Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall (6 page)

I took a deep breath and said: “Okay, okay, if you think it’ll help. But isn’t Emily going to see through all this sooner or later?”

“Why should she? She knows I’ve got an important meeting in Frankfurt. To her the whole thing’s straightforward. She’s just looking after a guest, that’s all. She likes to do that and she likes you. Look, a taxi.” He waved frantically and as the driver came towards us, he grasped my arm. “Thanks, Ray. You’ll swing it for us, I know you will.”

I RETURNED TO FIND
Emily’s manner had undergone a complete transformation. She welcomed me into the apartment the way she might a very aged and frail relative. There were encouraging smiles, gentle touches on the arm. When I agreed to some tea, she led me into the kitchen, sat me down at the table, then for a few seconds stood there regarding me with a concerned expression. Eventually she said, softly:

“I’m so sorry I went on at you like that earlier, Raymond. I’ve got no right to talk to you like that.” Then turning away to make the tea, she went on: “It’s years now since we were at university together. I always forget that. I’d never dream of talking to any other friend that way. But when it’s you, well, I suppose I look at you and it’s like we’re back there, the way we all were then, and I just forget. You really mustn’t take it to heart.”

“No, no. I haven’t taken it to heart at all.” I was still thinking about the conversation I’d just had with Charlie, and probably seemed distant. I think Emily misinterpreted this, because her voice became even more gentle.

“I’m so sorry I upset you.” She was carefully laying out rows of biscuits on a plate in front of me. “The thing is, Raymond, back in those days, we could say virtually anything to you, you’d just laugh and we’d laugh, and everything would be a big joke. It’s so silly of me, thinking you could still be like that.”

“Well, actually, I
am
more or less still like that. I didn’t think anything of it.”

“I didn’t realise,” she went on, apparently not hearing me, “how different you are now. How close to the edge you must be.”

“Look, really Emily, I’m not so bad …”

“I suppose the passing years have just left you high and dry. You’re like a man on the precipice. One more tiny push and you’ll crack.”

“Fall, you mean.”

She’d been fiddling with the kettle, but now turned round to stare at me again. “No, Raymond, don’t talk like that. Not even in fun. I don’t ever want to hear you talking like that.”

“No, you misunderstand. You said I’d crack, but if I’m on a precipice, then I’d fall, not crack.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” She still didn’t seem to take in what I was saying. “You’re only a husk of the Raymond from those days.”

I decided it might be best not to respond this time, and for a few moments we waited quietly for the kettle to boil. She prepared a cup for me, though not for herself, and placed it in front of me.

“I’m so sorry, Ray, but I’ve got to get back to the office now. There are two meetings I absolutely can’t miss. If only I’d known how you’d be, I wouldn’t have deserted you. I’d have made other arrangements. But I haven’t, I’m expected back. Poor Raymond. What will you do here, all by yourself?”

“I’ll be terrific. Really. In fact, I was thinking. Why don’t I get our dinner ready while you’re gone? You probably won’t believe this, but I’ve become a pretty good cook these days. In fact, we had this buffet just before Christmas …”

“That’s terribly sweet of you, wanting to help. But I think it’s best you rest just now. After all, an unfamiliar kitchen can be the source of so much stress. Why don’t you just make yourself completely at home, have a herbal bath, listen to some music. I’ll take care of dinner when I come in.”

“But you don’t want to worry about food after a long day at the office.”

“No, Ray, you’re just to relax.” She produced a business card and placed it on the table. “This has got my direct line on it, my mobile too. I’ve
got
to go now, but you can call me any time you want. Now remember, don’t take on anything stressful while I’m gone.”

FOR SOME TIME NOW
I’ve been finding it hard to relax properly in my own apartment. If I’m alone at home, I get increasingly restless, bothered by the idea that I’m missing some crucial encounter out there somewhere. But if I’m left by myself in someone else’s place, I often find a nice sense of peace engulfing me. I love sinking into an unfamiliar sofa with whatever book happens to be lying nearby. And that’s exactly what I did this time, after Emily had left. Or at least, I managed to read a couple of chapters of
Mansfield Park
before dozing off for twenty minutes or so.

When I woke up, the afternoon sun was coming into the flat. Getting off the sofa, I began a little nose-around. Perhaps the cleaners had indeed been in during our lunch, or maybe Emily had done the tidying herself; in any case, the large living room was looking pretty immaculate. Tidiness aside, it had been stylishly done up, with modern designer furniture and arty objects—though someone being unkind might have said it was all too obviously for effect. I took a browse through the books, then glanced through the CD collection. It was almost entirely rock or classical, but finally, after some searching, I found tucked away in the shadows a small section devoted to Fred Astaire, Chet Baker, Sarah Vaughan. It puzzled me that Emily hadn’t replaced more of her treasured vinyl collection with their CD reincarnations, but I didn’t dwell on this, and wandered off into the kitchen.

I was opening up a few cupboards in search of biscuits or a chocolate bar when I noticed what seemed to be a small notebook on the kitchen table. It had purple cushioned covers, which made it stand out amidst the sleek minimalist surfaces of the kitchen. Emily, in a big hurry just before she’d left, had been emptying and re-filling her bag on the table while I’d been drinking my tea. Obviously she’d left the notebook behind by mistake. But then in almost the next instant another idea came to me: that this purple book was some kind of intimate diary, and Emily had left it there on purpose, fully intending for me to have a peek; that for whatever reason, she’d felt unable to confide more openly, so had resorted to this way of sharing her inner turmoil.

I stood there for a while, staring at the notebook. Then I reached forward, inserted my forefinger into the pages at the mid-way point and gingerly levered it up. The sight of Emily’s closely packed handwriting inside made me pull my finger out, and I moved away from the table, telling myself I had no business nosing in there, never mind what Emily had intended in an irrational moment.

I went back into the living room, settled into the sofa and read a few more pages of
Mansfield Park
. But now I found I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept going back to the purple notebook. What if it hadn’t been an impulsive action at all? What if she’d planned this for days? What if she’d composed something carefully for me to read?

After another ten minutes, I went back into the kitchen and stared some more at the purple notebook. Then I sat down, where I’d sat before to drink my tea, slid the notebook towards me, and opened it.

One thing that became quickly apparent was that if Emily confided her innermost thoughts to a diary, then that book was elsewhere. What I had before me was at best a glorified appointments diary; under each day she’d scrawled various memos to herself, some with a distinct aspirational dimension. One entry in bold felt-tip went: “If still not phoned Mathilda, WHY THE HELL NOT??? DO IT!!!”

Another one ran: “Finish Philip Bloody Roth. Give back to Marion!”

Then, as I kept turning the pages, I came across: “Raymond coming Monday. Groan, groan.”

I turned a couple more pages to find: “Ray tomorrow. How to survive?”

Finally, written that very morning, amidst reminders for various chores: “Buy wine for arrival of Prince of Whiners.”

Prince of Whiners? It took me some time to accept this really could be referring to me. I tried out all sorts of possibilities—a client? a plumber?—but in the end, given the date and the context, I had to accept there was no other serious candidate. Then suddenly the sheer unfairness of her giving me such a title hit me with unexpected force, and before I knew it, I’d screwed up the offending page in my hand.

It wasn’t a particularly fierce action: I didn’t even tear the page. I’d simply closed my fist on it in a single motion, and the next second I was in control again, but of course, by then, it was too late. I opened my hand to discover not only the page in question but also the two beneath it had fallen victim to my wrath. I tried to flatten the pages back to their original form, but they simply curled back up again, as though their deepest wish was to be transformed into a ball of rubbish.

All the same, for quite some time, I carried on performing a kind of panicked ironing motion on the damaged pages. I was just about coming to accept that my efforts were pointless—that nothing I now did could successfully conceal what I’d done—when I became aware of a phone ringing somewhere in the apartment.

I decided to ignore it, and went on trying to think through the implications of what had just happened. But then the answering machine came on and I could hear Charlie’s voice leaving a message. Perhaps I sensed a lifeline, perhaps I just wanted someone to confide in, but I found myself rushing into the living room and grabbing the phone off the glass coffee table.

“Oh, you
are
there.” Charlie sounded slightly cross I’d interrupted his message.

“Charlie, listen. I’ve just done something rather stupid.”

“I’m at the airport,” he said. “The flight’s been delayed. I want to call the car service that’s picking me up in Frankfurt, but I didn’t bring their number. So I need you to read it over to me.”

He began to issue instructions about where I’d find the phone book, but I interrupted him, saying:

“Look, I’ve just done something stupid. I don’t know what to do.”

There was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said: “Maybe you’re thinking, Ray. Maybe you’re thinking there’s someone else. That I’m going off now to see her. It occurred to me that might be what you were thinking. After all, it would fit with everything you’ve observed. The way Emily was when I left, all of that. But you’re wrong.”

“Yes, I take your point. But look, there’s something I have to talk to you about …”

“Just accept it, Ray. You’re wrong. There’s no other woman. I’m going now to Frankfurt to attend a meeting about changing our agency in Poland. That’s where I’m going right now.”

“Right, I’ve got you.”

“There’s never been another woman in any of this. I wouldn’t look at anyone else, at least not in any serious way. That’s the truth. It’s the bloody truth and there’s nothing else to it!”

He’d started to shout, though possibly this was because of all the noise around him in the departure lounge. Now he went quiet, and I listened hard to work out if he was crying again, but all I heard were airport noises. Suddenly he said:

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, all right, there’s no other woman. But is there another
man?
Go on, admit it, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Go on, say it!”

“Actually, no. It’s never occurred to me you might be gay. Even that time after finals when you got really drunk and pretended to …”

“Shut up, you fool! I meant another man, as in Lover of Emily! Lover of Emily, does this figure bloody exist? That’s what I’m getting at. And the answer, in my judgement, is no, no, no. After all these years, I can read her pretty well. But the trouble is, precisely because I know her so well, I can tell something else too. I can tell she’s started to think about it. That’s right, Ray, she’s looking at other guys. Guys like David bloody Corey!”

“Who’s that?”

“David bloody Corey is a smarmy git of a barrister who’s doing well for himself. I know exactly how well, because she tells me how well, in excruciating detail.”

“You think … they’re seeing each other?”

“No, I just told you! There’s nothing, not yet! Anyway, David bloody Corey wouldn’t give her the time of day. He’s married to a glamourpuss who works for Condé Nast.”

“Then you’re okay …”

“I’m not okay, because there’s also Michael Addison. And Roger Van Den Berg who’s a rising star at Merrill Lynch who gets to go to the World Economic Forum every year …”

“Look, Charlie, please listen. I’ve got this problem here. Small by most standards, I admit. But a problem all the same. Please just listen.”

At last I got to tell him what had happened. I recounted everything as honestly as I could, though maybe I went easy on the bit about my thinking Emily had left a confidential message for me.

“I know it was really stupid,” I said, as I came to the end. “But she’d left it sitting there, right there on the kitchen table.”

“Yes.” Charlie was now sounding much calmer. “Yes. You’ve rather let yourself in for it there.”

Then he laughed. Encouraged by this, I laughed too.

“I suppose I’m over-reacting,” I said. “After all, it’s not like her personal diary or anything. It’s just a memo book …” I trailed off because Charlie had continued to laugh, and there was something a touch hysterical in his laughter. Then he stopped and said flatly:

“If she finds out, she’ll want to saw your balls off.”

There was a short pause while I listened to airport noises. Then he went on:

“About six years ago, I opened that book myself, or that year’s equivalent. Just casually, when I was sitting in the kitchen, and she was doing some cooking. You know, just flicked it open absent-mindedly while I was saying something. She noticed immediately and told me she wasn’t happy about it. In fact, that’s when she told me she would saw my balls off. She was wielding this rolling pin at the time, so I pointed out she couldn’t very well do what she was threatening with a rolling pin. That’s when she said the rolling pin was for afterwards. For what she’d do to them once she’d cut them off.”

A flight announcement went off in the background.

“So what do you suggest I do?” I asked.

“What
can
you do? Just keep smoothing the pages down. Maybe she won’t notice.”