‘It’s a small merchant bank, called the Halkin-Northrop.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I shouldn’t think you’ve heard of it.’
‘Halkin? Is that a family connection?’
‘More by name than much else, these days. We don’t own many shares any more. They give me something to do out of kindness.’
‘I don’t believe that! What do you actually do there? Chairman?’
‘No, gosh, I’m just a sort of consultant. I dabble away with my mathematics and every now and then if I get something right they give me a pat on the head and a biscuit.’
‘You do their accounts?’
‘No. I’m a statistics analyst. I study trends, patterns, assess the odds of risks. We do quite a bit of reinsurance financing – I have to try to work out things like how many people are going to be killed in road accidents over the next decade, how many in plane crashes and how many are going to get bitten by dogs.’ He
smiled wryly. ‘Or how many cavalry officers are going to get kicked to death by horses.’
‘Do many?’
‘It’s a very consistent figure.’
‘I’ve never been much good at maths.’
‘Have you ever been interested in it?’
‘No, I’ve never really thought about it very much – probably because I’m so hopeless at it.’
He looked reprovingly. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘Why?’
He patted the table with the palm of his hand, lightly but with a sudden look of zeal on his face, and leaned forward. ‘Because so many bright people do ignore it. So few teachers make it exciting at school – they teach it as just another boring thing you have to learn.’ His eyes brightened, coming alive like a dormant fire blasted by bellows. ‘Archaeology – beauty – symmetry. Think about the proportions of buildings, of vases, furniture. Mathematics and design are inseparable. The design of objects,’ he raised his side plate then put it down; ‘the design of the world.’
‘Of the world?’ she said.
He picked up his glass and swirled the liquid inside it. His eyes were alight and Frannie was captivated by his enthusiasm. ‘Mathematics is the most exciting thing of all. It holds the key to the universe.’
She looked at him and asked dubiously. ‘In what way?’
‘You said you’re a Libra. Do you read your horoscope?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you believe in fortune-tellers?’
‘I’m not sure. I suppose I do, a little.’
‘I’m a fortune-teller.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Do you have a crystal ball?’
‘No. Just a calculator.’ He smiled. ‘At a simple level, mathematics can predict the most extraordinary things.’
‘Like what?’ She leaned towards him.
‘I can tell you how many people are going to die next year, in every country of the world, in any kind of accident you can name. And from any kind of disease. What’s more, I’ll be more accurate than any seaside clairvoyant.’
Frannie savoured her spritzer then cupped her glass in both hands. ‘Except you can’t predict who the victims will be, can you?’
He smiled. ‘No, that’s right. Not yet.’
‘Not
yet
? You think you’ll be able to one day?’
‘There are patterns to everything. By understanding patterns you can make order out of chaos.’ He raised his glass. ‘I’m getting far too serious.’
‘No, I’m interested.’
He drank and then set the glass down with exaggerated care. ‘Tell me about your parents. What do they do?’
The time slipped by easily, almost unnoticed, as they chatted. Their table had become a private island where they sat alone, absorbed in each other and undisturbed except for the arrival of food and more drinks and the removal of plates, and at some point, even when Frannie already thought she was feeling far too drunk, a bottle of Sancerre was presented and poured. She became increasingly surprised at the things they had in common. Attitudes and interests. She told him how she had first become interested in archaeology as a child, from a book on the Romans at school, and had persuaded her parents to take her to stately homes and museums at weekends.
Oliver elaborated on his love of mathematics and how he believed that it was both an art and a science, one which could ultimately solve all the mysteries of the universe. She talked about her love of archaeology and how she believed that it was through uncovering the secrets of the past that the mysteries of the universe would be solved.
Finally, Frannie noticed there was no one left in the courtyard except themselves. She looked at her watch, and saw with shock that it was four o’clock.
Oliver took her back to the Museum in a taxi, and asked her if she would have a meal with him on Friday. She told him she would like that very much.
She hurried back up the steps into the shadow of the colonnaded portals, stepping on air, her guilt at being so late back cushioned by the haze of alcohol.
An hour later, as she began to sober up, she had a slight sense of unease about Oliver and she was not sure why. He seemed almost too good to be true. It was as if there was something about him that did not totally fit together; a piece missing from the equation. Something about himself that he wasn’t telling her, perhaps; that he was either hiding or holding back. And she was still bothered, also, by the feeling that she had seen him before.
Normally Frannie was confident and looked on the bright side and she found it unsettling to feel this way. All the more so as she realized quite how deeply she fancied him.
Debbie Johnson rang her late on Wednesday evening, curious to know how her date had turned out. Just back from her aerobics, Frannie tried not to say too much, afraid it might be bad luck to talk about it too soon. She promised to call her friend back on Saturday and report on Friday’s date.
As she hung up, the phone rang again. It was Oliver. He apologized for having made her so late in getting back to work on Tuesday afternoon and she told him it had not mattered, although actually she’d been carpeted by the unpredictable Declan O’Hare. They chatted easily. He asked her what she had been doing at work and she told him she had spent the day cataloguing Indian daggers and had then been to her aerobics class; and he said he had just got back from playing tennis. There had been a pause in which she had been tempted to say, ‘Why don’t you come over?’ but she did not want to seem pushy or too keen. It was enough that he had called. And she was secretly pleased that at nine o’clock he was at home and not out on a date.
On Thursday evening she washed her hair but could not settle down and relax. She was unable to concentrate on reading, or on the television and instead spring-cleaned the flat. She knew she was behaving like a besotted teenager and was angry with herself. But she could not help it.
On Friday she left work punctually at half past five and hurried home, having a sudden, uncustomary panic about what to wear. She unhooked the black dress, a high-street version of Chanel, which she had
decided on. She liked it because it was short and neat, but she was worried in case it didn’t make her look attractive enough for Oliver Halkin. She tugged several more outfits out, but nothing else looked right, so it was going to have to do.
A narrow rectangle of sunlight lay across the bedroom floor, touching the edge of the white rug she had bought in Petticoat Lane a few months ago to try to brighten up the room. Sometimes it could feel dark and oppressive even though the walls were white and the ceiling was high, and at times it had an atmosphere that made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. A window opened on to a basement well which only accentuated the subterranean feel of the room.
Frannie had hung a couple of Egyptian prints on the walls, and on the mantelpiece were her family photographs, as well as two small fragments of tessera that she had pocketed from one of the first digs she had ever been on, and which still gave her a thrill. In spite of all the objects she handled daily at the Museum, nothing quite measured the feelings she got from the few treasures of her own.
She had finished getting ready by twenty past seven and had forty minutes to kill. She looked around the sitting-room. Her efforts of last night had improved it a little. It was the first flat she had ever had of her own and she did not mind the cheap furniture and the drabness because it had given her freedom and independence. She always enjoyed playing hostess when her friends came round. But most of them were as used to the flat’s less-than-impressive air as she was. It was only now, with Oliver coming, that Frannie suddenly found herself gazing uncomfortably at the ugly vinyl sofa and armchairs, the dining-table with its peeling mahogany laminate, and the shabby net curtains.
The only stamp of her own personality on the room lay in the framed posters of past exhibitions at the Museum, her books and her pride and joy – a small, plain earthenware Roman vase that sat on the coffee table. It was pear-shaped and rather dumpy, with the handle and part of the rim missing, and had been carefully glued back together by the amateur archaeologist who had dug up the pieces in 1925.
Often Frannie wondered about the life of the Roman artisan who had made it, imagined what he or she had looked like. The clay indicated it had been made in Italy and brought over maybe by an immigrant like her own parents. She had paid five hundred pounds for the vase three years ago in the Portobello Road, on the day she had received the letter from the Museum telling her she had got the job. It had been a spur-of-the-moment bit of madness that had blown her savings, but she had never regretted it.
She switched off the overhead light, leaving just a table light and the wonky lamp standard and that made a further improvement, made the room seem almost cosy. Another year and she would buy somewhere of her own. It would be tiny but it would be tasteful, she resolved.
She picked the Jilly Cooper novel she had just started off the sofa, made a mental note of the page number and closed it, tucking it into her bookshelves, and pulled out instead a paperback of Guy de Maupassant short stories, which she opened and placed casually, face down, in the same position on the sofa.
As eight o’clock approached, Frannie began to feel nervous. She went into the bedroom, and felt a bit reassured by the girl who stared back at her from the mirror. The short dress showed off her legs and her
figure well. She had frown lines from anxiety so she deliberately relaxed and smiled. A sultry girl with dark, shiny hair that framed her face and touched her shoulders smiled back. The girl looked OK.
She looked great.
She went back into the sitting-room, sat down and picked up the Maupassant, glancing through, unable to concentrate. She could hear muffled gunshots ringing out from the television in the flat above. Her watch said eight-fifteen. Then eight-thirty. He wasn’t coming. Chickened out. Stood her up. Going to end up spending the evening watching the box.
Then she heard footsteps. A shadow crossed the curtains. The doorbell rang.
She jumped up, went into the hall and opened the front door. Oliver Halkin peered over the huge bunch of flowers in his hands, looking relieved that he had found the right place. ‘Sorry I’m so late,’ he said. He pushed the flowers forward as if he was slightly embarrassed by them. ‘I hope you – sort of like these –’
‘Wow!’ she said. Their scents blotted out for a brief moment the rank, humid smells of London at night, of unemptied dustbins, exhaust fumes and dust, reminding her that there was another world of parkland and countryside. ‘They’re gorgeous!’ She took the flowers, brought the heads close to her nose and inhaled deeply. ‘Thank you.’ She kissed him spontaneously on his cheek, but he made no response and the gesture left a moment of awkward silence between them.
He was wearing a navy double-breasted suit that looked good on him, a soft-collared blue shirt and a yellow tie. His hair seemed more carefully groomed than before and he was wearing black Oxfords that looked fairly new. The neatness of his appearance belied her original image of him. When she offered
him a drink, he looked at his watch, then back at her, expressionlessly.
‘I think perhaps we ought to make tracks – I booked for eight-thirty.’
‘I’ll just put these in some water.’ The flat suddenly seemed dingier than ever. She ushered him through into the living-room, then walked with a heavy heart into the kitchen, and ran the cold tap into the sink; a feeling of unease was establishing itself inside her. He seemed a bit distant.
As she went into the sitting-room she was pleased to see him staring with interest at the Roman vase.
‘Is this one of your finds?’ he said.
‘Yes – well – sort of – I found it in a shop.’ Her confidence had gone and she realized she was sounding stiff and nervous.
‘How old is it?’
‘About 50
BC.
’
‘Good Lord.’ He squatted and stared at it more closely. ‘I’ve got one very similar at home. I’d no idea it was as old as that. What would it have been used for?’
‘Probably for water or wine. I could have a look at it for you if you like.’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘I sometimes feel guilty about owning it.’
‘Why?’ He stood up again.
She shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s the same as I feel about the treasures locked away in the vaults in the Museum. That things from the past like this ought to be accessible to everyone – that maybe it shouldn’t be tucked away down here – a secret little treasure hoard.’
‘You could always open your flat to the public’ He grinned, fleetingly.
‘Great idea. England’s first stately basement!’
He laughed, and although it was a little forced, the atmosphere seemed to improve between them.
It was now dark outside. She followed him to a small Renault that was either grey or blue beneath a London patina of grime and dust; it was badly dented down the passenger side, and there was a row of holes where a chromium or plastic strip had been torn away.
He held the door for her, scooped a clutch of papers off the passenger seat, and she climbed in. The interior of the car was full of clutter. She carefully placed her feet between several library books that lay on the floor. A residents’ parking sticker, Borough of Chelsea, was stuck on the windscreen beside the licence roundel, plus another permit that she could not read. Several parking-tickets in cellophane bags lay in the indent above the glove compartment, along with a packet of Fisherman’s Friends, a couple of ball-point pens, several loose pieces of paper and a tennis ball.