Death in Disguise (58 page)

Sue had cleared away after supper, stacked the dishes in the sink and was now laying the table for breakfast. Upturned shiny brown cereal bowls, bunny egg cups, ill-matched cutlery and a scruffy plastic tub of home-made muesli with a label designed by herself.

Overhead, music thumped loudly as Amanda supposedly did her homework. Sue always thought of her offspring as Amanda. Allowing her to name the child had been one of the last indulgences that Brian had seen fit to bestow. Even then he had not had the generosity to conceal his displeasure at her choice. Pretentious. Snobbish. Affected. The baby had been ‘Mandy' from the day of her birth and, once Brian had really got the hang of high-rise/comprehensive linguistic mores, ‘Mand.'

Sue turned on the gas heater over the sink, which popped fiercely. She made a lot of noise washing the dishes, for Brian was in the downstairs loo which opened directly off the kitchen. He never attempted to go about his business quietly, regarding any such discretion as nothing more than middle-class prudishness. Sue, on the other hand, would put toilet paper in the bottom of the bowl if visitors were present, to silence the splash. And as for doing plip-plops, well…

Now, after an especially defiant raspberry, she heard the squeak of the transom window opening. Brian emerged, doing up his zip. Crossing to the table, he started to fiddle with some school papers, standing them on end, jigging them into neatness, laying them on one side, tapping them level, turning them upright, jigging them again. Sue, tea towel in hand, bared her teeth in a silent grimace and stared out of the window.

Brian had his back to her. His jeans fell, straight as a yard of tap water, from waist to ankle. Sue remembered a friend at teacher-training college saying ‘Never trust a man with no bottom'.

She walked through the sitting room with the bread board, opened the front door and tipped the crumbs into the garden. Gerald's halogen lamp was on. Sue walked down the path and looked out along the pavement. Parked on the forecourt of Plover's Rest was a long, low silvery Mercedes. She rushed back into the kitchen, where Brian had fallen into the only armchair and was tackling the
Guardian
crossword.

‘Brian… Brian…'

‘
Now
what are you getting excited about?' He spoke as if she spent her entire life in a ferment of agitation.

‘Max Jennings is here.'

‘I think not. It's barely ten past seven.'

‘Who else could it be?'

‘Who else could what be?'

‘The car.'

‘Your grammar's more bizarre than your cooking, woman. And that's saying something.' Brian had an irritating, snickery little laugh. He gave it now. Hyuf, hyuf.

‘If you don't believe me, go and look.'

‘I can see I'll have no peace until I do.' Sighing, Brian made a great show of marking the crossword clue as if it was a riveting passage in some vastly long epic, drew on his knitted hat and gloves, which were keeping warm on the Aga, and strode out into the cold dark.

He stared sternly at the German beauty gleaming like pulsing steel in the hard white glare. It struck him as deeply unsatisfactory. Not in any way the sort of vehicle you would expect the child of cruel, poverty-stricken parents with an inclination to suicide to be riding around in. He rushed back in out of the cold.

‘He must be pretty insecure to need a car like that.' Brian picked up his paper, sighing and smoothing it carefully, though it had not been touched since he flung it down. ‘Now… “Friday's child gives one a thrill”.'

‘Frisson.'

‘Do you mind?'

‘What?'

‘
I
do the crossword.'

‘Why can't we both do it?'

‘Because you always hold me up.'

Sue dried the last dish and hung the tea towel neatly over the metal arm of the sink heater. ‘We'll have to go soon anyway.'

‘There's fifteen minutes yet. We don't all drop everything and jump to it just because someone semi-famous blows a whistle.'

Sue's round moon face flushed. Over her head Take That increased in volume. Amanda clomped down the stairs, in her weighty platform shoes, clomped into the kitchen and over to the fridge.

‘Hi, Mand.' Brian immediately put the
Guardian
down and bestowed upon his daughter's back an alert and interested look. ‘How's it going?'

‘Awri.'

Mandy, having taken some apple juice from the fridge, now thundered over to the cake tin.

‘You won't want your supper,' said Sue, nodding towards a tray covered with a clean cloth.

Mandy hated sharing meals with her parents. A couple of years ago she had demanded the right to eat only in her room. Brian and Sue, united for once, refused. Mandy had simply stopped eating altogether and how were they to know that she was buying, begging or stealing food elsewhere. They stuck it out for three days then, terrified of anorexia, gave in. Now she helped herself to three flapjacks.

‘You don't need—'

‘Leave the girl alone.'

Mandy disappeared next door and switched the television on. Sue mopped the draining board, her thoughts on the evening ahead. She wondered what Max Jennings would be like. She had never met a real writer, though she had been in Dillons once when Maeve Binchy was signing copies of her latest bestseller. Unable to afford the book, Sue had stood on the sidelines while those who could queued up. She watched Maeve smiling as she asked the buyer's name and inscribed a personal message in
The Copper Beech
.

Sue had so wanted to go up to her. To ask how she got started. How it felt the very first time you sold something. Where she got her ideas from. Eventually she was in the shop so long she felt everyone was staring at her. In a flurry of discomfort she bought a paperback, using money she had been saving for some new brushes.

Standing on a pine bench she opened a cupboard over the breakfast niche and took down the iced carrot cake.

‘Such a palaver.' Brian would have been horrified had he known how closely his sentiments paralleled Honoria's. ‘And for what, basically? Some scribbling hack hardly anyone's heard of.'

‘People buy his books.'

‘They buy his books because they haven't read them. If they had it'd soon be a different story.'

‘Well. Yes.'

‘Now where are you going?'

‘To put some make-up on.'

‘We're due there in five minutes—OK?'

‘But you said—'

‘F.I.V.E., five.'

Brian gazed sourly as the long-boned, stooping figure of his wife left the room. On the stroke of seven thirty, when she hadn't come down, he put on his hat and gloves and left, slamming the door loudly behind him.

When Rex opened the door to Max Jennings he was sure, straight away, that Gerald had nothing to worry about. There was something so warm and appealing, so immediately friendly, about the man. Even when he found himself facing a total stranger and showed a certain amount of surprise the amiable smile remained. Rex introduced himself.

‘Gerald's upstairs.' He took the visitor's camel coat, which was both light and soft as silk. ‘But I am empowered, as they say, to offer you a drink.'

‘How kind.' Max looked across at the tantalus, which had one decanter missing, and at the heavy tray of assorted bottles. ‘Tonic water please.'

‘With ice and lemon?'

Wondering, indeed hoping, that this choice meant Max was a reformed alcoholic, Rex flourished the tongs. The visitor seemed already quite at home. He was strolling round the room touching things, looking at pictures, bending sideways to read book titles.

Rex noticed, with a little thrill of comprehension, that Gerald's wedding photograph had disappeared. By the time he had found and sliced a lemon a solution for this manoeuvre had been worked out. The unpleasantness in the past to which Gerald had referred was obviously connected with Grace. They had both loved her but, thinking to know the promptings of her heart, she married Gerald. Alas, on accidentally meeting Max again she realised her mistake. But by then, her life tragically ebbing away, it was too late.

As Rex handed over the drink he looked as sympathetic and understanding as he possibly could without actually giving the game away. Max was sitting comfortably in an armchair, gazing at the long, low coffee table covered with food.

‘I hope I'm not supposed to eat all this.'

‘Good heavens, no,' Rex laughed. ‘The others will be here any minute.' Then he remembered that Max had been told the meeting didn't start till eight. How much there was to keep track of, to be sure, when one was playing a part. He felt a fleeting sympathy for the Hyena, which train of thought led him to wonder if it would be discourteous to take advantage of the present situation to ask Max a few questions. Helper's perks and all that. Why not?

‘I write spy stories,' he said, sitting on the sofa, ‘and I was wondering how much time you think one can decently spend on the details of relevant weaponry. I'm very interested in armoured vehicles—the one-ton Humber Hornet especially. I've written roughly ten pages describing its various functions. Do you think that's too long?'

‘I do rather,' said Max. ‘I'd've thought your readers will be wanting to get back to the plot long before then.'

‘Ah, now.' Rex looked shy and somewhat disconcerted. ‘That is something I have a problem with, plot. Plot, characters, dialogue and descriptions of the natural world. Apart from that, I'm fine.'

Max sipped at his drink, seeming to turn this over, then said, ‘Have you thought about writing non-fiction, Rex? Perhaps a textbook, as you obviously have such specialised knowledge.'

But then the doorbell rang. It was Laura. And no sooner had she taken off her coat than Honoria and Amy arrived.

Laura was more than a little surprised to find herself at Plover's Rest for, since Honoria's visit, she had changed her mind about the meeting a thousand times. Veering from knowing she could not bear to see Gerald to knowing she could not bear not to see Gerald; from being sure one minute that she knew exactly how she felt (hated him,
hated him
) to being sure the very next that there was no way she could possibly know how she felt till their next meeting. The relief when she realised that he was not actually in the room was so tremendous that she was overcome by dizziness and almost fell. This sensation was re-triggered the moment she sat down, when the door was opened again. But it was only Brian, closely followed by Sue, red-faced and puffing from the effort of trying to catch him up.

Brian gave a curt nod in the direction of the guest's armchair. Sue smiled shyly and shook hands, concealing her surprise, for Max was nothing at all as she had expected. Sue had been picturing a big bluff tweedy man perhaps smoking a pipe. Max Jennings wore tweeds, true, but they were closely woven, beautifully cut and the colour of driftwood and he was smoking slender brown cigars. His heavy linen shirt was the extremely pale shade of green that used to be called eau-de-nil. It was impossible to guess how old he was for, although he had snow-white hair springing back in deep waves from his forehead, his clear, lightly tanned skin was quite unlined. And Sue had never seen such eyes. Brilliant azure. The blue of Moroccan skies. Matisse blue. He was slightly built and not very tall.

Brian, having taken a seat within easy reach of the banquet, flung one baggily trousered leg over its fellow and stared contemptuously around. What a pathetic lot. Dressed up to the nines as if for royalty. Amy wore frills, Rex his dusty pinstriped funeral gear, Honoria a halfway decent Daks skirt and heather-mixture cardigan. Laura had excelled herself in a narrow black dress and Chinese brocade jacket. As for Sue, well…

A rainbow-patterned full-length caftan over a badly bobbled limegreen mohair jersey. Hair half plaited, half not (she had panicked on hearing the front door slam) and too much highly coloured make-up. Brian, once he had caught his wife's eye, rolled back his own, registered disbelief and shook his head. Then, satisfied that his state of absolute unimpressedness had been observed by one and all he reached out and helped himself to a sandwich.

‘Don't you think,' called Honoria, as loudly as if he were still in his own kitchen next door, ‘that it might be courteous to wait until all of us are present? Or, at the very least, until you are asked.'

‘Folks uz wait till they're arst,' replied Brian, thinking to speak broadest Yorkshire, ‘get nowt.' Then, having shown his independence and provoked the desired response, he crammed the sandwich into his mouth and said, ‘Where's Gerald?'

A question no sooner asked than answered. Footsteps were heard running quickly down the stairs and, a moment later, their host came into the room. He went straight across to Max Jennings' corner, holding out his hand and apologising profusely for not being present when Max arrived. He then introduced himself. Twice.

Rex felt gravely let down. One of the ways he had killed time that afternoon was by writing and re-writing this meeting of Gerald and Max in his mind. He had imagined all sorts of permutations. Some quite tame, some funny, others wildly unreasonable. What he had not considered for a moment was that Gerald would simply pretend that they had never met before.