Spring (27 page)

In spite of the many messages he had left since Sunday, he had still heard nothing from Katherine—­a silence that seemed increasingly meaningful—­and he was miserable. He had spent the day drifting through London like a wind-­blown plastic bag. He had a solitary lunch at one of the Bangladeshi places on Brick Lane—­one of the unpretentious ones up near the Bethnal Green Road end. Plastic cups, Formica table-­tops. The sound of traffic from the door. When he had eaten, he wandered up to Victoria Park—­vacant in the spring sunshine—­and from there walked along the towpath. He passed the flat where he had once lived, on the other side of the black, sun-­struck water. It was strange to see it now, someone else’s home. There was some unfamiliar outdoor furniture on the terrace—­and how strong, as he stood there, was the sense of being shut out of the past! The sense of the evanescence of things, experience, time—­no solider than the jellying light on the undersides of the bridges. The sense of time slipping very slowly away.

From the start, it seemed to him now, he had not
felt
enough. At the important moments, there was just an insufficiency of feeling. When she told him that Fraser had been in touch with her. When she told him, two weeks later, that she wanted to see Fraser. And when she said to him, in the half-­light the next morning, ‘What do you think I should do?’ It was not that he thought he had failed, on those occasions and others, to express what he felt. He had just not seemed to feel enough when feeling was most needed. It troubled him, this sense that it was a failure of feeling, and not a failure of expression. A man unable to
express
his feelings. That was magazine normality, nothing to worry about. A man unable to
feel
his feelings. Well, that did sound worse.

He thought of the night they spent in that hotel in Cambridge, of how he had said, as they lay there next to each other, ‘I think I’m in love with you.’ She sighed as if she wished he hadn’t said it, and several seconds elapsed, each worse than the last. It was a moment when he wished she was more able to pretend, when he wished she was not so painfully honest, so subject to the tyranny of the truth. She said straight out that she was not in love with him, and suddenly he felt very unsure of everything. What had he
meant
when he said, ‘I think I’m in love with you’? He did not seem to know. Had it been somehow speculative then? Had he just been seeing how it sounded? And then, while he was still wondering what he had meant, she said, ‘This isn’t what I expected.’
This
presumably being the fact that he was in love with her. Or thought he was. Or said he was. Or said he thought he was.

In the morning they went to see her alma mater; she persuaded the porter to let them into the wide quad. When they had done that, they went for a walk. Something had stirred up the weather overnight. The tall trees were swaying. They walked up into a small wood, still in the browns and greys of its winterwear, loudly inhaling the wind on its hill.

There are memories that make his heart yurr-­yurr like an engine struggling to start. Their setting is uniformly wintry. A few London afternoons of wintry exiguity. Thinking of them, he wondered why they had not been enough, why they had taken him only as far as that hedged, faint-­hearted statement in the old-­fashioned hotel in Cambridge, with its squeaky floorboards and its tired dried flowers. Something had failed. That was how he felt. Something had failed in him. (It was quite frightening.) The engine of his heart.

He used to eye the men fishing from the towpath with scepticism when he jogged past them. He never saw them enjoy so much as a twitch on their lines. They just perched on stools, and inspected their seething maggot jars. Were there any fish in that oily water? That was what he had always wondered, as he pounded the path with sweat-­fogged eyes.

He took the tube home and tried to interest himself in the televised horse racing. There was a meeting at Taunton, and the last there was quickly followed by the first at Wolverhampton. He had by then been sprawled on the sofa for several hours winning and losing pennies, and was wondering whether to nip out to the Four Vintners—­a dusty cage of booze on a bald corner—­for a half-­litre of Jack Daniel’s or dark rum.

He was starting down the metal steps with the blue plastic off-­licence bag when he noticed there was someone in the unlit area. It was not Katherine, as for a fraction of a second he wildly hoped. It was Freddy. And ominously, he seemed to have luggage with him.

‘Freddy,’ James said, unleashing Hugo and following him down the steps. ‘What’s up?’ Freddy was looking suspiciously at the inquisitive St Bernard. ‘Um,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem.’

‘What?’

‘I need to stay for a day or two.’

James stopped on the penultimate step. ‘Why?’

‘Anselm kicked me out.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well…’ James sighed helplessly. ‘Haven’t you got anywhere else to stay?’

‘No.’

‘What about your parents’ flat?’ James knew that Freddy’s parents had a small flat in Bayswater.

‘Tenants in it.’

Freddy’s father was in the final posting of his career—­Her Majesty’s ambassador to Surinam. The previous year a sympathetic superior had taken pity on him and, knowing how important it was to him—­as it was to all of them—­had looked around the world to see if there was a suitable ambassadorship opening up. Thus he was sent to Paramaribo for twenty months, and would sign off as an His Excellency, which was the only thing, in professional terms, that he had ever wanted. That and the K. Sir Oliver and Lady Munt.

Still standing in the freezing area, their son was now explaining to James that he couldn’t stay in a hotel because he didn’t have any money.

‘What about the money from the touch?’ James said sternly.

Freddy was disinclined to say that he had spent the money from the touch on world-­renowned hotels and Michelin-­starred meals and €1,000-­a-­night escorts in Paris. Which was what he had spent it on. And yes, it had been foolish to spend it all. He had not intended to. The fact was, there was one particular €1,000-­a-­night escort, an American—­her work name was Lauren—­and he had become… possibly slightly obsessed with her? She had had €4,000 of his money anyway. She was tall and sandy-­haired, with freckles on her nose. Twentyish. After the second night he had wondered whether she would see him… He forgets how he put it exactly. Essentially he was asking for a freebie. He had made what he knew very well was the innocent’s mistake of thinking she liked him just because she seemed to when he was paying her €1,000 a night. She handled the situation with typical tact. She said she would love to, but she had a fiancé. ‘A fiancé?’ Freddy said, with mild incredulity. ‘M-­hm.’ ‘Does he live in Paris?’ ‘M-­hm.’ ‘Is he French?’ ‘He’s French.’ ‘Does he know what you do?’ She fudged on that. However, in her mind it seemed quite simple—­if she had sex with someone else without being paid for it (even if she took less than her usual fee), she was being unfaithful to him. Though Freddy tried to shift her from this position, she was sweetly immovable. So finally he paid her another €1,000 and they went to eat. Later, in his splendid suite at the Georges Cinq, he said, ‘So you’re not being unfaithful now?’ The question was slightly unfair, in that she was unable to speak—­her mouth was full—­but she shook her head.

She was there when he fell asleep, never when he woke. She always managed to slip out without waking him, and he never saw her in the frailer morning light.

Of course, it had been his intention to save
something,
to leave himself a small emergency fund. Then on his final night in Paris he had found himself scraping together his last €1,000 and dialling her familiar number. Yes, he was possibly slightly obsessed with her. He was still thinking about her now.

He told James he had paid the money to Anselm.

‘And he still threw you out?’

‘I owed him much more than that.’

‘So he took ten grand from you, and then threw you out?’

‘Yes.’

James sighed, for about the tenth time, and shook his head.

Freddy laughed and said, ‘Look, can I at least come inside? I’m fucking freezing.’

So they went in.

It was warmish in the living-­room, where the electric fire was on. ‘What have you got there?’ Freddy said, unwinding his scarf. ‘Jack Daniel’s?’ He had dumped the haversack in the hall. ‘Yes, please.’

He sat down on the sofa wiping the freezing moisture from his pate. ‘Fuck me it’s cold,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘Okay.’ James handed him a Jack Daniel’s and Coke.

‘Thanks very much. Mind if I smoke?’ He lit a Gauloise filterless—­he did have eight hundred or so Gauloises filterless squashed into the haversack somewhere. ‘I find it very nostalgic,’ he said, ‘smoking these.’ There were then some phlegmy noises, which went on for quite a while. ‘Fuck me…’

James stood there watching him, swinging his glass slightly, making the ice tinkle. Freddy did look out of sorts—­with a suspicious, unfriendly eye on Hugo, he was sucking saliva thoughtfully through his teeth, which made a quiet squeaking sound. For a minute that and the ticking of the fire, and the tinkling of the ice, and Hugo’s quiet panting, were the only sounds. The television was muted, pictures only.

‘What the fuck are you going to do?’ James said, not un­sympathetically.

Freddy had enormous faith in his own powers of sorting something out. He had been able to sort something out in the most unlikely situations in the past. His present situation had seemed pretty tricky, however—­it had seemed frankly intractable—­until, waiting for a Piccadilly-­line train at South Kensington, he had thought of something.

‘Looking forward to Sunday?’ he said.

James shrugged. ‘I s’pose.’

Sunday was Plumpton, and Absent Oelemberg’s next outing. (Her final outing under their ownership—­they needed to sell her just to pay Miller what they owed him in training fees.) Ten days ago she had won at Towcester under a penalty. The plan had been to turn her out quickly under a double, but she had emerged sore from the Towcester win, so Miller had let her have a fortnight off. On Sunday she would run from her new mark, which was eighteen pounds higher than her old one. Miller said he still thought she would win.

‘Planning to lump on?’ Freddy said, matter-­of-­factly.

‘I don’t know,’ James said. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘Mm.’ Freddy nodded.

‘Shame you missed her last time.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where were you?’ Freddy had never properly explained why he couldn’t make it to Towcester that day. (He was in Paris.) He just waved a hand in the air and said, ‘I had some things to do. I was wondering,’ he went on. Then he stopped.

‘What?’

‘If you could lend me some money.’

When they spoke, some seconds later, it was simultaneously. James said, ‘How much?’ And Freddy said, ‘I mean, to bet with.’

‘To
bet
with?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Five thousand?’

James laughed. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘Why do you say that?’ Freddy said, impressively straight-­faced.

‘I’m not going to lend you five thousand pounds
to bet with.
’

‘Why not? I’ll be able to pay you back on Sunday…’

‘You will if she
wins.
What if she loses? Then what? Then I’ll never see the money again, will I? Why would I do that? Don’t be a fucking idiot, Freddy.’

Freddy looked away. He was sucking his teeth again—­it was a habit he had had since school.

* * *

Later he finally spoke to Katherine. She finally answered her phone. He was standing in the living room, in the Gauloise smoke, slightly drunk. Freddy was out procuring more Jack Daniel’s.

‘Hello,’ he said, surprised. He had lost count of how many times he had phoned her since Sunday—­he had stopped even hoping that she would answer. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m okay.’ She didn’t sound okay. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’

They talked for while. This and that. He did most of the talking. Then he said, in an offhand way, ‘What were you doing last weekend?’

‘I saw Fraser.’

‘Did you?’ There was a silence which started to stretch out. ‘And?’

‘And it’s over,’ she said simply. ‘The love is dead.’

His instinct, since she was obviously in some sense in mourning, was to say, ‘I’m sorry.’ That seemed just too dishonest, though. He was not sorry. He was not sorry at all. The way she put it was so wonderfully absolute. It was
dead.
Her love for Fraser King was
dead.
He tried to keep his voice sombre when he said, ‘Well… how are you feeling?’

‘Very sad.’

‘Mm,’ he murmured as sympathetically as he could. ‘What did… ? Where did you… ?’

‘We went to Scotland.’

‘Oh. Well…’ And then finding himself with nothing else to say, he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

She said nothing, so he went on. ‘And what have you been doing? For the last few days. I’ve been trying to call you…’ He was irritated to hear the querulous note in his own voice.

‘I know you have. I’m sorry.’

‘So what have you been doing?’ he said.

She said she had been shopping with her mother—­furnishing the house in West Kensington.

‘And what are you doing for the rest of the week? At the weekend?’

‘I don’t know.’

He heard Freddy unlocking the front door. ‘Will I see you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, as if it was something she simply didn’t know.

‘Well,’ he said slightly exasperatedly. ‘Do you
want
to see me?’

She sighed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘Do I want to see you?’ she said, as if putting the question to herself out loud would help. ‘I just don’t know. Maybe. Maybe if you think of something fun to do…’

Freddy was there, taking off his overcoat. James waved him away.

‘Do you want to come to Plumpton on Sunday?’

‘No,’ she said without hesitation.

‘That isn’t fun?’

She laughed—­a weak laugh, like someone ill. ‘No.’

If he had not managed to feel very sorry when he heard of her sad weekend, he did feel something like joy when he heard her laugh. ‘No,’ he said, smiling. ‘Okay. I’ll try and think of something fun to do. I’ll be in touch. Okay?’