Curtain Call (28 page)

Somehow she got through it. Roddy had booked a table at an expensive fish restaurant off St James's Square, and seemed no more at ease there than she was. They were seated awkwardly alongside each other on an olive-green banquette, and Madeleine sensed they were intruding on a room of regulars. When they were handed the tasselled menus, heavy as photograph albums, Roddy had squinted at it in alarmed distaste (‘It's all in French,' he muttered). Madeleine, with a loose grasp of the language from convent school, attempted to translate, but when it came to ordering the food he insisted on doing the job by himself. She noticed the aproned waiter smirking at his clumsy efforts (he pronounced
langoustine
to rhyme with ‘Frankenstein') and was surprised to find herself feeling sorry for him. He drank at pace, and kept telling the waiter ‘to top 'em up', which drew haughty glances from the maître d'.

The odd thing was that Roddy could not leave a silence alone, and yet seemed unable to talk about the reason they were having dinner in the first place. Any time the conversation veered towards the personal he would bluster through with some jokey complaint about the Elysian, or about the other girls. In a way she was glad; she must have misread his intentions, or else he had been planning to make a move and then lost his nerve. By the time they got to pudding – vanilla ice with a hot cherry sauce – her relief at this non-event was so acute that she almost persuaded herself she was having a nice time. Roddy had relaxed, too, his face reddening from the concerted effect of the wine and the Martinis he kept tipping down.

‘So,' he began, lighting a stubby cigar, ‘heard anything more from that feller?'

‘What feller?'

‘Your admirer – Mr Rusk, is it?'

Madeleine paused, her innards turning cold. ‘I don't know what you're talking about,' she said quietly.

‘Yes, you do. I asked your pal – y'know, Amphetamine Alice – she told me he's been looking for you.'

‘And you believed her – Alice? She hardly knows what day of the week it is.'

Roddy's eyebrows were hoisted sceptically, and Madeleine realised she had to tell him something or else he'd never give her peace. She feigned a professional sigh. ‘She mentioned someone to me, a punter – I'd never heard of him. You know how many I see in a week, a month.'

Roddy continued to stare at her. ‘So you don't know this Mr Rusk?'

‘No, I don't.'

‘And you're not seeing anyone else?'

‘No. I swear it.' And she looked him in the eye as she spoke, knowing it was the truth. From an involuntary twitch to his mouth she saw that he was reassured by this information. He raised his arm to the waiter and twirled his hand in a circle to signal another round.

‘I can't drink any more, really I can't.'

‘Oh, you can manage a nightcap. Just one before bed.'

As he drove her home she sank low in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the corner of the windscreen, so that she was listening to London, not seeing it. The plaintive moan of buses on Marylebone Road, the clang of the trams as they turned into Hampstead Road, the distant clackety-clack of trains pulling out of Euston. On it all flowed, unceasing, oblivious. She felt her own inconsequential smallness in the larger pattern. You could live – and die – in London without anyone caring a rap. You wouldn't even be forgotten when you were gone, since no one actually noticed you when you were alive. That didn't seem so bad. What
had
disturbed her recently was a dream, horrifically vivid, about an enormous conflagration. She found herself on the streets of a city, which may have been London, she wasn't sure; it was night in the dream, yet every house was lit up – on fire – and every person she saw wore an aureole of fire, just the top of their heads in blaze. They appeared to be sleepwalking, there was no sign of panic or hurrying. The fire was coming down like rain, long, liquid curtains of it drowning the roofs, the walls, the pavements; inescapable. Windows were bursting from the heat. Someone told her to look down, and she saw that her own hands were wreathed in flames. She couldn't remember anything after that.

‘All up in smoke,' she murmured into the darkness of the car.

‘Eh?' said Roddy, glancing across. She had not meant to speak out loud.

‘Oh . . . I was just wondering how the world's going to end.' She gave a defensive little laugh to indicate this wasn't to be taken seriously.

Roddy's stare was incredulous. ‘What's with you?' He took on an authoritative tone. ‘All this talk about a war, they're dead wrong. Too much to lose, on all sides. Even Hitler won't risk upsetting the apple cart.'

Madeleine watched as the lights from outside skimmed in fleeting bands across his profile. She never really talked about serious things with Roddy. Or with anyone else, now she thought about it. She supposed Tom would be a good person for that, he seemed to know quite a lot about things, but not in a superior way. He wouldn't laugh at you for not knowing much. For someone so bright and nervous he was also quite gentle – that was the nice thing about him.

They had arrived at her lodgings in Bayham Street. Roddy pulled the car over, letting the engine idle for a few moments before switching off. She had started to thank him for a nice evening when he leaned across her and, before she could defend herself, his mouth was smothering hers. It was hot and eager and stank of alcohol and cigars. As soon as decency allowed she pulled away from him. He kept his head close, then said, ‘Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'

Her eyes briefly caught his gleam. ‘Probably not.'

From his chuckle she could tell he wasn't remotely discouraged. He shifted his weight against her and snaked an exploratory hand inside her coat. She tensed, wondering what she had done that he could possibly have interpreted as a come-on. And there was nothing. She had been polite, and attentive; she had smiled at his bad jokes, and expressed sympathy when he was moaning about work – as though his was more burdensome than hers.

His hand was now pawing, hound-like, at the silk of her blouse, and she knew there was nothing to be gained from being ambiguous. Grasping his wrist she hauled the hand from inside her coat and matter-of-factly placed it on the car's steering wheel. Before he could protest she said, without looking at him, ‘I'm off the clock, Roddy, and I'm tired.'

She made to open the passenger door, but he stayed her arm. ‘I don't understand,' he said in an irked tone. ‘You just said you weren't seeing anyone, but you're giving me the brush-off.'

He offered this as a piece of logic, and she reviewed the prospect of explaining why not seeing anyone had no connection at all with how she felt about him. Or she could make it simple and tell the truth outright – that Roddy was perhaps the last man on earth she would willingly offer herself to. But those words were not to be uttered, not if she wanted to maintain a spirit of civility between them. From the set of his jaw she could tell he was still turning it over in his mind, the resentment just starting to brew, and she realised then what she had to say.

‘You know how much it costs – and you've got my number.'

Roddy, absorbing this cool reminder, stared hard at her. She had given him a way out. He gave a mirthless little laugh. ‘I shoulda known. You can take the girl out of Soho, but you can't take Soho out the girl.'

She would have liked to slap his face for that remark, but she only nodded, as though he had just hit the nail on the head. ‘Thanks for dinner,' she said in her business voice. She was no sooner out of the car than Roddy started the engine, revved it and tore off down the dark street.

Jimmy had been having talks with his accountant, Mr Wootton, who told him that he needed to start making ‘significant economies'. Jimmy hated these talks, because he didn't understand anything about money other than how to spend it. His idea of saving was to order the
non
-vintage champagne and to tip the waiter one shilling instead of two. Of particular concern to Mr Wootton was his client's astonishing expenditure on taxis, sometimes three or four in a day. He was curious to know how the short distances covered by the taxi could possibly justify such enormous fares. ‘Mostly I just keep 'em waiting,' said Jimmy. The accountant raised his eyebrows to a professional minimum and returned to the list of expenses.

‘The man Wootton said that my earnings were – what was his phrase? – “not commensurate with my outgoings”. Ha!' Jimmy was recounting his latest crisis meeting to Tom as they sat in his study one morning.

Tom looked up from the typewriter at which he'd been clattering out his employer's latest column. ‘It mightn't be such a bad idea to tighten your belt, you know. I mean, if the
Chronicle
does dispense with you –'

‘
What?!
Who said anything about that?'

‘You did, a couple of weeks ago. Barry Rusk tipped you the wink, remember?'

‘No. All Barry said was I should mind my behaviour in the light of Lord Swaim's moral crackdown. There was no talk of
dispense
. . .' He gave the
Daily Mail
he'd been scouring an irritated snap and feigned absorption in it.

‘Oh, I see,' murmured Tom, hands hovering on the typewriter. He kept quiet while Jimmy brooded behind the paper. After a few moments Jimmy spoke again.

‘I do take Wootton's point on the taxis, however. The expense is ruinous, and a change is required.'

Tom looked up. ‘You're going to take the Underground?'

‘Don't be absurd,' said Jimmy, frowning. ‘That sulphurous labyrinth of noise and filth? No thank you.'

‘Some of us have no choice, Jim. It's the way you get about.'

Jimmy ignored this. ‘The solution is quite simple. There will be no more need for taxis if I buy a car instead.'

Tom stifled a laugh when he realised Jimmy wasn't joking. ‘What?'

‘You've no idea how cheap they are! The classified pages of this morning's
Mail
has hundreds of 'em for sale. A modest outlay will secure a perfectly decent second-hand motor.'

‘For crying out loud. Wootton has advised you to start making economies, so your next move is to go out and buy
a car
. How is that helping? And how can you possibly afford it?'

‘Well, I've got a bit of money squirrelled away – for an emergency, you know.'

‘I dare say the Inland Revenue would be interested to hear that. Look, be sensible. A car is an expensive thing to run – there's a lot of maintenance involved, taxes, petrol. Keep the money for a real emergency.'

‘Here,' Jimmy continued, reading down the column. ‘An Austin 7, nearly new – ninety pounds! You see? If I borrowed a little extra I could purchase something stylish.'

Tom looked at him, aghast. It was as though Jimmy's extravagance was a provocation, a way of setting himself apart. No sooner had he got himself clear of one bunch of creditors than he immediately acquired another. The Revenue people didn't worry him, it seemed, though if they ever got wind of his buying a car he certainly
would
set himself apart – in prison. Then something very obvious occurred to him.

‘Sorry to poop the party, Jim, but you can't drive.'

Jimmy's look turned sly. ‘No, I can't. But you can.'

This was, unhappily, the case. Before being invalided out of the army Tom had learned to drive – in a field ambulance, of all things – though he'd scarcely been behind a steering wheel in the years since. He had never have been able to afford a car on his salary, and even if he had it was not something he much coveted. He wasn't even sure he could remember how to drive. And then there was the danger of his condition: would an epileptic be allowed to fill in as a part-time chauffeur? Imagine having a fit while you were tootling along . . . That could be a handy way of excusing himself. But it would also mean revealing his illness to Jimmy, and he wasn't prepared to do that. The best thing for it would be to change the subject and hope Jimmy would have second thoughts.

‘You haven't forgotten who's coming to lunch?'

Jimmy lifted his gaze from the newspaper. ‘Of course not. I've been mulling over what to cook.'

‘Well, whatever it is,' Tom said, ‘I think it would be nice to greet our guest in appropriate attire.'

Jimmy, used to lolling in pyjamas and dressing gown late into the morning, clicked his tongue in reproof. ‘You're just worried I'm going to embarrass you.'

Tom felt unsettled by the precision of this remark: he
was
worried. Jimmy's inclination to tease and provoke was well known, and he could hurt people sometimes without even meaning to. He was the sort of man whose sensitivity to his own feelings didn't encompass the same courtesy to others'. Women, unless they were flamboyant, actorish types, generally bored him, and Tom feared that Madeleine might not have quite the sparkle the host demanded of his guests. And why had Jimmy invited her anyway? Tom would have been content to keep his friendship with Madeleine private; instead he was being obliged to play piggy in the middle between two mismatched strangers.

To take the edge off his anxiety he put on his coat and nipped out to the shop to buy some wine. On returning he found Jimmy already dressed and in the kitchen, a copy of
Lady Syonsby's Cook Book
propped on the counter. He had poured himself a glass of sherry and was merrily humming away. Jimmy cooked in the same way he wrote, at speed and with gusto. He was always on alert, testing strengths and flavours, quite capable of abandoning his first or even second attempt at a dish and starting again. The difference was that, with writing, his aborted efforts involved only crossings-out and an occasional balled-up sheet launched in the direction of the waste-paper basket. With cooking, his modus operandi entailed using nearly every pan, pot and bowl in the kitchen, which in its multiplying clutter began to resemble a school science experiment. There was never any question, of course, about who would do the washing-up, and Tom resigned himself to long interludes of scrubbing and stacking while Jimmy entertained in the dining room.