The Missing World (25 page)

He jumped up, so filled with insights that he had to share them. “Felicity,” he said when she answered the phone, “remember the roof I was doing for Trevor in Highbury? The woman who was sick?”

“Hold on a minute.” He heard the receiver being set down, then the little surge of it being lifted again. “Who’s ill?”

He’d forgotten how brisk she could be at work.
Quarter to
six outside Warren Street tube. Order me a prawn korma
. That was the limit of her conversation while she sat at her desk, helping immigrants apply for welfare. “This woman I told you about, the one who lost her memory and has seizures.”

“Is she having one now?”

“No, no, I’m at home. I just—”

“Freddie, can we talk about this later?”

He hung up and wandered into the kitchen. The puppies squealed and wriggled, nature’s way of stopping him from putting them on the barbecue. He picked up what he thought was Virginia, looked more closely and recognised Georgia’s crooked ears. She licked his hand with tiny, warm, wet slaps. Four hundred quid. Unbelievable. He’d give ten, twenty tops. Ounce for ounce, she compared favourably with certain drugs. No question, there was something weird about buying and selling a living being, even a dog.

He put her down squarely on all four paws, as Mrs. Jackson had stressed, and she started scuffling with Connecticut. One of the things Felicity used to say she admired was his talent for living in the present. All this talk about the past and the future, she said, goes right by you. He protested that he liked her stories about the suffragettes, the riots. But not, she pounced, the personal stuff. Watching her cat-and-mouse smile, he’d felt a door close between them. It wasn’t fair, he knew, but that she didn’t sense what he so carefully concealed made her seem more distant. Didn’t she realise he had a secret?

As Agnes gave a warning growl, he pictured the room of heads. Mr. Early, that was who he needed to talk to, not Felicity. He went through his roofing papers until he unearthed the Vulture Video flyer on which he’d written the details of their first phone call. Only when he heard Mr. Early’s voice—“Freddie, how are you?”—did he understand the oddity of
what he was proposing. I’m treating him like a priest, he thought, or a shrink. “I wanted to ask you something,” he said.

“I’m all ears.”

“I don’t mean like this.”

“Oh, I see. In person, as they say.” Complete silence followed. Anyone else would have asked why, or expressed irritation. “How about tea?” Mr. Early suggested, as if entirely at his own inspiration. “Would four o’clock suit?”

“For me?” said Mr. Early. “Why, thank you, Freddie. Daffs are my favourite spring flowers.”

At the sight of the green-skinned buds in his host’s pale hands, Freddie felt the meagreness of his offering. They’ll open tomorrow, the man at the flower stall had assured him, puffing disconcertingly on a stogie.

“I got us some cakes, too. Kiplings’ Bakewell Tarts.”

Mr. Early again expressed thanks, and led the way inside. Freddie concentrated on the room of heads. Somehow he believed the conversation would go better in their presence. His heart crashed as they turned towards the kitchen, then recovered as Mr. Early said, “Let me put these in water and make the tea. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to keep working. It doesn’t mean you won’t have my undivided attention. My hands have their own brain, like those dinosaurs.”

While Freddie arranged the tarts on a plate, a nice piece of Limoges, Mr. Early installed the daffodils in a crystal vase and made the tea. “If you could carry the flowers,” he said.

The room was even more crowded than last time and the tang of glue was gone. In the centre of the worktable sat a box of what Freddie at first took to be centipedes; on closer inspection, eyelashes. “Where should I put these?” he asked, hoisting the flowers.

“On the mantelpiece. No, how about the table by the window? It’s cooler.”

Soon they were seated, tea poured, tarts served, Mr. Early at his worktable doing something intricate with an ear, Freddie beside the fire. “Well,” said Mr. Early, and Freddie would’ve bet a hundred bucks he was going to ask the purpose of his visit, but this was London, not Cincinnati; Mr. Early was enquiring about Agnes.

After Freddie’s brief summary, he said, “Splendid,” and reached for a small brush. “I’m working on a consignment for Glyndebourne. Have you ever been? They did a gorgeous
Marriage of Figaro
last year, though you had to sell your granny to get in. I’m hoping for some free tickets this time around.”

He continued to talk, about his assistant who’d fallen in love and the radio interview he was doing next week. Watching his nimble fingers bend and flex the material, Freddie found himself casting back to the story of the two designers. Surely there was no way Mr. Early could tell a lie. Anybody would see the shadow through his smooth pink skin.

“So?” said Mr. Early, when the second cup of tea was poured, and Freddie understood that even here some explanation was required. He stood up and carried his cup over to the rows of heads. A sly-eyed woman with full, pouting lips regarded him quizzically. The bee-stung look, he thought, surprising himself. “Do you ever pretend they’re alive?”

“Not exactly. I often name them, but that’s to keep them straight. Isn’t that right, Lavinia?” Mr. Early gave the head he was holding a shake.

“I know someone who’s in trouble. I don’t know how to help.”

“Oh,” Mr. Early sighed crisply, “helping. Not my subject. Can one person ever help another? Often I think the answer is a resounding no.”

His hands never hesitated; it really was as if they had a separate brain. Just for an instant, though, Freddie wondered if his host was vexed. But now that he was launched, he couldn’t stop. He spilled out the story of Hazel, so far.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” said Mr. Early. “You’ve met a woman who as the result of an accident has lost part of her memory, and you’re convinced that she’s being held captive by the man she used to live with.”

Put like that it seemed crudely melodramatic. “She’s obviously not happy with this guy.”

“From what you’ve told me”—Mr. Early reached for a clamp—“you’d scarcely expect her to be singing ‘The Sound of Music.’ Even if the two of them go at it hammer-and-tongs, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. People have the most unusual arrangements, domestically speaking.”

He swivelled the head a hundred and eighty degrees and turned his attention to the other ear. He sounded like Felicity, Freddie thought: cool, analytical, entirely failing to grasp a certain mysterious level of life. And suddenly, the knowledge was as tangible as the sly-eyed head, he understood that he wasn’t in love with Felicity, and that pretending was turning him into a jerk. Hadn’t she told him, in twenty different ways, that she wanted to have kids? His mother, several thousand miles away, was right: Felicity did not have his heart. The revelation was strangely calming.

He returned to his seat and made a second attempt. “I know it’s weird, but suppose she’s being kept against her will and she’s too sick to get away. What then?”

Mr. Early’s hands actually paused. “Then, I don’t know. People who are ill do need to be taken care of. Has she mentioned wanting to leave?”

Freddie thought back to their last conversation, him dangling on the ladder, Hazel in her bathrobe. What had she said?
That she wasn’t feeling too hot, was a bit muddled. “Not really, no.”

“Well …” Mr. Early’s hands were moving again.

“I see what you’re saying—I’m sticking my nose in where I’m not wanted. Still, there are times a person might need rescuing without knowing it.”

“Indeed there are.”

Freddie stared at his glowing head, disappointed. He had thought Mr. Early would have the answer, yet here he was as wishy-washy as everybody else.

His host looked up with a small smile. “Freddie, be reasonable. I’m not going to tell you to kidnap some woman from a house in Highbury. Your willingness to be a knight in shining armour is splendid. But right now, it doesn’t seem there’s anything to be done. Not until Hazel asks.” Using a razor blade, he began to trim the earlobe. “Helping other people is admirable, but maybe the person who needs help is yourself.”

Freddie perked up. Finally, Mr. Early was sounding like his old self, and just then the phone rang. He cooed and exclaimed, asked after the health of his caller, and dictated a shopping list. Vaguely listening—“the feathers have to be blue”—Freddie wondered if Mr. Early ever left the house, and with that thought came another. Since he wasn’t a father confessor, just an ordinary, busy guy, why was he giving Freddie the time of day?

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Early, hanging up. “I hate to do that when I have company, but I need the materials first thing.”

“Couldn’t you get them yourself?”

“Given how much I make per hour, no.”

“I was wondering,” said Freddie, “why you put up with me.”

“You Americans, there’s no stopping you.” He leaned back, scrutinising Lavinia. “There’s a mirror in the hall. If you want the answer, stop and look on your way out.”

• • •

A piece of ice slid down Charlotte’s back when Bernie told her what she’d done, but thanks to the several drinks she’d had at the Trumpet—courtesy of Bill, a TV repairman and a real doll—only one. “I already have a job,” she grumbled. “Two: child care and reading to your patient. I don’t have time to traipse all over London trying out for some crappy play.”

“Yes, you do.” Bernie was at the sink, rinsing dishes, her remarks punctuated by the rush of water. “The play sounds perfect for you. I can help you rehearse your party piece or whatever you do on these occasions, and what’s more I’ll give you a beta blocker so you won’t get the shakes.”

“How do you know I get the shakes?” Further speech was curtailed by the sight of her cereal bowl, still sitting on the counter from that morning, a little circle of reproach; she hastened to retrieve it.

Bernie took the dish from her. “Anything with more brain cells than an amoeba,” she said, deftly inserting the bowl into the dishwasher, “would guess that the reason you mess up these auditions is because you’re nervous.”

Charlotte retreated to the table. She had been out most of the day, enjoying her old freedoms, going to the coffeehouse, visiting her favourite charity shops, although with her clean clothes it was harder to justify purchases, and later taking the bus to Kilburn and the Trumpet. Everything had been perfectly satisfactory—she’d timed her return for after the rug-rats’ bedtime—and then she was greeted by Bernie waving a piece of paper. Guess what? Renee had phoned with a message about auditions for a new play in Battersea, and Bernie had taken it upon herself to phone back and assure them of Charlotte’s presence.

“They still remember how good you were in that play last
year,” she said, wringing out a dishcloth. “The woman I spoke to was very keen you should come.”

“That’s just what they say to get you there. Then they mow you down like cannon fodder. Besides, Battersea is miles away.”

“Less than an hour, door to door.”

Charlotte watched Bernie’s ponytail swishing as she wiped the counter. How could she explain that one moment she had everything under control, was driving down the road straight towards her destination, and the next a roadblock loomed and she was on some mysterious detour? For a while after Walter left, she had turned her grief into art. She believed if she acted well enough, if she got glowing reviews, if everyone said how brilliant she was, he would have no choice but to come back. Together they would open the door to the empty bedroom, make love on the floor, and, giggling like teenagers, go out to buy a new mattress.

That belief had sustained her through the rest of the Ibsen run, and the play Bernie’d seen in Battersea. Then, at a party Ginny had dragged her to, a last night at the Royal Court Theatre, there he was: large as life, breathing, palpable. Without stopping to think, she pushed her way across the room. “Charlie!” He bent to kiss her cheek, and the next thing she knew he was introducing her to the tall, fair woman at his side. “Hi,” Kerry said. “Walter’s told me so much about you. Heard you were great in
A Doll’s House
.”

Charlotte had backed away, people parting before her, as if she carried a leper’s bell. Out in the street, her memories stopped. Did she go home, or visit someone, or pick up a man in Victoria Station? She had no idea. Twenty-four hours vanished, and the following night the ASM had to shove her onto the stage and prompt every speech. The next audition she’d gone to, she blacked out in the toilet.

Now her sister thought she could fix all this with a pill.
Beam me up, Scotty
. Charlotte found herself remembering Hazel and the missing desk, nothing like the way memories surfaced in plays and films—as if the person were giving birth to something horrific. What would it be like, she wondered, if she lost all memory of Walter? Woke up in an empty flat with a room she never used and no idea why? Just for an instant, she thought, This is better.

Bernie sat down across the table. “You know,” she said, “I’m not completely oblivious to your feelings. Sometimes I even envy you. I mean, I care about Rory and we’ll probably get back together, but if it weren’t for the children, I’d let him go. The way you feel about Walter is how we all hope to feel. None of this late-twentieth-century nonsense: if one person doesn’t work out, move on to the next.”

The salt shaker needed filling and the pepper grinder had a smear. Two pink butterfly barrettes lay beside the pepper, and Charlotte kept her eyes fixed on them.
I must, I must, develop the bust
.

Bernie was talking again. “You don’t need to ruin your life to prove you love Walter. Why not show him what a fool he’s been by acting well? He can’t take that away from you, Charlie.”

Which showed how stupid Bernie was, for hadn’t Walter already done so? Still, the remark about envy echoed in her ears. Was it possible she had something her sister wanted? “Okay. I’ll give it a shot. Maybe your pills will do the trick.”

And Bernie, for once, was perfect. She didn’t gloat or go smug. In fact she said something so surprising that Charlotte, momentarily, forgot her own distress. “I wouldn’t recommend them if I hadn’t found they helped.”