The Company of Fellows (19 page)

After 20
minutes he was already bored, and started playing counting games
with the cars. When he had finished this he played colour bingo
with patients’ shirts, and number and letter games with car number
plates. Soon he was bored again and longing for a book, although
that would, of course, have defeated the object of the
stakeout.

Finally, just
as he was beginning to be very glad that he wasn’t actually a
private investigator, or a paparazzo, or any other job that
involved sitting still and not being able to do anything, he saw
Stephen Knightley emerge from a black BMW in the staff car park. As
Tommy had figured, the Dr seemed in no particular hurry to start
his shift.

“
Dr
Knightley,” he called, walking to cut him off at the
entrance.

“
Hullo.”

Tommy held out
his hand. “We met yesterday. Sorry if I gave you a
fright.”

“
Yes. Becky
Shaw’s young man, quite right. What can I do for you?”

Tommy would
have put him right about his relationship with Becky; but without
missing a beat he realised that it was the perfect way into the
conversation. “Well, I was wondering if you had a
moment.”

“
Not really,”
said Knightley unconvincingly. “Can it wait?”

“
That’s the
thing,” Tommy said. “It would be able to wait, but I’m having
dinner with Becky tonight.” Tommy lowered his head in a suitably
conspiratorial way and gave off just the right amount of gaucheness
to leave Knightley in no doubt as to what he meant by
dinner.

“
Mm. I see.
Coffee, quickly. My office. Come on, then.”

Tommy followed
through the open, sterile corridors of the Women’s Health Centre,
with its playful patterns in the safety flooring and peppering of
Tonka trucks that had long since ceased to serve any real purpose
other than giving health and safety risk assessors something to
waste paper on.

“
Can I get
your coffee?” Tommy asked as they drew up to the League of Friends
café.

“
I said
coffee. Not pig’s platelets.”

Knightley
opened his office door, and switched on the light and the kettle
simultaneously. On top of a filing cabinet he kept a cafetiere and
some individually wrapped packets of ground Columbian roast, two of
which he put into the pyrex. Tommy could guess what he kept in the
top drawer of the cabinet – several bottles of something
considerably cheaper and nastier than the Speyside and Islay malts
that Tommy could see on the shelves over Knightley’s desk.
Something he wasn’t so keen to let the visiting professors and the
Trust directors see. “Well, what do you want to know? Not sure I
can be much help in, er,” he coughed, “that department. Known Becky
since she was, well, longer than anyone else. Not sure it would be
appropriate.”

“
Good Lord,
no.” Tommy laughed. “It’s just rather awkward. I was a student of
Charles Shaw’s many years ago. I know Becky, but I don’t really
know anything about Haydn, or her relationship with her father come
to that, and I got the impression from seeing them together that
there were some issues. Areas where I might do well to tread
carefully so as not to muddy the waters. And I’m afraid that you
happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” That may have
been a misplaced attempt at humour, he thought, as he saw the
colour go from Knightley’s face. Or maybe it was just the lack of a
drink. Tommy got up and went to the window, leaving his back turned
just long enough to allow Knightley time to fumble in his top
drawer if he needed. “I’m afraid you’re the only person I can think
of to talk to.” Tommy meandered back to his chair, keeping up the
show of suitor’s nerves.

“
Well. Very
good. Coffee, black I’m afraid.”

“
Thank
you.”

“
You’re right
of course. Bloody awful business leaving her like that.”

“
Becky’s told
me her parents divorced when shortly after she was born. That was
all she said.”

Tommy guessed
from the glad intake of breath as Knightley sipped his coffee that
at least half the liquid wasn’t water. “Didn’t tell you why then?”
said the Dr.

“
No, but I’m
hoping you might be able to. I really don’t want to land myself in
it.”

“
Quite right.
Quite right. Little shit. Not you. Well, you might be, don’t know.
He was, though. Becky had a twin, you know?” Tommy had anticipated
this and looked suitably surprised. “No, didn’t think you did.
Haydn got very ill just before she was due.” He tipped the rest of
the coffee down his throat and looked as though he needed more of
whatever was in it. “Had to do a Caesarian on her. That shit
Charles was in London. Said he was going to an art auction. Becky’s
twin didn’t make it. Carol. Nothing I could do. Nothing. If he’d
been there.” Knightley was shaking and the redness of the broken
capillaries on his cheeks had spread across his face. “Came to see
her next day. Bold as brass. Thought he was going to apologise. He
walked in and screamed the place down. Said it was her fault for
working too long – just jealous of her. Always had more talent than
he did. Made her feel it was her fault Carol died, but I’ve blamed
myself for it every day since. Well, you can see, stuck here coming
in on Saturdays when all the old college boys are nine to fiving in
Harley Street. Finished me off. Only person that never blamed
themselves was that little shit.”

“
Maybe he
did,” Tommy said, standing up and walking over to the filing
cabinet. Knightley had stopped shaking and Tommy thought he was
about to start sobbing. Tommy opened the drawer, poured a large
Teacher’s into Knightley’s cup, put the bottle back, and sat down
without saying anything. Knightley smiled. “Maybe that’s why he
killed himself.”

“
That’s
bollocks.”

“
I’m sorry, I
shouldn’t ask but you sound like you don’t believe he was at an
auction the night Becky was born.” Tommy ran through the list of
auction catalogues he had found amongst Charles’ papers, and
realised he didn’t know when Becky’s birthday was. He made a note
to ask her later. Not that a catalogue proved anything.

“
Philandering
little shit. Ran through the brightest things in every
year.”

“
So why did he
marry Haydn? For his career?”

“
Career,
bollocks. Married her because she said yes. He asked every bloody
one of them. She was the first who said yes. God knows why he
wanted to be married. Worst husband I ever met. Didn’t even play
the game.” Knightley paused. He looked confused, as though he had
got lost somewhere along the thread, and then he started again, as
though he had remembered where he left off. “Advice, yes. Watch out
with Becky. Survivor’s guilt”

“
Thank you, Dr
Knightley.” Tommy got up to leave. He looked at how much of the cup
Knightley had emptied. He didn’t think he needed to worry that the
doctor would be straight on the phone to Becky and Haydn to check
the details of Tommy’s story.

“
Lovely girl,
Becky. Lovely girl.”

“
Yes,” said
Tommy. “She is.”

“
Be gentle
with her.” Tommy thought that Knightley flushed redder than even
the drink had made him. It almost made him choke back something in
his throat, a part of him that was moved by the sight of someone
who had spent much of their life slowly rotting momentarily peeling
away the decay to reveal something unspoilt. But then that was the
problem, he thought. That small kernel of something good that
refused to die. That was why someone like Knightley couldn’t just
carry on after something like that as though nothing had happened.
It was the residue of goodness that drove some people to destroy
themselves whilst others flourished.

*

Knightley
waited long enough to make sure that Tommy was gone and picked up
the phone. “I need to see Hedley tonight,” he said. “Tell him to
meet me at Vincent’s at 7.”

____

27

The line
somewhere along which a half-truth between spouses becomes a lie
becomes an infidelity is one of the grey moral relatives that
people grapple to define every day. But when one’s life is lived by
absolutes the line writhes and twists in one’s soul until
eventually it breaks free in anguish.

Emily watched
David dishing the lasagne and tried to understand what felt wrong.
She told herself she would feel the same if she were going to have
a drink with Rosie, but that wasn’t true. She told herself she was
satisfying her professional curiosity, but that wasn’t true either.
If either had been true she would have told David and ridden out
his sighs of half-hearted disapproval. She had no romantic interest
in Tommy, and she knew that David, for all his huffing and puffing,
would believe her absolutely when she said so. So why not tell him?
Did she really want to see Tommy more than she wanted to be
truthful with David, or was that the wrong question? She wasn’t
sure she wanted to see Tommy at all. For some reason she needed to.
Maybe she’d find out why when she saw him.

“
See you
later,” Emily kissed David on the cheek. “Love you.”

“
Love you too.
Take care.”

The Anchor on
Polstead Road wasn’t somewhere David’s friends would go. At the
heart of North Oxford society, it was the regular watering hole of
the creative, green and bohemian set, very different from David’s
solid, dependable, predictable friends. It was also just around the
corner from Tommy’s house, which gave her an excuse to pick him up.
She was curious to see what he had done with the house since he
turned designer, to see what made him tick. She parked up and got
straight out. She was sure he would be watching for her so there
was no time to get a feel for the place. The main drive was neat
enough, with plenty of parking space for customers, but it was
clear that he was more of an indoor designer than a gardener. It
was another thing they didn’t have in common.

She wondered
which door to go to. There was a main door, with a little chrome
plaque saying “Tommi” in deep purple ink, in the cursive
handwritten signature that formed his logo. She knew there was
another door round one side that connected to what had looked like
his living room, and it looked like there was a similar arrangement
the other side.

“
Where the
body was,” Tommy shouted down from the top floor window.

Emily craned
her neck and gave him the thumbs up and went round. He was holding
the door open for her by the time she got there.

“
Hi,
Em.”

“
Hello,
Tommy.”

“
I’m
guessing,” he said, removing her coat, “that you want the
tour.”

“
And why would
you guess that?”

“
Well, it’s
not too hard to park wherever you want after six, so I’m sure
you’ve come up here rather than going straight to the pub for a
reason.”

“
OK, Tommy,
give me the tour, but I can’t be late home.”

“
I wouldn’t
dream of delaying you.”

Emily was
surprised how easily they fell into conversation.
Familiar rhythms and cadences, no searching for
the right way to put things.
She didn’t
remember it being this easy when they were together. There had been
too many agendas at work. She wondered what agendas were at work
now, of his and of hers, and straightaway the rhythms felt a little
less easy.

“
Do you keep
up the running?” he asked.

“
Sometimes.”

“
Good. Follow
me and I’ll give you the whizzy tour.” He was already off up the
stairs two at a time and had the door open onto what used to be the
top flat.

The whizzy
tour lasted about four minutes. It was a good job she hadn’t been
casing the joint, she thought. She wouldn’t have stood a hope of
remembering how the labyrinth of passages and doors interconnected.
She was sure she hadn’t been through the same door twice, but she
seemed to have seen every room. Some of it was functional – the
bits she could have guessed from the Tommy she had known at college
like the sweaty, decrepit gym and the vast kitchen stuffed with
pans. Part of her was surprised that neither exercise nor cooking
had turned out to be a fad. The rest of the house seemed a world
away from what she had imagined. It had some of the most beautiful
rooms she had ever seen. She had always thought of Tommy as a bit
of an arty bohemian student with too much of a fondness for throws
and eclectic art posters, but the taste and the fineness of his
brush took her breath away.

“
This place
must have cost a small fortune.”

“
Not that
small, really.”

“
So how on
earth did you afford it?”

“
Well,” said
Tommy. “Some of it’s cheating – freebies from people who want me to
show off their stuff. And the rest: well, I might be a poncy
designer, but it’s also a business. Get the basics right and it’s
not alchemy.”

“
The
basics?”

“
Well,
actually, apart from making sure your client always pays you before
you pay your supplier, there is only one basic in a business like
this. There’s no money to be made in the middle of the market.
Beyond that it’s up to you whether you pile ‘em high and sell ‘em
cheap or focus on the very best of everything. You just have to be
ruthlessly consistent about it and most designers aren’t. They’re
too afraid of turning down work, but it’s exactly like many other
things, a question of tipping points. Look at the product you sell
that’s closest to the middle of the market. As soon as it reaches a
certain proximity to the centre of the bell-curve all your business
will follow it, and you get dragged into the cutthroat world of
competition. Keep it as far away from the centre as you can and
your customers will go as far down the tail as you want them to.
Sorry, I’m boring you.”