September (1990) (3 page)

Life moved on. But youth was over, and it was a different life. Gradually Noel came to terms with this and, at the same time, discovered that he was incapable of sustaining his final grievance against his mother. Nourishing useless resentment was far too exhausting. And at the end of the day he had to admit that he hadn't come out of it all too badly. As well, he missed her. During the last years he had seen little of her, closeted as she was in the depths of Gloucestershire, but still she was always there-at the end of a telephone, or at the end of a long drive when you felt you couldn't stand the hot summer streets of London a moment longer. It didn't matter if you went alone or took half a dozen friends for the weekend. There was always space, a relaxed welcome, delicious food, everything or nothing to do. Fires flickering, fragrant flowers, hot baths; warm comfortable beds, fine wines, and easy conversation.

All gone. The house and garden sold to strangers. The warm smell of her kitchen and the good feeling that somebody else was in charge and you didn't have to make a single decision. And gone was the only person in the world with whom you never had to put on an act or pretend. Life without her, maddening and capricious as she had been, was like living a life with a ragged hole in the middle of it, and had taken, he recalled wryly, some getting used to.

He sighed. It all seemed a long time ago. Another world. He had finished his whisky and sat staring out into the darkness. He remembered being four years old and having measles, and how the nights of illness had seemed long as a lifetime, each minute lasting an hour, and the dawn an eternity away.

Now, thirty years later, he watched the dawn. The sky lightened and the sun slid up from beneath the false horizon of cloud, and everything turned pink and the light was dazzling to the eye. He watched the dawn and was grateful, because it had chased away the night, and now it was the next day and he did not have to try to sleep. Around him, people stirred. The cabin crew came around with orange juice and scalding face towels. He wiped his face and felt the stubble on his chin. Others collected themselves, found wash-bags, went to the lavatory for a shave. Noel stayed where he was. He could shave when he reached home.

Which, three hours later, he did. Weary, dirty, and dishevelled, he clambered out of the taxi and paid the driver off. The morning air was cool, blessedly cool after New York, and it was raining lightly, a dampening drizzle. In Pembroke Square the trees were greening, the pavements wet. He smelt the freshness and, as the taxi drove away, stood for a moment and thought of spending this day on his own, recovering. Having a nap, taking a long walk. But this was not to be. There was work to be done. The office and his chairman waited. Noel picked up his bag and his brief-case, went down the area steps and opened his own front door.

It was called a garden flat because at the back of it French windows opened out onto a tiny patio, his share of the larger garden of the tall house. In the evening the sun fell upon it, but at this early hour it lay in shadow, and the upstairs cat was comfortably ensconced in one of his canvas chairs, having apparently spent the night there.

It was not a large flat but the rooms were spacious. A living-room and a bedroom, a small kitchen and a bathroom. Overnight guests had to sleep on the sofa, a tricky piece of equipment which, if resolutely approached, folded down into a second double bed. Mrs. Muspratt, who did for him, had been in while he was away and so all was neat and clean, but airless and stuffy.

He opened the French windows and chased the cat away. In his bedroom, he unzipped his suitcase and took out his wash-bag. He undressed and dropped his soiled and crumpled clothes onto the floor. In the bathroom he cleaned his teeth, took a scalding shower, shaved. By now he needed, more than anything, black coffee. In his towel robe and barefooted, he padded into the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on, spooned coffee into his French coffee-pot. The smell of this was heartening and delicious. While the coffee filtered, he collected his mail, sat at the kitchen table and leafed through the envelopes. Nothing looked too urgent. There was, however, a garish picture postcard of Gibraltar. He turned it over. It had been posted in London and was from the wife of Hugh Pennington, an old school friend of Noel's, who lived in Ovington Street.

Noel, I've been trying to ring you, but no reply.

Unless we hear to the contrary, we'll expect yo
u f
or dinner the thirteenth. Seven-thirty for eight.

No black tie. Love, Delia.

He sighed. This evening. Unless we hear to the contrary. Oh well, by then he'd probably have got his second wind. And it would be more amusing than watching television. He dropped the postcard onto the table, heaved himself to his feet, and went to pour his coffee.

Shut in the office, in conference for most of the day, Noel lost track and sight of what was happening out of doors. Finally emerging and driving home through rush-hour traffic that did not rush but moved at the pace of an arthritic snail, he saw that the rain of the morning had been blown away by the breeze and it was a perfect May evening. By now he had reached that state beyond exhaustion when all is light and clear and strangely disembodied, and the prospect of sleep seemed as far away as death. Instead, another shower, a change of clothes, and a drink. And then he would not take his car but walk to Ovington Street. The fresh air and exercise would whet his appetite for the excellent meal that he hoped was waiting for him. He could scarcely remember when he had last sat at a table and eaten something that was not a sandwich.

The walk was a good idea. He went by leafy back roads, residential terraces, and gardens where magnolias opened and wistaria clung to the faces of expensive London houses. Coming out into the Brompton Road, he crossed over by the Michelin Building and turned down into Walton Street. Here his steps slowed as he paused to look in at the delectable shop windows, the interior decorators and the art gallery that sold sporting prints, hunting scenes, and oil paintings of faithful Labradors bounding through the snow with pheasants in their mouths. There was a Thorburn that he craved. He stood longer than he intended, simply looking at it. Perhaps tomorrow he would ring the gallery and discover its price. After a little, he walked on.

By the time he reached Ovington Street, it was twenty-five to eight. The pavements were lined with the cars of the residents, and some older children were riding their bicycles up and down the middle of the road. The Penningtons' house was half-way down the terrace. As he approached it, a girl came down the pavement towards him. She had with her, on a lead, a small white Highland terrier and was apparently on her way to the post-box, for she carried ^ letter in her hand. He looked at her. She wore jeans and a grey sweat-shirt and had hair the colour of the very best sort of marmalade, and she was neither tall nor particularly slender. In fact, not Noel's type at all. And yet, as she passed him, he gave her a second glance because there was something vaguely familiar about her, and it was difficult to think where they might once have met. Some party, perhaps. The hair was distinctive. . . .

The walk had tired him and he found himself sorely in need of a drink. With better things to think about, he put the girl out of his mind, went up the steps, and gave the bell a token push. He turned the handle to open th
e d
oor, with a greeting ready and waiting. Hi. Delia, it's me. I've arrived.

But nothing happened. The door remained firmly closed, which was odd and out of character. Knowing that he was on his way, Delia should surely have left it on the latch. He rang the bell again. And waited.

More silence. He told himself that they had to be there, but already knew with hideous certainty that nobody was going to answer the bell and the Penningtons, damn their bloody eyes, were not at home.

"Hello."

He turned from the inhospitable door. Below, on the pavement, stood the dumpy girl and her dog, back from posting the letter.

"Hi."

"Did you want the Penningtons?"

"They're meant to be giving me dinner."

"They've gone out. I saw them going off in their car."

Noel digested, in gloomy silence, this unwelcome confirmation of what he already knew. Disappointed and let down, he felt very much ill-disposed towards the girl, as one usually does when told something perfectly horrible by another person. It occurred to him that it couldn't have been much fun being a medieval messenger. There was every chance you'd end up without a head, or else employed as a human cannon-ball for some monstrous catapult.

He waited for her to go away. She didn't. He thought, shit. And then, resigned, put his hands in his pockets and descended the steps to join her.

She bit her lip. "What a shame. It's miserable when something like this happens."

"I can't think what's gone wrong."

"What's worse," she told him, in the tones of one determined to look on the bright side, "is when you arrive on the wrong night, and they're not expecting you. I did that once, and it was dreadfully embarrassing. I'd got the dates mixed up."

This did not help. "I suppose you think I've got the dates mixed up."

"It's easily done."

"Not this time. I only got the postcard this morning. The thirteenth."

She said, "But this is the twelfth."

"No, it isn't." He was quite firm. "It's the thirteenth."

"I'm terribly sorry, but it's the twelfth. Thursday, the twelfth of May." She sounded deeply apologetic, as though the mix-up were all her fault. "Tomorrow's the thirteenth."

Slowly, his punch-drunk brain worked this out. Tuesday, Wednesday . . . damn her eyes, she was right. The days had run into each other, and somewhere he had lost track of them. He felt shamefully foolish, and because of this he instantly began to come up with excuses for his own stupidity.

"I've been working. Flying. I've been in New York. Got back this morning. Jet lag does ghastly things to your brain."

She made a sympathetic face. Her dog smelled at his trousers
. A
nd he moved aside, not wishing to be peed upon. Her hair in the evening sunlight was astonishing. She had grey eyes flecked with green and milkmaid skin, bloomy as a peach.

Somewhere. But where?

He frowned. "Have we met before?"

She smiled. "Well, yes, actually. About six months ago. At the Hathaways' cocktail party, in Lincoln Street. But there were about a million people there, so there's no reason why you should remember."

No, he wouldn't remember. Because she was not the sort of girl that he would register, would want to stay with, or even talk to. Besides, he had gone to that party with Vanessa, and spent most of his time trying to keep track of her, and stop her from finding some other man to have dinner with.

He said, "How extraordinary. I am sorry. And how clever of you to remember me."

"Actually, there was another time." His heart sank, fearing to be faced with yet another social gaffe. "You're with Wenborn and Weinburg, aren't you? I cooked a directors' lunch for them about six weeks ago. But you wouldn't even have noticed, because I was wearing a white overall, and handing round plates. Nobody ever looks at cooks and waitresses. It's a funny feeling, as though you are invisible."

He realized that this was true. By now feeling more friendly towards her, he asked her name.

"Alexa Aird."

"I'm Noel Keeling."

"I know. I remembered from the Hathaways' party, and then for the lunch, I had to do a placement, and write names on cards."

Noel cast his mind back to that particular day and recalled in satisfying detail the meal she had produced. Smoked salmon, a perfectly grilled fillet steak, watercress salad, and a lemon sorbet. The very thought of these delights caused his mouth to water. Which reminded him that he was ravenously hungry.

"Who do you work for?"

"Myself. I'm free-lance." She said this quite proudly. Noel hoped that she was not about to embark upon the history of her career. He did not feel strong enough to stand and listen. He needed food, but, more importantly, he needed a drink. He must make some excuse, take his leave, and be rid of her. He opened his mouth to do this, but she spoke first.

"I suppose you wouldn't like to come and have a drink with me?"

The invitation was so unexpected that he did not immediately reply. He looked at her and met her anxious gaze, and realized that she was, in fact, extremely shy, and to come out with such a suggestion had caused her some courageous effort. As well, he found himself uncertain as to whether she was inviting him to the nearest pub or to some grotty attic pad filled with cohabiting colleagues, one of whom would doubtless just have finished washing her hair.

No point in committing himself. He was cautious. "Where?"

"I live two doors down from the Penningtons. And you look as though you could do with a drink."

He stopped being cautious. "I do."

"There's nothing worse than arriving in the wrong place at the wrong time, and knowing that it's all your own fault."

Which could have been more tactfully put. But she was kind. "You're very kind." He made up his mind. "I'd like that very much."

Chapter
3

The house was identical to the Penningtons', except that the front door was not black, but dark blue, and a bay tree stood in a tub beside it. She went ahead of him, opened it with her key, and he followed her indoors. She shut the door behind them and then stooped to unfasten the little dog's lead. The dog instantly went to drink copiously from a round dish that stood, handily, near the foot of the stairs. The dish had dog written on it.