The Immaculate (6 page)

Alfred's, where Jack had suggested Frank meet him for lunch, was a small pizzeria just round the corner from Berkeley Street. As with most of Jack's favourite restaurants, the decor was sparse, even shabby, but the food delicious. The clientele was mostly young and dressed casually. Many of them carried sports bags or folders or files, denoting their status as students. On the walls were framed black and white photographs of famous boxers. The chef, a stereotypical fat Italian with a heavy moustache, could be seen cooking in a large open-plan kitchen at the far end of the room, spinning pizza crusts with the panache of a circus performer.

The place was crowded when Jack arrived, but fortunately a couple stood up to leave just as he came in. He sat down, placing his bag of books on the floor by his chair. He was thankful to relieve himself of the weight; the biceps of both arms were aching as a result of swapping the bag from hand to hand. When the waitress arrived Jack ordered a mineral water and asked her to leave an extra menu. He called Frank at home and on his mobile and got his voice mail both times, and then, feeling guilty but telling himself he had no reason to, he took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He'd been trying to cut down on booze, cigarettes, sugar, salt and animal fat since he'd turned thirty, nearly three years ago, but his intentions were stronger than his will power. Still, he didn't do too badly; this was his first cigarette of the day and he'd ordered mineral water instead of beer or wine to drink. He narrowed his eyes against the smoke that drifted in front of his face and watched the chef chopping a capsicum, his knife a silver blur.

“I'll just wait another five minutes,” Jack said when the waitress came over for his order. “I kind of half-arranged to meet someone. They may not turn up, but . . . well . . . you know, they might.” He forced a smile, admonishing himself silently for feeling he had to explain. He finished his cigarette, stubbed it out, and toyed with the condiments in the middle of the table. As well as pepper and salt there was a larger shaker containing dried chili seeds and a small bowl of parmesan cheese. He glanced up at the door each time it opened. It was twenty-three minutes past one.

When the waitress next came within earshot, Jack leaned forward and said, “I'll order now, please. I don't think my friend is going to turn up.” She nodded, and reached for the pad and pen tucked into her belt. When she had left, Jack leaned over and rooted in his bag, pulling out four secondhand books. He had wanted to wait until he was home before looking properly at what he'd bought, but if Frank wasn't going to show he needed something to occupy his mind while he ate.

His first course arrived, mushrooms in garlic and tomato sauce. Jack added pepper, chili and parmesan cheese and ate them slowly. Whilst he waited for his main course, chicken in cream and herbs with tagliatelle, he looked through the rest of his books. The two hardbacks were by genre contemporaries whose work he admired, the new paperbacks by writers he'd never read before. One was a collection of stories by a twenty-two-year-old science-fiction writer whom everyone was raving about. Jack was flicking through this, looking at the names of the stories, reading the first paragraphs of each, when a dark shape moved in front of him, blocking the light from the window.

He looked up, expecting to see Frank. A woman stood there. She was wearing a blue and orange skirt, a white T-shirt and a blue cardigan. She was looking at him quizzically, as if she knew him from somewhere but could not place where. On the rare occasions when Jack had been recognised he'd felt awkward and uncomfortable, but now he was willing the woman to say, “Excuse me, but aren't you Jack Stone, the writer?”

Not that he'd have anything interesting to say back. “Yes, I am,” he'd admit modestly, and she'd maybe gush for twenty seconds or so about how she'd read all his books and thought they were brilliant. He would go pink and his smile would become fixed and he'd say, “Thanks very much. It's very nice of you to say so.” Then maybe there'd be a pregnant pause and she would say, “Well . . . it's been good to meet you. I'll look out for the next one.” And she would walk away, leaving Jack floundering frustratedly for witticisms that would come to him the instant she was out of earshot.

“Is anyone sitting here?” the woman said, pointing at the empty chair opposite him.

“Er . . . no,” he said. “I was waiting for a friend, but it doesn't look as though he's coming.”

“Would you mind if I joined you then? I'm not usually so pushy, but it's the only free seat in the place and I've been on my feet all morning.”

Jack half-stood and flapped at the seat as though scattering seeds. “Er . . . no. I mean, yes. I mean . . . oh, hell. Please sit down.”

“Thanks,” said the woman, and did so with a sigh of relief.

“Have you been shopping?” he asked, gesturing at the large canvas—obviously heavy—shoulder bag that she dumped on the floor by her side.

The woman ran a slim hand through her short black hair; Jack loved the way the glossy hair fell back into place in the wake of her raking fingers.

“No, I'm a relief teacher. I've been taking a class of nine year olds all morning in Kilburn. Absolute horrors. I dread to think why their normal teacher's off school. Probably knife wounds or head injuries or maybe they let her off lightly with a nervous breakdown.”

“Oh dear,” said Jack. “You don't have to go back this afternoon, do you?”

“No, thank God. I've been there every morning this week. Hopefully by Monday their usual teacher will be back.”

He nodded and gave a sympathetic smile and tried to think of something else to say. He was saved from having to do so by the arrival of his main course. The waitress gave the woman a menu and took her order for a pineapple juice. Jack added pepper, chili seeds and parmesan to his food and began to eat.

Normally he relished this meal, but today he felt self-conscious. One errant strand of tagliatelle and his chin would be smeared in greasy sauce. Not that it really mattered. Half an hour from now he would leave the restaurant and never see the woman again. All the same he ate his meal slowly and carefully, taking pains to ensure that nothing slid from his fork at just the wrong moment.

“That looks good,” the woman said. “I don't think I've ever had that before.”

Jack looked up at her, swallowing quickly. “It is good,” he said. “I usually have it when I come here. I always arrive determined to try something different, but this is so tasty that as soon as I see it on the menu I have to order it.”

The woman laughed. Her tongue was small and pink, her teeth very straight and white; Jack wondered what it would be like to kiss her. “I'm just the same,” she said. “I always go for the seafood pizza and side salad. Maybe we ought to swap meals just to be more adventurous.”

Jack shook his head. “Thanks, but I couldn't. Not seafood.”

“You don't like it?”

“I don't know how
anyone
can. All those tentacles and unidentifiable rubbery bits.”

“You don't know what you're missing. Fried squid in garlic butter. Absolutely delicious!”

“I'll take your word for it.”

“No, no, I'm serious. Look, if I order a seafood pizza will you promise to try a bit?”

Jack pulled a face. “No,” he said apologetically. “I couldn't, honestly.”

The woman looked at him with a half-smile on her face. She was very beautiful. Jack had to make a conscious effort not to gaze at her for too long. Her eyes were large and dark. She had little smile lines around her mouth. Jack would have loved to have been able to reach out and stroke her face just to feel whether her skin was as soft as it looked.

“Well, that's very narrow-minded of you if you don't mind me saying so,” she said, but her tone was light, almost playful.

Jack shrugged. “I know. I'd love to try lots of different foods, but something in here”—he tapped his head—“won't let me.”

“Perhaps you need a psychiatrist,” she suggested teasingly.

“Ah, zo you sink my food phobias are buried deep in my subconscious?” he said, narrowing his eyes to complement his comic Freudian voice.

“Could be. Did your parents ever used to beat you around the head with baby octopuses?”

Jack tried to laugh, but her question, asked in fun, was too close to home and it emerged as a hard and hollow sound. He shrugged and sat up straight as though pulling back from the game. He twirled his fork in the tagliatelle and lifted it to his mouth.

“I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?” the woman asked.

Jack looked at her, re-establishing the eye contact he had broken abruptly when she'd mentioned his parents. She looked a little confused and genuinely concerned.

“No,” he said with what he hoped was a convincing smile. “It's just . . . no, it's okay, forget it.”

She was silent, as though uncertain whether to apologise or change the subject. The waitress arrived to take her order and the woman said, “I'll have what he's having. With a side salad.” When the waitress left, she said, “See? I'm being adventurous.”

Jack glanced up at her and saw she was grinning at him. He grinned back. The awkwardness between them passed.

“Have you ever tried sushi?” the woman asked, swirling the remains of the juice in her glass.

“An editor took me to a Japanese restaurant once,” Jack replied. “It was a disaster. I hated everything.”

“Jeez.” She rolled her eyes. “You're a real fussy eater, aren't you?”

“No, I'm not,” he said indignantly.

“Yes, you are. What do you mean, editor? Do you work in publishing?”

The abrupt change of subject threw Jack. He hadn't realised he'd said editor until she pointed it out to him. Shit, now he'd have to explain that he was a writer. People tended either to get all starry-eyed when he talked about his work or they treated him like a freak. Some of his friends still could not accept that writing was his job, that it was what he did for a living. Sometimes they would say, “Hey, Jack, I've got a day off on Thursday. Do you fancy a game of squash?” If he told them he had too much work to do, they would look puzzled for a moment and then say, “Work? Oh, you mean writing your stories. Yeah, but you can do that any time, can't you?”

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

“Pardon?” said Jack.

“Whether you work in publishing. If it's a secret it doesn't matter.”

“Oh . . . no. Sorry, I was miles away. I . . . sort of work in publishing.” He leaned forward a little and subconsciously lowered his voice. “Actually, I'm a writer.”

The woman looked at him a moment as though waiting for him to elaborate, then she replied, “You mean a working writer? You do it full-time?”

Jack nodded.

“That's great. What do you write?”

“Well . . . mainly horror, fantasy, science-fiction . . . that kind of stuff.”

He expected her to recoil, to turn up her nose; it was the reaction he got from most people. However, she said again, “That's great. What name do you write under?”

He always hated this bit. He would say his name and she would give him a blank look and there would be embarrassment all round. “Jack Stone,” he said quietly.

“You're joking! Oh my God, I read
Song of Flesh
earlier this year. I liked it so much I went out and bought
Bleeding Hearts
and read that, too. And now I can't wait for
Consummation
to come out in paperback. November, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Jack, surprised and delighted. “Beginning of November. I think Cormorant want to cash in on the Christmas market.”

“Cormorant?”

“My publisher.”

“Oh, yeah, right.”

The woman beamed at him and Jack smiled back. He hoped she wasn't going to get all reverential. He lowered his eyes to his plate and scooped up a forkful of chicken and tagliatelle. The sauce was beginning to congeal a little. As he raised the fork to his mouth, the waitress arrived with the woman's food. Jack glanced up, and a sauce-laden gobbet of chicken slid off his fork and into his lap. “Oh, shit,” he groaned. The creamy sauce left a white smeary trail on the crotch of his jeans. Opposite him he could hear the woman trying to stifle her giggles.

“Bloody hell,” said Jack when the waitress had gone, “I knew that would happen.” He wiped at his crotch as surreptitiously as he could with a wad of napkin.

“Never mind. What's a few stains between friends?” She raised a piece of chicken to her lips and began to chew it daintily. God, thought Jack, she's gorgeous.

“Not exactly cool though, is it?” he said ruefully.

“Thank goodness. People who think they're cool are normally utter prats.”

Jack shrugged. Probing in what he thought was not an unsubtle way, he asked, “I'll bet I'm not quite what you expected, though, am I?”

The woman raised dark eyes to look at him. “How do you mean?”

Jack reddened a little. “Well . . . my books are . . . I mean, they've been
described
as . . . sort of . . . you know . . . nicely written, subtle, complex . . . evocative, sensual, all that kind of stuff. And yet look at me: a clumsy oaf who throws food all over himself.”

The woman had stopped eating and was looking at Jack half-smilingly, waving her fork in the air. “Are you fishing for sympathy or compliments?”

Jack felt his blush deepening. “Oh, Christ. See what I mean? Subtle as a house brick. I think I'll just crawl under this table until you've gone.”

The woman put another forkful of food in her mouth. Chewing, she said, “I'll tell you what my mental image of you was, shall I?”

“Oh God, this'll depress me.”

“No, it won't. Don't put yourself down so much.”

Jack pushed his plate aside, folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Sorry,” he said. “Go on then. I'm listening.”