the computer tell her? I hung on while she dived into the
accounts file. A minute or two later, she was back.

‘
You
’
re right,
’
she announced breathlessly.
‘
We were invoiced for a
return ticket to Singapore.
’

‘
In whose name?
’

‘
Sandra
’
s.
’

‘
Did she book anything else?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
What?
’

‘
Three nights at the Hyatt Regency.
’

‘
Single or double?
’

‘
Double.
’

I thanked her and hung up, remembering the voice of the operator
the morning Brendan had phoned to tell me he
’
d been delayed. She
’
d
sounded oriental. Of that, now, I was quite certain. I leaned back
against the door, looking across at the sandpit. The fairy castle had
collapsed.

I returned home to find a huge bouquet of fresh flowers on the hall
carpet at the foot of my door. Beside it, nicely wrapped, was a present
of some kind. Shamefully, I thought at once of
Brendan
but there was
no way he could have let himself in unless, of course, Gilbert had
opened the door to him. I glanced up the stairs. Gilbert
’
s door, f
or once was open.
He was standing just inside,
stooped but cheerful.

‘
For you,
’
he called.

I picked the flowers up. Just smelling them reminded me that there
was a life out there beyond the events of the last week or so.

‘
You
gave me these?
’

Gilbert nodded, stepping out onto the top landi
ng, absurdly proud
of himself.

‘
I
did,
’
he said.

‘
Why? What have I done to deserve them?
’

He smiled at me, indicating the other present. I was to take it inside
and open it. He was sorry about everything that had happened. He
hoped we
’
d be happy now.

The latter phrase, an echo of a Gilbert I wasn
’
t keen to remember,
confused me. I
took the flowers through to the
kitchen and laid them in the sink. Whe
n I opened the present, I found
myself looking at a tin of DIY stuff ca
lled Permafil. According to the
instructions, this was ideal for st
opping up holes in plasterwork,
partitions, and other damaged surfa
ces. It needed minimal prepara
tion and could take umpteen layers of paint.
I looked up at the wreckage of my tatty old
ceiling, wondering what this funny man was trying to tell me. Had he
been listening to me and Gary this morning? Had he heard us talking
about Brendan? About the shambles of my private life? Had he put
two and two together and come up with an answer to why I was so
suddenly back in residence?

I concluded that he had and I spent th
e rest of the afternoon perched
on a chair, bunging layer after layer
of Permafil into my hole in the
ceiling. The stuff was putty-like and at first it just fell out but I
managed to find a little piece of plywoo
d to wedge in the gap and after
that it was pretty easy. By six o
’
clock,
with the help of the remains of
the white emulsion, the ceiling looked as good as new.

Upstairs, I presented Gilbert with the tin.

‘
Done,
’
I said.
‘
And thanks for the thought.
’

Gilbert shook his head. I was to keep the tin. Just in case.

‘
Just in case what?
’

‘
In case it happens again.
’

‘
But it won
’
t, will it?
’

He returned my look and then - quite suddenly - burst out
laughing. I was so totally unprepared t
hat it made me physically jump.
He put a restraining hand on my arm.
To my surprise it felt warm and
reassuring.

‘
Keep it,
’
he said again.

As I turned to go, I remembered the LP I
’
d found.

‘
Tell me about that record of yours,
’
I said.
‘
Montparnassse
.
You
never mentioned you were famous.
’

‘
I
wasn
’
t.
’

‘
You were,
’
I insisted.
‘
You were released. You were in the shops.
You must have been. That
’
s where I found it.
’

He shook his head.

‘
I
was a fool,
’
he said, confirming wh
at I
’
d learned about Palisade.
‘
I
thought you could take short cuts, you know, cheat. You can
’
t though.
They won
’
t let you.
’

‘
Who won
’
t?
’

He fixed me with one of his long, earnest stares.
‘
Them,
’
he repeated darkly.
‘
Tu
comprends
?
’

I didn
’
t understand, but it wasn
’
t something that bothered me any
more
. Leaving Doubleact, and Brendan, had been such an enormous
bump in my road that every other obstacle just fell away. Real
madness was Brad Pitt, I
’
d decided. Compared to him, and what he
represented, Gilbert was sanity incarnate. He
’
d welcomed me back.
He
’
d bought me flowers. He
’
d even, to my face, said sorry. If I was
looking for a new start, and I was, then here was the opportunity.

I spent the weekend with my mum in Petersfield. I knew I
’
d been
neglecting her since moving up to London but I
’
d always told myself it
wasn
’
t my fault. To make amends, I took her across to Winchester and
we spent an idle afternoon browsing through the shops. She has a
passion for a tweedy kind of look and we managed to track down a
rather nice skirt and jacket for her winter wardrobe. Even I liked it,
which probably signalled the onset of middle age, and over a
Hampshire cream tea my mother gave me the opportunity to take the
thought a little further.

‘
You
’
ve put on a bit of weight, dear. The rate you
’
ve been working, I
somehow thought you
’
d be thinner.
’

The waitress had just arrived with the cream tea. My mother wasn
’
t
overfond of cream but strawberry jam had always been her favourite. I
watched her loading the spoon.

‘
I
’
m pr
egnant,
’
I announced casually.
‘
I
meant to tell you.
’

The spoon wavered over the waiting scone. Despite the size of me,
she obviously thought I was joking.

‘
Honestly,
’
I said.
‘
Seventeenth
of
December, to be exact.
’

My mother was flabbergasted. She wanted to know everything. She
never touched the scone. After I
’
d finished, she put a hand on my arm.
Had my father been alive, all this would have been extremely difficult.
As it was, mum was a brick.

‘
It must have been terrible,
’
she said.
‘
You should have phoned.
’

‘
Nothing to say, mum.
’

‘
It doesn
’
t matter. That
’
s what I
’
m there for. Now then, what are
you going to do?
’

The question, I realised at once, was a
declaration of intent. Without
a job, things could get just the teensiest b
it tricky. I
’
d be needing help.
Lots and lots of it.

‘
You can move back,
’
she decided
.
‘
It
’
ll be nice to have a baby
around.
’

I fought the urge to laugh. The thought of landing my mother with
an infant was a joke. The thought of landing her with me was even
funnier.

‘
I
’
ll be fine,
’
I said airily.
‘
It
’
s lovely of you to offer but I
’
m sure
things will work out.
’

‘
Work out where ? Where will you be ?
’