Virtual Strangers (36 page)

And we had, I believe, an ordinary conversation. He asked me what I thought about GM foods and I said I had mixed feelings about them, though not, of course, mixed in a centrifuge ha ha, and with double helixes unravelling like crazy all over the place and recombining to form triangular carrots and blue sweetcorn and so on ha ha, and he said hmm, in the manner of someone who knew a great deal about the subject and really couldn’t be fagged to have a conversation with a maniacal dim wit about it and then I thought, shall I just make my excuses and go home? and the person on the other side of me said, if you ask me this whole assembly nonsense is just another bloody excuse for another bloody quango and bloody cars and expense account orgies and did I see all that imbroglio about the Lord Mayor’s stash of booze just recently, and wasn’t it disgraceful? and did I have a stance on the assembly myself, and I said, actually, I thought it was all fundamentally ideologically sound and so on but that in reality there had to be a question mark over it’s efficacy given the small extent of its actual remit and so on, and he looked at me in the sort of way that made it perfectly obvious that he couldn’t be arsed having a conversation with someone who just memorised chunks out of the broadsheets at random, and I thought should I go and speak to Kim Harris-Harper again, because she seemed to know everything about everything, and
how
did she know everything about everything? surely not just because they shared the same acupuncturist, and then I thought, because she made it her
business
to know everything about everything, whereas I’d spent the last six months making it my business to pretend to know
nothing
about anything; particularly where Davina was concerned, so it was no wonder I had as much nous as a pea pod, and what was the point anyway? because hearing any more about it was liable to make me sick anyway, and then they took the plates away and I thought I
should
in fact go and speak to Davina, to at least let her know that I really didn’t think I could face working for Willie Metro or whatever they were going to call themselves, any more because even if she
was
going to go off in a truck to get a baby and so on, she was still my boss at the moment, and then someone put more red wine in my glass which I drank and then the man on my left said, so what is it you do then? and I told him I was
formerly
an estate agent and even more formerly a housewife, and even more formerly than that a lab technician in a high school which is why I knew about centrifuges and so on and that I was now doing a PhD on indigenous Himalayan peoples and that did he know that Everest was originally named Chomolungma by the Tibetans, which meant goddess mother of the earth, and that it was long before western people found out it was the highest peak on the planet, and wasn’t that interesting? and then the pudding came and it was something meringuey with hot sauce and lots of little fru-fru berries scattered all over it and it looked very pretty and I ate most of it because I thought blood sugar! blood sugar! possible genetic pre-disposition! etc., and then I drank some of the dessert wine I was given and it was really disgusting and I wondered if I should tell Rhys why I wanted to go home, or should I just pretend I was ill? given that if I drank any more of the wine I probably would be anyway, but if I did the latter I would still have to deal with telling Rhys I didn’t want to see him again at some other point anyway, and then I had some disgusting coffee and a mint crisp and then I thought that ill or not I
should
maybe be honest with him, as it would be all too easy to find myself in another unsatisfactory Phil type situation, simply because of my inability to deal with things in a firm and decisive way, plus also if I told him I was ill he would insist on coming back with me, which was the last thing I wanted, and then they wheeled out some minor TV comedian who was very funny, I’m sure, but I couldn’t hear a word he was saying because I couldn’t get my head around the idea that Adam was actually going go along with this ridiculous baby plan, because everyone knew you didn’t repair marriages by putting babies into them, particularly profoundly damaged children with Victorian skin diseases and no visas and so on, and then they brought more coffee, and Rhys leaned across the table and said ‘all right?’ and ‘ can I get you a liqueur to go with that, Charlie?’ and I said no thank you, and then the man on my left who turned out to be the director of the charity and was probably a political appointment and wouldn’t know a centrifuge from a deep fat fryer anyway, said let me press you on that and I said no again and then the comedian started getting into his stride and everyone started guffawing enthusiastically and I thought
should
I go and speak to Davina? and then the guy on my right who didn’t like the assembly said how about you and me taking a turn around the dance floor in a while and his breath smelt of dog hairs and I thought, crikey -
what
am
I doing here?

After I had the thought, it suddenly seemed very easy to answer. I was wasting everybody’s time. And Rhys’s in particular. All I really wanted to do was go home and cry. It was after eleven; not embarrassingly early. So that, I decided, was what I would do.

‘I’m so sorry, Rhys. But I have to leave. I don’t feel too well.’

‘Then I’ll come with you.’

‘No, really.’

‘Nonsense! Of course I will!’

‘
Really,
please- I’d much rather you didn’t. You go back and enjoy the rest of the evening. I’ve been lousy company anyway.’

‘Nonsense. Besides, I’ve hardly spoken to you yet.’

‘Wisely.’

‘Charlie, why is it I get the feeling there’s something else going on here?’

‘There isn’t. No. Okay, yes. Yes. You’re right. This is stupid. There is.’

‘Which is?’

‘I shouldn’t have accepted your invitation.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I feel I’ve given you the impression that I’d - well, that I’d like to take things further than I - well, than I actually would.’

‘Hmm. Okay. Fair enough. But that doesn’t mean
I
was inferring anything from your acceptance. I did say as much, didn’t I?’

‘I know. But I still feel I’ve implied it. But I realise I don’t. And it’s not because I...well, I mean I
do
feel....well, actually, I
don’t
because I feel.... well, it’s not that. It’s just that I’ve been -’

‘There’s someone else.’

‘Not strictly speaking. there’s -’

‘Adam Jones. It is Adam, isn’t it?’

‘Well -’

‘I’m not stupid, Charlie. And I’ve known Adam for fifteen years.’

‘But how -’

‘The whole bit. The book. His...well, let’s say I just knew. Like I said, I’ve known him a long time.’

‘It’s all academic, Rhys. It’s not happening. It’s just that I don’t feel able, at the moment, to - well - you know.’

‘I know. Wrong place, wrong time. And shall I tell you something? When Adam phoned me and asked if he could put you in touch with me, do you know what my very first thought was?’

‘What was it?’

‘Girlfriend.’

‘Has he had one before then?’

‘Not to my knowledge, never. He’s really not like that.’

I know.

We stood awkwardly, like two candidates attending the same interview, while the lady in the cloakroom went and sought out my coat. The deed done, I felt a mixture of relief and great sadness. I’d untangled myself from the web of his affections but, like a fly with one wing left and half its legs missing, once free, it seemed pointless. I’d only fall down and get squished on the floor.

A burst of noise from the ballroom reached us, as the giant beech doors let a small group escape. A group of three, two of them lilac and turquoise; Davina, Ianthe and my old mucker, Hugh.

‘Hello, you two!’ Davina said, a little too chattily. ‘You off then?’

I nodded. ‘I’m not feeling well. But Rhys is staying. Davina - you know Rhys, don’t you?’ She acknowledged him briefly. ‘And Rhys, this is Hugh Chatsworth.’ They shook hands and grimaced. I left the Ianthe introduction to them. Which Davina duly did.

Rhys nodded. ‘Hello, Davina,’ he said levelly. ‘No Adam? On call, is he?’

I stared at the counter.

‘Erm, yes,’ she said. ‘What a life, eh?’ Looking at me and not him. She seemed funny, but that was becoming the norm now. Rhys just looked like he wished he could be somewhere else. As he would, knowing what I’d just confirmed. The cloakroom attendant was still rootling for my coat. I wondered if she’d got lost and turned up in Narnia.

I had to say something, because nobody else did. ‘Off home as well?’ I asked.

‘God, no!’ said Davina. ‘The night is still young! We’re off clubbing.’

‘Clubbing?’ She made it sound more like a seal-cull. Plus I never imagined she
did
things like that. She nodded gaily.

‘Ianthe and I are. Poor Hugh’s all worn out.’

‘Too much excitement,’ Ianthe announced, grinning.

Hugh scowled at her. ‘God, Mum! Button it, will you?’

Button it, will you? Button it,
Mum?

The lady brought my coat and flopped it across the counter. It lay there, black and corpulent, between us while various Hugh-stuff all dropped into place in my head.

‘Well,’ said Rhys. ‘Let’s get you into a taxi. Goodnight, all.’

He draped my coat over my shoulders.

‘Night, night,’ said Davina. ‘Charlie - see you next?’

The air outside was crisp and salty, with a chilly breeze cajoling the surface of the bay into flecks. We walked the few steps down to the cab rank in silence. Then Rhys sighed.

‘I’ll stay and wait with you,’ he said.

‘Please, I’d rather you didn’t.’ I tried a laugh. ‘After all, what on earth would we talk about? We’ve done the big scene now.’

I immediately regretted the unintended flippancy. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure - what there’s been of it. And you know you can call on me any time if there’s anything you need to know for your trip. Anything - I’d be happy to help.’

I shook my head.

‘That won’t be a for a long time yet now. I’ve blown all my savings. I’m taking my boys skiing instead. Next week, in fact. I must be mad.’

It must have been my night for fatuous chit chat, and I immediately regretted the ‘mad’ tag as well. I didn’t feel mad at all. I felt like I was getting a grip on things, finally. But he ignored it anyway.

‘Lovely. You ski?’

I shook my head. ‘Hardly. I’ve only been twice. And that was years ago.’

‘It’s enough. Well. I hope our paths cross again - though not professionally, ideally. But if they do -’

‘Absolutely.’

His lips brushed my cheek, then he strode back into the lobby. Somehow I didn’t think there was much chance that they would.

I watch Rhys go back inside, and am just digesting the wide ranging implications of Davina-as-mum/Ianthe-as-
Hugh’s
-mum concepts when the mums in question emerge, coated, from the hotel, and begin to stroll along the railing looking out over the bay. They look like twin prows, with their pre-raphaelite curls streaming behind them, and their pale Monet dresses peeking out of their coats, the hems rippling in colourful cuttlefish waves. I wonder how the image makeover will hold up in Davina’s eastern European truck adventure. But I do not wonder for long. I’m too tired.

A taxi slides up.

The driver says, ‘Simpson? Cefn Melin?’

I climb into the back while he footles in his footwell and fishes out a pale dogeared Cardiff A-Z. He then stabs at a meter button that presumably clocks a pound for after midnight, a pound for it being windy, a pound for there being an R in the month and a further pound, I suspect, for just being in the cab. I gaze out into white-sprinkled black night and care little.

‘Where to in Cefn Melin?’ he asks.

But I’m miles away. Davina and Ianthe move back across the forecourt to the cab rank. I can hear the click clack of their heels on the stone. The cabbie turns around.

‘Where to, my lovely?’

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Right. Yes. Of course.’

The moon and stars flicker as Davina dips down to wave to me.

I wave back. Then speak my address and head home.

As with pretty much everything I do, what I then did seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. Twenty minutes or so after leaving the hotel I was back in my own chutney jar of a kitchen, resolving a) never to have anything to do with affairs of the heart ever again and b) not to knock crochet as a fulfilling pastime. In fact, to ask Hester to show me how to do it. And while I was at, to ask Sheila Rawlins if I could go to her floristry class with her as well. And then I saw the note.

7.47. Charlotte,
(it said)

Message from Dr Jones.

Will call back in the morning.

What?
What?

Because I had had more than a little wine by this time, I read the note six times to see what else I could glean from it. But only one fact readily presented itself. And that was that the note lacked a telephone number. I turned it over, but it being, as it was, on an Indian takeaway menu, the words on the other side were of little practical use. Unless I’d been hungry. Which I absolutely was not.

I fumed at my father. What a ridiculous message! What, pray, was the point of even writing it down? I returned to the hall and snatched up the phone book, knowing even as I did so that I was wasting my time.

Alrighty, I thought. (I was, by now, half delirious.) I could call directory enquiries and get the number from them.

But I couldn’t, of course. They would be ex-directory. Even so, I spent some minutes proving the point.

There seemed no point in waking my father to ask him. If the note said no more then no more had been said. I sat down at the foot of the stairs and tried to make some rational sense of the situation. Why did Adam telephone? Why did Adam telephone at 7.47 on the night when he knew I’d be at the CancerCope ball with Rhys? What did he want to say to me? What was it all about? And why did he phone me? Why didn’t he email? Or did he?

12.37.
No.

At twelve thirty eight I decided that perhaps the best thing I could do would be to go to bed and try to sleep and then get up in the morning at put a total ban on any member of the Simpson household using the phone all day. Yes. That would be best. The sensible thing to do. Except that a mounting excitement inside me had got to the top and was waving a flag. I would no more fall asleep than make welsh cakes tonight. So I plucked up the phone again..