A Dark Dividing (16 page)

‘That’s a good idea,’ he said eagerly. ‘Girl stuff. Gossip. Would you do that for me, Rosie?’

Rosie. It occurred to Roz that Rosie might be prepared to do all kinds of daring and adventurous things. (Such as continuing to let somebody else’s husband hold her hands…?) ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I would. And if I find anything that might help—an address or something like that—I’ll phone you, shall I?’

‘I’d be so grateful if you would.’ He set down the whisky glass and said he supposed he had better be going; he had taken up too much of her evening as it was.

It was Roz who marked his wistful glance at the nicely crackling fire and the comfortable armchair with the evening paper folded nearby, but it was Rosie who said, ‘I don’t know if you’ve eaten yet, but you’d be very welcome to share my supper.’

‘I don’t want to put you to trouble—’

‘It wouldn’t be any trouble. It’s only some chicken.’ Pause. Don’t rush it, Roz. ‘There’ll be more than enough for two, and I do think you should have something. The distress of all this—And while we eat, we could try to think if there’s anything else I could be doing to trace Melissa through the hospital.’

‘You’re a very kind girl,’ he said. ‘Very sympathetic. I’d like to stay to share your supper. It’s rather lonely in that big house at the moment. Can I help you with the food?’

It was quite flustering to have a man in the kitchen and he did not really seem very adept with plates and cutlery, but he did open the bottle of wine which was useful. Fortunately, it seemed to be acceptable; Roz had a glass and Joe drank the rest. He was becoming a bit flushed, although Roz thought she might be a bit flushed herself. It would be the excitement of the occasion, of course. Entertaining a man to dinner, and the plan to find Mel. Maybe it would be a bit to do with the wine.

Joe had another whisky after the meal, and talked a bit more about Mel and the twins. ‘If I could just know where she is, Rosie—I’m hardly bearing to think of those two trusting babies in some squalid backstreet somewhere.’ He broke off, blinking, and fumbling for his handkerchief, and Roz went out to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, so that he could master his feelings, the poor man. You did not often see men giving way to their feelings like this; it was flattering to think that someone so important had let the barriers down in front of her.

When she came back she saw that he had poured himself another whisky; it was nice that he felt sufficiently at home to do that. He said he was sorry he was being such a silly old fool giving way to his emotions, but there had been no one he could talk to like this—no one he had felt he could ask for help.

He leaned against the sofa back, and somehow one of his arms slid around Roz’s shoulders. He pulled her against him, and bent his head to kiss her. Roz was so thrilled that he found her attractive enough to kiss that she did not in the least mind that his kisses were a bit slobbery and whisky-smelling, or that his hands were thrusting eagerly beneath her sweater. But when his hands suddenly moved down and slid up under her skirt, prodding right up between her thighs, she gasped, and tried to pull away. You did not do this with somebody else’s husband—Roz’s aunt would have been scandalized to even think about it. For a moment the shadow of her aunt seemed to move in the room, and then Joe mumbled something about loving her and wanting her, and the word ‘love’ fell on Roz’s mind like a blessing. Love. He
loved
her. He had said so. That changed everything: it took it out of the realms of just a tumble on the sofa and into something serious and definite.

She was glad to think that although she had not really had any proper boyfriends at least she was not a virgin. At least she had done it with somebody—well, almost done it. Sort of done it, even if the boy had fumbled and even if it had been at an awful school-leaving party in somebody’s rich parents’ house, with everybody pairing off as the evening wore on, and going off into bedrooms.

You were supposed to beware of the person who was the leftover in that kind of situation, but it had been a case of either pairing up with the leftover or being looked at pityingly afterwards. Roz had been fed up with being a leftover, and of not having lost her virginity at eighteen, in fact of not even having had a boyfriend.

So she and the leftover had gone into one of the bedrooms, well, actually, it had been the au pair’s room, because all the other rooms were taken by that time. There had been the sound of twanging bedsprings and muffled giggles from the next room, and then there had been five minutes of embarrassment, and a further five minutes of groping and panting. When he unzipped his trousers Roz had been surprised, because the upper fourth biology classes did not really prepare you for the reality.

There had been the feeling of hard blunt flesh pushing into her, bruising and tearing, and of hot breath gusting into her face, and just as Roz was wondering if this was all there was to it, and if so, how boring, the whole thing seemed to be rather messily over. They had had to mop the au pair’s eiderdown with tissues and then Roz discovered that she had been half-lying on her skirt which was also marked, so that she had had to put it on back-to-front for the rest of the party, and she and the leftover had studiedly not spoken to one another for what remained of the evening. She had thought that if this was the act that the poets wrote about, and that the entire culture of modern-day love songs was based upon, and that people died for and renounced kingdoms for, as far as she was concerned you could keep it.

But Joe Anderson loved her, and he was older and more experienced and this would be different.

It was not different at all. He lumbered on top of her, saying she was being a wonderful comfort, he had been so dismal and distraught and she was so kind. He was a bit breathy from the whisky, and his hands were a bit ungentle. Roz tried not to mind it, and she tried not to mind that he felt heavy and suffocating on top of her. The settee was rather narrow for two but Roz was not sure about the etiquette of suggesting they go upstairs to her bedroom.

Then he seemed to be having trouble getting inside her; for a dreadful moment Roz thought he was not going to manage it at all, because he felt a bit floppy between her legs. She had no idea what you did in that situation. But then he seemed to recover, and he started to move urgently and then even more urgently, so that she had to gasp out that she was not on the pill or anything.

Afterwards he said he was sorry he had not stopped in time but he had been in the grip of such passion. It was brilliant to hear him say that, even though Roz had not much enjoyed what he had done. She said he was not to worry about any of it.

He had another whisky, and Roz wanted to telephone for a taxi because he had drunk quite a lot of alcohol, but he said he would be fine; he was one of those rather rare people whose reactions were actually sharpened by a few drinks.

After he had gone Roz had to get dressed and deal with the washing-up. There was quite a lot of it, and because she had not done it immediately after the meal as she normally did, gravy and fat had cooled and dried on to saucepans. She washed and dried everything, carefully polishing the wine-glasses that had been her aunt’s. The one that Mr Anderson had used had a crack down one side. It had not been cracked when Roz got it out of the cupboard, so he must have put it down a bit too sharply on the table. It was a pity because it spoiled the set but they had been fragile glasses to begin with, and you could not expect a man to be dainty-handed.

J
UST AS IT had been the daring, dashing Rosie who had invited Joe Anderson to supper, so it was Rosie again who sneaked into Martin Brannan’s office after hours and searched his files.

Roz would never have dreamed of doing such a thing: certainly she would not have read confidential information about patients or colleagues, but Rosie got a tremendous kick out of it. Like a heroine out of a spy film. Intrepid and resourceful. Risking everything for the man who loved her.

At first there was nothing to be found, which was a nuisance, not because Roz gave a damn what happened to Melissa, but because of wanting a reason to phone Joe. There would surely be a clue eventually though, and when she found it she would make the call, and she would suggest cooking dinner again for the two of them. She would make it a bit special this time, with something really lavish to eat and the table set with candles and her aunt’s crystal wine-glasses—there were still three uncracked ones in the cupboard.

She made an appointment with her GP so that he could prescribe the contraceptive pill for her; it was important to indicate to Joe that she returned his love—that she had liked his love-making and wanted it to happen again without him having to worry about stopping in time. Roz had found that a bit embarrassing. It would be easier to buy condoms than go on the pill but that might be even more embarrassing, especially if she bought them in the small local supermarket where she had shopped for years, and where her aunt had shopped for years, and where the staff knew all the customers and amiably scrutinized people’s groceries, and often commented on them. Imagine plunking down a wire basket containing wine and scented candles and contraceptives. The pill would be a much better idea, and everyone was on it these days.

In the end it was three weeks before she was able to phone Joe’s office.

‘It might not be much,’ she said, ‘so I don’t want to get your hopes up too high. But it might be worth looking into.’

‘Yes?’ He sounded efficient and businesslike over the phone. Roz visualized him seated at his desk, busy and preoccupied, wearing a crisp white shirt and a dark suit.

‘This morning,’ she said, trying to match the businesslike tone, ‘Mr Brannan had a letter which was marked “Private”. His secretary collected it from the mail-room—all the secretaries collect their bosses’ mail and take it up to them for ten o’clock each morning. She didn’t open the letter, of course, but after Mr Brannan read it he asked her to set up a meeting with one of the paediatric surgeons. She told me about it at lunchtime in the canteen—she’s by way of being a friend of mine and we quite often have our lunch together.’ No need to say that she had been diligently cultivating the friendship for the last three weeks.

‘Mr Brannan didn’t say which patient the paediatric meeting was for,’ said Roz, ‘and his secretary thought that was a bit odd because normally he would have asked her to sort out patients’ records and so on, and made sure she would be free to take notes at the meeting.’

‘You think it was Melissa who sent the letter?’ It was what Roz had thought, but faced with this crisp questioning she wavered. Perhaps after all she had flown to a too-easy conclusion. But before she could speak, he said, ‘It’s a reasonable assumption, of course,’ and Roz relaxed a bit.

Greatly daring, she said, ‘If it is Melissa, it sounds as if she’s setting up the operation for the twins behind your back, doesn’t it?’ and this time heard his quick sharp intake of breath down the phone. Ah, she had thought that would get his attention.

But he only said, ‘Did you find out any more?’

‘Well, yes, I did.’ Roz tried not to sound too gleefully triumphant. ‘I got the envelope from the waste paper basket before the cleaners went round. And I think I’ve managed to decipher the postmark.’

‘Oh, good girl.’

‘It’s smudgy, but it’s just about readable. Norwich. And there’s an E after Norwich, which the post office said means Norwich East. I phoned the sorting office to find that out.’ She paused to let this sink in, and then said, ‘So I think Mel and the twins are somewhere on the east coast of Norfolk, fairly near to Norwich.’

‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’ Ah,
now
there was the warmth in his voice she had been listening for.

‘Will you be able to find her from that, d’you think?’ she said.

‘Oh, I think so. It’s not a very densely populated area, the east coast. Not like a big city. I’ll get a private detective on to it—’ He said this in an off-hand way.

‘Mightn’t she be using another name?’

‘Yes, but my man will be looking for a young woman with two tiny babies who arrived on a specific date.’ Again the slight arrogance. My man.

‘Yes, I see.’

‘It’ll be a question of checking new house-lets or even hotel registers,’ said Joe, ‘although I don’t think she’d have gone to an hotel.’

Roz did not think so, either. She said, tentatively, ‘Will you want the envelope? For—for your detective?’

‘I suppose I’d better have it, hadn’t I?’ He paused, and Roz waited hopefully for him to say he would call at the house that evening. She wondered if she might manage to squeeze in a lunchtime appointment at the hairdresser’s.

But he said, ‘I’m quite busy for the few days. This by-election, you, know—’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Could you drop it through the door when you’re passing?’

‘Oh—yes. Yes, I could do that.’ Roz was not likely to be passing because the house was quite a long way from the hospital and from her own house. But she said, ‘Yes, I’ll drop it through your door.’