Neurotica (25 page)

T
he cab crossed Kew Bridge and pulled up at the Chiswick roundabout traffic lights.

Anna took the gum out of her mouth and began rolling it
contemplatively into a ball. God only knew what a group of Dorset
butter churners would make of Monalisa, particularly if she started
passing round her photo album of corpses.

Still, a night in the company of Monalisa Blake was the least
of Anna's worries. There were other, far more important issues
troubling her. First, she was feeling exceedingly guilty because she
hadn't been to see Alex in hospital. Alex had forbidden her to visit
in case she came face-to-face with Kimberley, who had been at his
bedside almost round the clock since the heart attack.

As soon as Kimberley had found out that Alex's heart attack had
been caused by his bad diet, she'd gone out and bought a cookery
book full of low-fat recipes. Every day she would come onto the ward
carrying a wicker basket. It contained a low-cholesterol treat for
Alex and cakes and pies wrapped in red-and-white-check gingham for
the staff. While Alex munched on a malted oat finger, Kimberley would
stand at the end of the ward cutting up slices of Hummingbird cake
topped with extra-thick cheese frosting and urging the doctors and
nurses to sample her corn pones.

As Anna couldn't visit Alex in hospital, she had insisted he
phone her a couple of times each day. Over and over again he thanked
her for saving his life and over and over again Anna said she'd done
nothing other than call an ambulance. He said he felt terribly guilty
for frightening her and she said she felt guilty because she thought
she was to blame for his heart attack.

“In what possible way?” he asked.

“You know .   .   . the sex. It clearly put a
strain on your heart. If we hadn't made love the attack would never
have happened.”

“Don't be so daft.” Alex chuckled. “According to my
consultant, it was a heart attack simply waiting to happen. I was
just lucky you were there. I could have been on my own somewhere and
dropped dead. Anna, I owe you so much. I promise, as soon as I'm up
and about, we'll have dinner and I shall say thank you properly.”

It was the “I owe you so much” bit which was still doing
circuits inside Anna's head. It would have been unspeakably selfish
of her to put Alex under pressure by asking him if he'd had any more
thoughts about dishing the dirt on Rachel Stern's cosmetic surgery.
Nevertheless, she had barely slept in over a week, so desperate was
she to get a decision from him. If he agreed to the interview and
she got her timing just right, she could even ensure that the story
appeared on the same day that Rachel Stern was due to give her
keynote address at the League of British Feminists' annual lunch.

Today was Friday. Alex was due out of hospital tomorrow.
Anna decided to leave it until Tuesday and then she would phone
him.

As she wrapped the ball of gum in a Kleenex, Anna found herself
thinking about Dan.

The feeling she'd had a couple of weeks ago as they lay in bed
that he was keeping something from her hadn't gone away. If anything,
it had grown stronger. She had even wondered whether he was
having an affair. She'd dismissed the possibility almost immediately,
on the grounds that the irony was too ridiculous for words, and it
made her feel like a creature in an Aesop fable who was about to get
its comeuppance.

Added to Dan's air of secrecy was his latest neurotic symptom:
he had started interrogating Anna about her movements. Every evening
when he came home, he demanded to know precisely how she had
spent her day. When she told him that the hen-night story would
involve a night away he had spent half an hour quizzing her about
where she was staying, which photographer she was going with
and what time she would be home on Saturday. Anna, supremely
confident that she had furnished him with not even the slightest
evidence of her adultery, had simply smiled patiently and answered
all his questions calmly and without fuss.

She had wondered if his hypochondria was becoming so severe
that he was transferring his anxiety onto her. Could it be, she'd
thought, that he was now petrified that she was going to get ill while
she was away from him? This had made sense until it began to dawn
on her that Dan appeared to be becoming a little more relaxed about
his health. Last week when she'd suggested he see the doctor about his
cough, he had shrugged and said he was sure it would clear up on its
own. Barely looking up from the West Ham game he was watching on
Sky, he said he might go to the doctor about it “sometime.”

She realized he could be starting to overcome his hypochondria.
She supposed she should have been delighted. Instead she'd been
horrified. If Dan got better that meant he would want to have sex
with her—not that she wouldn't welcome that, but it meant that
she would have no justification for her adultery apart from the
rather flimsy one of a piece she had to write for a newspaper. Despite
Alex's heart attack and despite Charlie disappearing and only ever
sending her one chewed-up postcard from New York in which he
hinted heavily at a burgeoning romance with a nursery nurse from
Cork called Fidelma, Anna had got into the swing of extramarital
sex. She had no intention of stopping.

Not, at least, until she'd scored her hat trick.

The cab pulled up outside the
Globe on Sunday
office.
As Anna reached into her bag for her wallet she sensed there was
something a bit different about the music coming from the car
cassette player. Although the northern Turkish goat herders were
still playing their pipes, they appeared to have completed their
repertoire of northern Turkish folk music. They had segued into
“Ferry Cross the Mersey.”

C H A P T E R     S E V E N T E E N

A
NNA LOOKED AT HER WATCH. She'd been sitting in reception at the
Globe on Sunday
for nearly half an hour.
There was still no sign of Monalisa Blake. After twenty minutes,
she'd asked the girl on reception if she could use the phone.

Anna thought she'd ring the picture desk first to see if they
had any idea where Monalisa was. The temp who answered the phone said
she'd never heard of her. When Anna said she'd try Campbell, the girl
said not to bother as Campbell and his PA had gone tearing out of the
office an hour ago. When she asked her if she knew when they were
due back, the temp had said she couldn't say, but she wouldn't be
at all surprised if they were gone for the rest of the day.

Apparently a crisis had arisen on the photo shoot for Campbell's
“Who Really Bonks Big Girls?” supplement. The twenty-stone mother
of seven from Ipswich whom Campbell had conned into being photographed
naked wrapped in the trunk of a male elephant had become
hysterical and was threatening to walk out because every time she
went near the animal he either dropped a colossal heap of steaming
dung or tried to mount her.

Anna thought it unlikely Campbell would need all afternoon to
calm the woman. If she knew Campbell, he would put a comforting
arm round her, toss her a large box of Ferrero Rocher along with
a couple of tickets for
Cats
and the promise of a free
nosh-up for her and the family at the Harvester of their choice and
she'd be, to quote one of Campbell's favorite phrases, “sweet as a
dipstick coated in sherbet” in three minutes flat.

Although Anna anticipated Campbell's imminent return, she knew
she couldn't depend on it. She and Monalisa should
have left by now.
It was essential she speak to Campbell right away.

She opened her handbag and took out her Filofax. She found
Campbell's mobile number in a matter of seconds, then went back to
the reception desk and dialed. All she got was the answering
service.

“Fuck.” Anna slammed down the receiver and picked up her
Filofax from the desk. As she turned to go back to her seat she
noticed the automatic doors part and a man come running in, a canvas
camera bag slung over his shoulder. She recognized the breathless,
puffing chap at once. It was Ed Brzezinski, one of the
Globe
's staff photographers.

“Anna   .   .   .” He was coming towards her, his hand
raised in recognition.

In the newspaper world, Ed Brzezinski was a superstar. In the
ten years before he joined the
Globe,
he had made a name for
himself throughout Europe and America as a brilliant and gifted
war photographer. Several severe bouts of malaria he first picked
up in Rwanda had finally forced him back to
London and into taking
a less intrepid newspaper job on the
Globe.

Although he was almost forty, he was tall and slim with a
bum like two nectarines. The sight of Brzezinski, hard-bitten and
chain-smoking in his tatty Levis, beaten-up tan suede jacket and
heavy stubble, had most women in the
Globe
office crossing
their legs with frustration.

And for a lucky few, the frustration was relieved. Ed was known
throughout the
Globe on Sunday
as the Steeplejack. “On
account,” Campbell had explained to Anna when she inquired about the
nickname soon after she'd started writing for the
Globe,
“of 'im always bein' up something, if you get my drift.”

Anna had only ever worked with Ed once. That was almost two
years ago. Although they bumped into each other occasionally in the
corridor, or by the coffee machine, for no reason in particular their
professional paths hadn't crossed since.

The job they had worked on together had entailed going to
Isleworth to doorstep a King Charles spaniel who could howl “Don't
Cry for Me Argentina.”

Ed had driven them to Isleworth in his clapped-out Mini. It had
been an uncomfortable journey, due partly to the Mini's decrepitude
and partly to Ed looking angry and sullen and doing little more than
grunt in response to Anna's attempts at conversation. There had
been no doubt in Anna's mind that he considered the singing-dog
story to be beneath him. It wasn't until they were almost there that
Ed finally allowed his anger to erupt. He called Campbell, on whose
orders the pair had been dispatched to Isleworth, a buffoon and
tabloid tosser. He began spluttering and taking his hands off the
steering wheel to wave his arms around, saying that he had no idea
how the man could even consider demanding that someone with his
experience and talent go on such a tacky story.

Anna had to bite into the side of her cheek in order to stop
herself saying that Ed could always bugger off to the nearest war
and with a bit of luck he might step on a land mine.

By the time they arrived in Isleworth, she had come to the
conclusion that although Ed Brzezinski was, with his swept-back
brownish-auburn hair and face full of boyish freckles, severely
fanciable, he was a precious git with a grossly inflated ego.

Suddenly, all the office gossip about him made sense. The
Steeplejack had a preference for nineteen-year-old girls, usually
nineteen-year-old Japanese girls. This was a man, Anna realized, who
couldn't abide being contradicted or challenged—particularly
by women.

During Ed's outburst on the way to Isleworth, Anna decided she
would rather eat a pile of her toenail clippings than give him even
the vaguest hint that she found him intimidating or attractive. She
was determined to assert herself and stand up to him.

She began almost at once. As they walked towards the small group
of reporters and photographers standing outside the small terraced
house which was home to the King Charles spaniel, Anna noticed
that Ed appeared to have brought only one camera with him. It
was an old Leica, most of its black enamel chipped off, which she'd
noticed him stuff crossly into his jacket pocket as he got out of the
car. She pointed out all the other photographers with their Nikons
and Canons strung round their necks and informed Ed curtly that
compared to his colleagues, he wasn't very well hung.

Ed ignored the remark, but there was little doubt in Anna's mind
that he had been furious with her. On the way back to the office
he did his best to pick an argument with her. First he tried goading
her by suggesting that a reporter's life was much easier than a
photographer's.

“If the story doesn't pan out, or the interviewee does a bunk,
you lot can bugger off back to the office and make it up. If I come
back empty-handed, there's a dirty great hole on page seven and I'm
dog food.”

Anna refused to be drawn. She simply smiled and said he
probably had a point.

Ed said nothing for a minute. He was clearly considering his
next move in his campaign to get some response from her to his
teasing. Finally he announced that he was going to his Jewish godson's
circumcision the next day. For the next ten minutes he didn't stop
sounding off about how barbaric it was that in this day and age, Jews
were still mutilating their baby boys. Finally he had turned to Anna
and demanded to know how she could possibly justify it.

The truth was that Anna couldn't justify it. If she was honest,
she thought circumcision was horrific. Like many Jews, she and Dan
had circumcised their son out of some irrational atavistic tribal
calling rather than religious conviction. Nevertheless, Ed had touched
a nerve. She was buggered if she was going to let him win the
argument, but was still determined not to lose her temper. Remembering
that his parents were Polish Catholics, because she'd heard Campbell
refer to him at a drunken leaving do as a Catholic Polak, Anna
looked at Ed, and in a calm, self-assured tone which belied her
galloping pulse said:

“Ed, please don't lecture me about barbarism. There are
religious reasons as well as sound medical reasons for circumcision.
On the other hand, your Polish ancestors had no motive other than
hatred for carrying out pogroms against the Jews.”

Ed didn't say another word on the matter. Anna knew this wasn't
as a consequence of her having shot down his argument about
circumcision being barbaric. She knew she hadn't. She suspected
Ed had shut up because he was in shock. He simply wasn't used
to being with a female who fought her corner. There was no doubt
in her mind that this was the first time a woman had put him in
his place.

That moment of sweet victory became one Anna would recall time
and again over the next two years.

E
d reached the reception desk where Anna was standing. He was
still panting heavily from his sprint.

“Ed .   .   . hi. What's going on?” Anna
inquired. “And correct me if I'm wrong, but would I be right in
thinking the Gonzalez family has a long-lost English branch, and that
you are it?”

Ed was still too puffed to speak, or even smile. Instead he held
up his index finger to indicate that he would explain everything, but
he needed a minute to get his breath back. He put his camera bag on
the floor, placed his hands on the desk and lowered his head between
his outstretched arms.

Anna looked across to where she had been sitting and noticed
some small bottles of Evian water standing next to the coffeemaker.
As she walked across to fetch one for Ed, for a second her mind went
back to the minicab and to her thoughts about not giving up on
adultery until she'd scored her hat trick.   .   .   .

As she picked up a bottle of water, she turned her head to look
at Ed. He looked smarter than usual. His Levis were less faded
and his well-cut woolen jacket looked brand-new. As he leaned
against the reception desk, she could see the jeans pulling ever
so slightly across his behind. It was even more compact than she
remembered.

She went back to the reception desk, unscrewed the cap on the
water bottle and handed it to him.

“Here, this'll cool you down.” Ed lifted his head up from
between his arms and smiled his thanks. The dark-navy jacket looked
stunning against his gray-blue eyes and amber freckles. Anna had to
admit that although Ed Brzezinski was the most arrogant and conceited
man she had ever met, he was also one of the most
beautiful—second only to Charlie Kaplan.

As she watched him put the bottle to his lips and lean his head
back, a large flock of sexually aroused butterflies materialized in
Anna's belly, only to disappear in a matter of moments. It was all
very well having the hots for Ed Brzezinski, she thought, but if he
was still the unpleasant, egotistical fool he was two years ago, she
couldn't even consider sleeping with him. She wasn't about to do an
impression of a simpering nineteen-year-old geisha. She was desperate
to find the third man for her article, but not that desperate.

What was more, Ed was unlikely to have forgotten her pogroms
outburst. She was still proud of her speech and didn't have the
faintest regret about making it. Nevertheless, she had to acknowledge
that because of it, he probably thought her an aggressive,
argumentative cow and hated her. There was very little chance he would
speak to her in anything other than curt monosyllables, let alone
go to bed with her.

“Anna, I am so dreadfully sorry I'm late,” he said as he put
the bottle down on the reception desk. Anna looked at him in
utter disbelief. Not only was Ed speaking to her, using several
polysyllabic words, he was actually apologizing for something.
Could it mean, Anna wondered, that he had changed his tune and
thought of her as his equal, as someone worthy of his respect and
consideration?

Wet tails of tawny hair were stuck to his forehead. As the
butterflies took up residence once more inside her, Anna wondered if
people with auburn hair had auburn pubes.

“I've been at the High Court in the Strand all morning,”
he went on. That explained his smart clothes and absence of
stubble.

“I left ages ago, but the traffic was murder round Trafalgar
Square. .   .   . Then when I got here I couldn't park. I
finally found a meter a mile or so down the road and I sprinted all
the way back. I was frightened you'd set off for Poole
without me.”

Anna looked at him, a mixture of confusion and irritation on
her face.

“But the picture desk said I was going with Monalisa Blake.
When did they change their minds? And why didn't somebody leave me a
message to let me know what was going on?”

“I don't think there was time,” Ed said, running his fingers
through his hair to get rid of the wet bangs. “Monalisa phoned
Campbell just as he was about to dash off to a photo shoot. Apparently
the dozy cow got confused about where the two of you were going
and forgot she was supposed to meet up with you first. To cut a long
story short, she left home at nine this morning and instead of driving
to Poole, she went to Goole in Yorkshire.”

Anna frowned. “I don't believe it. No one's that daft. I
reckon she's playing hooky. I bet some pathologist mate of hers
invited her along to some juicy postmortem. She's probably bouncing
a flash off some poor bugger's liver as we speak.”

Ed Brzezinski said that Anna was probably right.

“Anyway .   .   . you've got me instead of
Monalisa.” He bent down and picked up his camera bag. “Campbell
bleeped just as I was leaving court and asked me to take her place on
the hen-party job.”

“Great.” Anna beamed insincerely. She paused, assuming Ed was
about to explode and deliver another diatribe on the indignity of
being asked to cover such a down-market story. When, after several
seconds he hadn't detonated, she decided it was safe to continue
making conversation.

“I can't say I was looking forward to an evening with Monalisa.
I swear the woman dabs formaldehyde behind her ears.”