Blind Date (17 page)

When an
estate agent had introduced it as a “cottage” to her new husband and herself, it had seemed large. Now, it was a claustrophobic little house, split into two flats, hers and his downstairs. She was perfectly well aware of why she endured the rush hour with such patience. There was always the chance Michael would be home. As usual, he was not, so she conducted a conversation with herself, scolding objects for being out of place, padding round on the worn carpet, examining each corner of her shabby abode, walking end to end in a matter of seconds. The lap top and the screen were the only new things. She wondered, not for the first time, if she should change the locks on her portion of the house, so that Michael could only get in if she let him, but the thought was unbearable. He would be hurt, even if he did ignore her as consistently these days as she merely pretended to ignore him. There was a silence about the place which told her he would not be home today, even though, God knows, he owed her. He owed her far more than attention and she was not going to let him forget it.

First, tea; gin in a minute. She adopted the kind of solace her mother had done, talking to the lap top for company, taking stock. Finally she decided, yes, OK, they were out of the woods for the present.

There was a small box room, big enough only for a small bed or desk. It had been his room about the time the bastard husband had abandoned them for the blonde, some time after what Caroline described as her “little accident.” She went in. She liked being in a small room with the door shut. The room was always cooler, even on a day like this, for lack of sunlight on this side. Every inch of wallspace was covered in wedding photos, many of them removed from the office. Clients no longer wanted evidence of courtships culminating in white lace and public nuptials. They had never questioned this fictitious evidence, but these days they were keener on more informal success, they wanted partners, so she had bought the photos home.

As Caroline
Smythe dived into the drawers of the desk, she spared a thought for Angela Collier, then peered at the photos. Every third one was of herself. Had she really looked like that, and if so, surely she could not have changed so much? No: despite her wonderful hair, she had never been half as pretty as that Angela and never pretty enough to warrant the husband who towered above her. Stupid little Angela, to want such a poisoned chalice as marriage and all for a single day of being admired. The little bitch deserved her fate; she should be glad to have her sweet memory preserved without tarnish from the future. This way, she would never find out what hideous damage a child could do to her, or how a husband would react to the resulting ugliness.

“That Hazel's got better ideas,” Caroline muttered. She would find someone for Hazel. Some absolute bastard, with a house. Some poisonous, lecherous wretch, with a house.

“You should think of these, darling,” Caroline muttered again, opening the top drawer of the desk. “Better than bricks and mortar.” Even without benefit of sunlight, the contents gleamed. An art-nouveau ring, which was a strip of emerald surrounded by diamonds, extending in a wide band two thirds the way round, uncomfortable to wear, but impressive. A two-carat diamond ring, plainly beautiful, with a simple setting. There was an amber broach, nestling in cotton wool, which she did not like as much. Softer than window glass: it needed to be preserved from the others. There were two sets of amethyst earrings, rather elaborate, she thought, and besides, the colour was pale, not nearly as interesting as the green tourmaline pendant which always seemed to wink at her. There were three large zircons, two in differing degrees of golden colour, one heat-treated blue, all set in silver. The things people chose, really.

“Poppets,”
she murmured. “Darlings. What have I done to deserve you? Loved too much, that's what.”

They were undisturbed since the last time she had looked, at least three days ago. She rationed out the pleasure of her routine examinations and polishings, in case it should stale. They could all be altered. There was a man who could alter anything.

Then it caught her eye, the latest addition, so glaringly obvious in the centre of them all, she was amazed she had not seen it before. A pink stone with an old fashioned, round rose cut. She held it to the light and examined the tiny pearls which surrounded it. Could be a ruby. She had always wanted a ruby. It was an old ring, with an old setting: one of the little pearls was missing, how annoying. A gorgeous ring which looked as if it might have been bequeathed by a grandmother who had once been flash, in her day. If it was a ruby, she would forgive him. She would forgive him even if it was not.

Caroline tried to remember the first time Michael had stolen a ring for her. When he was little more than a toddler, making his first attempt to compensate for the accident. That ring had been nicked from the thrift shop, but he had the right idea, even then. There was no disgrace in the second-hand.

She leant over the drawer, picked up the ring with steady fingers. Then she spat on it and rubbed it against the cloth of her sleeve. Sherry-rich saliva, even after the hour getting home, a tiny trail of spittle, carefully measured, absorbed by the cotton as she slipped it on her finger, turned the ring so the stone faced inside and rubbed it again, lovingly, against her blouse.

Then she found
a gold chain from somewhere else, threaded it through the ring and hung the whole round her neck. It nestled into the sweaty warm cleavage of her chest. To be worn in secret, until it knew where it belonged.

Some old lady had told her that. Said it was the safest way to carry ‘em. She splashed gin into a glass, felt a moment of sheer happiness. She may have a ruby: she wanted a topaz. She wanted, she wanted, she wanted …

A little bit of fucking respect. People bowing when she went out. A bit of class and prestige. She thought of what the cache in the drawer was worth on a good day, snorted. Not enough to retire with pride. Not the stuff of a generous pension plan. Not enough to make up for what she might have been.

A gracious lady in a large house, surrounded by affection, respect and beautiful daughters. She had always wanted a little girl.

She could have been someone with fine, thick hair instead of her own, uneven stubble with the scarred patches. She had been able to cover them by pulling it all back when she was younger and her hair was thicker. That trick no longer worked.

That's what a son might have done to
you
, Angela, dear. Pulled the chip pan from the stove while you knelt by the oven. Left you screaming and your head a piece of patchwork. That's what happens after weddings.

“I
've parcelled up your stuff,” Elisabeth said.

It seemed such an old-fashioned way to describe the evidence of a lifestyle. A parcel. Somehow it conjured up an image of several bulky objects wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. What she really meant was two polythene sacks with his belongings jumbled up inside. One dead camera sitting near the kitchen sink, the rest piled alongside a sleeping bag upstairs, a set of tools and the other pair of boots.

“Can I
sit down?”

“Yes of course. No hurry.” She was like a gracious hostess, with a note of irony. “I'm sorry about your camera. I wanted to make a point, I suppose. I can buy you another. I'm rich.”

“You don't look rich.” She did not, either. She looked drab, but the smile, even grudgingly given, was a revelation.

“Criminal injuries compensation,” she said briefly. “As well as a pay off from my previous employers. I don't need to work for a while. And I'm alive. That's rich. How about you?”

“Me?” The curiosity surprised him. “I told you. There's always enough work out there to make a living. Provided I don't become addicted to luxuries or get a mortgage.”

“Dangerous things,” she agreed, soberly, not taking her eyes from his face, “but I bet you have one, somewhere. The place where you live. You don't live here. You've only been camping. Why did you bring flowers?”

“To apologise for invading your space,” he said smartly, proffering the blooms. She took them from him with a nod. No polythene, she noticed; no ribbon or any clutter. They looked as if they had come straight from a garden. She put them in a blue-speckled jug, arranged them deftly, stood back and admired as if judging a contest.

“Not as grand as the others,” she said. “Nicer.”

“Which others?” he asked.

“The others. Yesterday.”

“Not me. I saw them. I didn't bring
them. Promise.”

The hand around the flowers was shaking slightly. It reminded him of Jenkins' tremor. She lit a cigarette. They would bond, Jenkins and she, beauty and the beast, over the nicotine. He could suddenly see them as vicious conspirators, infuriating everyone else with their reticence, locked into mutual mistrust, but still united against the world.

“If you didn't leave flowers yesterday morning, who did?”

“How should I know?”

“You know something.”

She went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine, handed it to him along with a corkscrew. The foil was ripped from the top of the bottle; an attempt had been made to open it. The corkscrew, like the tin opener, was the ancient kind which required coordination, curses and brute strength. He obliged, remembering not to smile, feeling her eyes shy away from him in irritation. She looked like a girl who needed a drink. According to Jenkins, she had been a girl who liked a drink rather too much, another thing which might have made them allies.

Elisabeth was trying to work out why she did not want to hit Joe, stick a pin in him and make him deflate. It was Matthew. She had told him about Joe on last night's call, only to hear him confess to several conversations with Joe. “I would've explained if you'd have listened,” Matt had said, “I did try.” The wee swine. Also, she had the dawning realization that whatever his reasons, it was Joe who had kept this place clean. Not Patsy, not any friend of long standing; no-one who had promised. There was a satisfying “popi,” the sound of wine glugging into a glass. She took hers, greedily, then held it to the light, wiped the rim and sipped. Taking it for granted that he was invited to share, Joe still felt like a man standing motionless, waiting for a fierce
little dog to stop sniffing his fingers and decide he was harmless.

“If you'd let me stay, I wouldn't make a sound. I could open all the bottles as well as the tins. And I could teach you how to defend yourself.”

“Against what?”

“The man who brings flowers. The other man who brings flowers. Bloody awful flowers, I might add, but he brought them most days for a fortnight before you got back. As long as he sees a light in the window, he brings flowers. Flynn took the first lot; thought they might be for him. Then we left them. Someone comes and takes them away if you leave them. Carnations, ferns, hothouse stuff, suitable for a funeral on a freezing day. Why does he bother? Is it love?” She was shaking visibly now. The wine glass seemed to clatter against her fine, white teeth.

“Only problem is, he left a gift with the first lot that Flynn took, hanging on a stem. Flynn's too honest to put it into Church funds. Thought it was valuable, or something. He asked me to keep it, since I was a friend of yours.”

He proffered, out of his back pocket, a single earring. It was moonstone, set in silver, suspended on a simple wire hook, the stone dull, a pathetic little piece without a partner. She closed her hand around it and felt the wire against her palm.

The time was always ten to three, according to the clockface outside. Time for tea and speculation. She opened her palm and the pale moonstone lay lustreless against her skin. She held her hand away from the table and let the thing drop.

“My sister liked moonstones once upon a time,” she said. “My father hated them. He said they symbolized virginity. Innocence preserved. I thought that was amber, with the bugs stuck inside. And then came
the meteorite, froze them in life. Or something.”

She sipped the wine; spoke as if she was continuing a conversation with herself. She had not liked the loneliness of the last two days: her voice had echoed.

“My father always gave flowers, every Saturday, as if mother hadn't enough in the garden. They must have driven one another mad.” She seemed drunk on the single glass of wine, or was it two? He could hear the glug, glug of the bottle, but he kept his eyes on the window, the floor where the moonstone lay, anywhere but her face in case he made her stop. Nobody could be drunk on so little. He noticed the bottle still half full, one large glass each.

“There might have been a label with the first lot,” he said. “You'll have to ask Flynn. He lost it.”

Her glass was empty. He registered the movement as she threw it against the wall above the sink, his head ducking automatically at the sound of the crash. Only a single goblet, most of the pieces landing on the draining board. They both sat and looked at it for a moment. Then she got up, wearily, fetched a dustpan and brush, removed the fragments from the floor, mopped up the rest carefully with a cloth and put both cloth and dustpan contents inside a paper bag and then into the bin. He watched in silence.

“Do you do that often?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She fetched another glass, filled it and refilled his. The small act of destruction seemed to calm her.

“The reverend seems to think the flowers were a superstitious gift of appeasement to the church. You know, to compensate the old girl for the lack of a congregation.”

“Then why take them away?”

“Look,
someone
takes them away. Not
necessarily the person who brings them. Just someone who hates waste.”

“But he's dead,” Elisabeth was saying to herself. “He's dead.”

“Who's dead?”

She looked at him. The twist to her neck made her look sometimes sad and sometimes sly, but nothing could quell the impact of those enormous blue eyes. The windows of the soul, he remembered. Well, well. All he could see in this soul was trouble.