Fine Lines

Chapter Nineteen

Anna was away for much longer than the two or three weeks I had hoped. It was almost two months before I saw her again. During the third week, when I was beginning to hope she would soon be back, her mother telephoned to say they were taking her to Tunisia for a month. Predictably, she did not ask if I minded her having the time off; she presented it as a fait accompli. I consoled myself by nurturing a sense of injustice. But that was immediately forgotten when Anna herself called a few days later. It was good to hear her voice again, and I reassured her that I did not mind her going in the least. Cheered by talking to her, at that moment in time I meant it. Anna, on the other hand, seemed unexcited by the prospect. She sounded as though nothing mattered to her very much one way or the other.

Without Anna to look at and occupy me, I fell into a mechanical, listless routine. Life would begin again when she returned. Until then, I was merely treading water. I hired a temporary assistant from an agency, but the sight of another girl in the gallery only made Anna’s absence more marked. I coped by switching myself off as much as possible, functioning on a surface level only: a state of semi-permanent limbo. It worked so well that when the girl eventually left, I could remember neither her name nor what she looked like.

I contacted Zeppo only occasionally during that period. He was his usual sardonic self, hiding any relief he felt at the petering out of the police investigation behind sarcastic comments. But even he failed to reach me. His barbs slid off almost unnoticed which, I realised later, was probably the best reaction I could have had to them. The last time I spoke to him I said I would let him know when Anna got back and hung up. I think he was beginning to say something when I put the receiver down.

My state of apathy was unassailable. Or so I believed. On the morning I received my first postcard from Anna bland and perfunctory I was also contacted by someone else. Someone much less welcome.

It was when I was trying to explain the basics of my cataloguing system to the temporary assistant. The girl’s repeated inability to grasp it was beginning to rub at my patience. I lacked the enthusiasm to be angry, but I felt a tired, irritable frustration at her continual stupidity. When the telephone rang it seemed a further, needless distraction.

“Look, just don’t do anything until I get back,” I told the girl, as I went to answer it. “Hello, The Gallery?”

“Mr. Ramsey? Margaret Thornby here.”

This time I had no difficulty placing either the voice or the name. I felt a weary resignation.

“How are you?” she asked. “Well, I hope?” I assured her I was. “Just phoning to let you know I’m coming up to London again later this week, and I thought if you weren’t too busy that we could perhaps meet up sometime.”

I made a polite expression of interest and asked what day it would be. “Thursday,” she said. “Is that convenient for you?”

“Is that this Thursday?” I asked. “The nineteenth?”

She gave a laugh. “Well, it’s this Thursday, but don’t ask me what the date is, because I haven’t a clue. I’m awful on things like that. I’ve got a diary somewhere, though, if you want me to check?”

“No, that’s all right. There’s no need. I’m afraid if it’s this Thursday I won’t be able to make it anyway. I’m out of town all morning, and I’ve a meeting scheduled in the afternoon.” The excuses came easily, fabricated without effort from my lassitude. I waited for the expression of regret, already looking past them to the goodbyes, and the mild relief I would feel on hanging up.

“Oh, have you? Well, never mind. What about Thursday evening then?”

“Thursday evening?” The question pierced through my complacency.

“Yes. If you’re not doing anything. I’m going to be staying at my daughter’s overnight, and the friends I normally see are both on holiday, so if you’re not busy we could make it the evening instead.” Again, she gave a laugh. “It’ll save my daughter having to think of something to entertain her mum, anyway.”

I scrambled for an excuse. But the sudden departure from what I had expected was too sharp: I could not make the adjustment in time. “Mr. Ramsey, are you still there?”

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry, I was just... I thought someone had come in.” I searched for inspiration. None came. My mind was blank. “Yes, Thursday evening’s fine,” I heard myself saying.

“Oh good. What time suits you?”

“Whenever.” Numb, I let her fix a time and arrange a suitable place to meet. When she had finished, I put the phone down. The feeling of relief I had looked forward to had been replaced by a dull sense of entrapment. I went back to where I had left the girl. She had followed my instructions to the letter and done absolutely nothing. She looked at me, waiting mutely for instructions.

“Take an early lunch,” I said.

The threat of Thursday night cast a pall over the intervening days. Whenever I tried to rationalise it away, I would think what Anna had said, and it would immediately darken. I could see no innocent reason for the woman’s persistence, nor could I think of a way to avoid it. As horrific as the prospect of spending an evening alone with her was, I could not bring myself to confront her with excuses.

I awoke on Thursday morning with a leaden sense of oppression. Its weight lay heavily in my stomach as I went into the gallery and tried to get through the rest of the day. The ordeal waited for me at the end of it like an impassable block. I could not see beyond it. My entire future was reduced to that single evening.

Anna seemed far away.

The hours passed quickly. I closed the gallery, showered and changed, and tried to tell myself it would, if nothing else, soon be over. The Thornby woman had suggested a restaurant with a small bar in it. I went there early. Not, needless to say, out of eagerness, but because I needed a drink before I faced her. I ordered a gin and tonic, sat down, and looked around. I was relieved that the restaurant was not a particularly intimate one. I looked at my watch. I had nearly twenty minutes before she was due. Time enough for another drink, if I wanted one. Feeling the closest to being relaxed I had all day, I took my first sip, and over the top of the glass saw the door open and Margaret Thornby walk in.

My stomach curdled. All enjoyment of the drink vanished. In the moment before she saw me, I swallowed half of it, regardless. Then I had been seen.

She smiled and began to walk over. I forced an answering smile on to my face. A waiter intercepted her and made some polite enquiry, and she murmured something in reply and indicated towards me. I stood up as she approached the table.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, sitting down. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, I’ve only just arrived.” I wondered what she was talking about. She was more than fifteen minutes early.

“Oh, that’s all right then. To be honest, I forgot if we’d said seven, or half past. I tried phoning you a while ago, but you’d obviously set off, so I thought, “Oh God, it must have been seven’, and dashed around like a mad thing to get here on time.” She looked at her watch. “I’m only seven minutes late, so that’s not too bad, is it?”

I did not bother correcting her mistake. “There was no need to rush yourself.”

“Well, I don’t like being late for people.” She laughed. “As you probably remember.” I smiled, again not knowing what she was talking about. Then I realised she must be referring to when we had bumped cars. She had been hurrying to meet her son. She looked at my glass. “That’s a good idea. I think I’ll have one myself before we eat.”

I remembered my manners. “Of course. What would you like?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Gin and tonic—”

“That sounds nice. I’ll have the same, please.”

I tried to hide my unease as I ordered the drink. It seemed ominous that she had chosen the same as me. “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass. I did likewise, regretting that I had not had the foresight to order myself another. Now I would either have to appear gluttonous or nurse an almost empty glass until she had finished hers.

“Oh, that’s welcome,” she said, setting her drink down. “I feel I’ve earned that. Today’s just been one fiasco after another. One of the main reasons I had for coming into the city today was to look at a supposedly authentic set of Queen Anne chairs. This woman phoned me at the beginning of the week and said her aunt had died, and was I interested in buying them? I said of course, because those sort of things don’t crop up every day, do they? I would have liked to have gone to have a look at them earlier this week, but she said they’d got to bury her aunt first. Only decent, I suppose, but I daresay old Aunty wouldn’t have minded any more.”

I smiled.

“Anyway, I got over there this morning, and guess what? Blow me if the damn things weren’t only reproductions! And not even very good ones, at that!” She spread her hands, inviting me to join in her amazement. I did my best.

“Well, I tried to break it to this woman and her husband gently, but they started getting very offish with me,” she went on. “Well, she did at least. He didn’t say very much at all, just stood behind her like a limp lettuce. It was clear who wore the trousers in that house, if you know what I mean. So finally, I said, “Now just a second. I’m very sorry that your aunt didn’t know the difference between Queen Anne chairs and a Formica stool from Woolworths...” — well, I didn’t quite put it like that, but I felt like it — “...but that’s hardly my fault. You’re quite welcome to get as many opinions as you like, but they’ll all tell you the same thing.”

She pointed at the ashtray on the table. “Those chairs weren’t built any earlier than the nineteen fifties,” I said. “And if Queen Anne had anything to do with them, she must have lived a damn sight longer than the history books tell us!”

She laughed. “That shut her up. “Well, what shall we do with them, then?” she asked. As if it was my responsibility! “Put ’em on the bonfire!” I said, and left them to it!”

I realised some contribution from me was expected at this point. Smiling in approval I murmured, “Quite right.” It was enough. She paused only long enough to take another drink before going on.

“And then, as if that wasn’t enough, I was supposed to be meeting my daughter this afternoon have I told you she’s an art student? Well, she is anyway, she’s got a degree show coming up soon, so I said I’d buy her something to wear for it. You know what students are like, never any money, so I thought I’d help her out a bit. Anyway, I was supposed to be meeting her at two o’clock she couldn’t make lunch, which was why I wondered if you were free and so I waited at this little wine bar place she’d suggested. Ten past two. No sign of Susan. Half past two. Still no sign of Susan. Well, when it got to quarter to three I thought, “Well something’s wrong here,” and tried to contact her. So I phoned the art college, and finally spoke to someone who said she’d already left. I didn’t know what to do then, so I gave it another half hour, and decided I’d better call around to her digs. She’s not on the phone, you see, so I couldn’t ring her. So I trailed around there she lives in Tooting, by the way and of course there was no Susan there either. Well, there I was, standing on the pavement, just beginning to wonder what I was going to do, when one of her flat mates turned up. Stuart, he’s called. Smashing young man. I hadn’t met him before, but he let me in and made me a cup of tea, and told me that Susan had gone to the pictures!”

She raised her eyes ceiling ward “Well, I wasn’t too pleased, I can tell you. Luckily, I’d managed to calm down a bit by the time she finally turned up. “What are you doing here, Mum?” she asks, and before I can say anything Stuart says, “I told your mum you’d been to the pictures. To see that Warhol film.” Well, I don’t know if she had or not, but it took her a second or two to say, “Oh, yes, that’s right!” so you can draw your own conclusions.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “I think these youngsters think we must have been born old. Not that I was bothered where she’d been, I only wanted to know why the hell she’d left me hanging about all afternoon. So I said, “I thought we were going to buy you a new dress or whatever?” She held one hand out, turned palm up. “Of course, she’d forgotten all about it.”

She chuckled again. “Anyway, we got it all sorted out in the end. Then, of course, she wanted to take me out tonight. “No,” I said, “I’m sorry, but you’ve had your chance, I’m afraid some other lucky person’s got that pleasure.” I felt my face begin to burn and hid it by taking a drink from my almost empty glass. She did likewise. She set it down again, smiling fondly.

“Kids. Who’d have them?” She looked across at me. I was acutely conscious of being the object of her attention. “Do you have any?”

It was the first time anyone had ever asked me that question. “Me? Oh no. No.”

“Very wise. Pain in the neck half of the time. As I said to my daughter today, “If I had my time again, I’d stick to cats. More fun and less trouble.”

I realised this was a joke and dutifully laughed with her. A waiter appeared and told us our table was ready. Glad for the reprieve, no matter how short, I let him lead us into the restaurant proper.

The table was set in a corner. I saw this with dismay, and looked around for a less secluded one. There were several, but I could think of no reason to ask to move. We sat down, and my embarrassment was compounded when the waiter lit the candle in the centre of the table. There seemed to be a conspiracy to create a romantic mood. I wondered how I could have thought that the restaurant was not intimate. Now it seemed all too much so. I felt like announcing to everyone in the room that we were not a couple.

The waiter handed us each a menu. “Now, before we go any further, I want to make it clear that this is my treat,” she said. “No arguments.”

Preoccupied, I had not been about to make one. I realised I should at least go through the motions. “No, I’ll get this.” I made an effort to be gallant. “It’s the least I can do after letting you down this afternoon.”

She held her hand up. “No, I shan’t hear of it. I invited you, so this is on me.”

“No, really—”

“I tell you what, you can get it the next time.”

My smile froze. The words settled uncomfortably into my stomach, precluding any thoughts of hunger. Next time. I felt a clammy sense of claustrophobia. I managed to mumble some sort of acquiescence and pretended to study the menu, staring at the calligraphic lines without reading them.

When the waiter returned I ordered the first thing my eye focused upon. I had no appetite. I agreed readily to my host’s choice of wine, and prayed it would not be long in coming. I badly needed a drink. I felt rigidly self-conscious, my tongue lying in my mouth like a wooden club. Fortunately, I was given little opportunity to exercise it anyway.

She prattled on through the meal, requiring only the occasional word from me to sustain her monologue. I was given an unstructured mishmash of her views, her family, and whatever else happened to occur to her while she was speaking.

I also learned that she did not have a husband.

“George that’s my husband always used to say that any man who didn’t play golf had to have a serious character defect. That was his excuse anyway, whenever I used to go on at him for spending all his spare time at the club. “Margaret, you should be thankful,” he’d say. “Some men have mistresses, some men are alcoholics, some men are gamblers. All you’ve got to contend with is a white ball and a few acres of grass.”

She laughed. “He was right, of course. When I was widowed for real, I found out that being a golf widow isn’t half so bad.”

I realised that this was one of the points where I was expected to say something. Reluctantly, I asked, “When was that?”

“When was I widowed? Oh, over two years ago. Don’t worry, I’m over it now. There’s no danger of me blubbing or getting maudlin, or anything. Bit of a blow at the time, of course. Car crash. Right out of the blue. But life goes on, doesn’t it? I’d got the business to keep me occupied, and it wasn’t as if the kids were young and needed looking after. Mind you,” she laughed, “at times like this afternoon, I sometimes wonder.”

As she spoke, she leaned across and briefly touched my arm. It took a vast effort of will not to move away. “But listen to me, I’ve not stopped talking yet,” she went on. “I must be boring you silly. You must tell me to shut up if you feel like it.”

“No, that’s quite all right.”

“What about you, anyway? I’ve been so busy gabbing I’ve not given you a chance to say anything about yourself. You’re still quite a man of mystery. I know what sort of car you drive, but that’s about all. Are you married?”

The suddenness of the question burned my face. Her head was tilted, inquisitively. “No. No, I’m afraid not.” I felt myself being backed into a corner.

She gave a little nod. “No, I didn’t think you were. No ring,” she explained, nodding at my finger. “And you didn’t seem the type.”

She smiled, looking at me very directly. I had no idea what the married type looked like, and did not care. I busied myself taking another drink.

“Rather a nice wine,” I said.

“Yes, it’s not bad, is it? Although I must admit, I don’t know the first thing about wines. I’ll drink any old plonk, so long as it’s not like vinegar. I’ve not got a very discerning palate. I know what I like, but that’s about it.”

That last sentence seemed imbued with all sorts of unpleasant connotations. I realised I was sitting tensely, and made an effort to relax. Perhaps some of my awkwardness communicated itself, because there was a lull in the conversation, the first of the evening. Our plates were empty; there was nothing else to occupy us. The silence grew. I searched for something to say, but came up with nothing. I was on the verge of making another comment about the wine when she spoke.

“So. How did you get into the art business?”

Glad to leave the awful quiet behind, I gave her a condensed version of my early life. She listened attentively, and I shut my mind to everything else except my narrative. At least it was a safe subject.

“I’d no idea you were once a starving artist yourself,” she said. “I expect you still paint for your own pleasure, don’t you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Not even occasionally? Don’t you miss it?”

I had never really considered it before. “No, not really.”

She seemed surprised. “Was it a conscious decision? I mean, when you were disillusioned about being an artist, did you think, “Right, that’s it,” and pack your brushes away?”

“Not exactly.” I thought back. “I just stopped.”

“Oh.” She dismissed it with a smile. “Well, I expect you don’t have much time anyway, these days. Still, if you have any of your old paintings, I’d love to see them. Perhaps they’re better than you remember. You never know, you might feel inspired to take it up again.”

I felt a jolt of panic at the hinted intimacy. “I don’t have any. I threw them all out years ago.” It was the truth.

“You threw everything away? Oh, what a shame. I bet you regret it now, though, don’t you?”

I had never thought about it. But now I was glad I had. I gave a non-committal shrug, feeling my tension return stronger than ever. The waiter appeared and removed our plates.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to have a dessert,” she said. My heart sank. She studied the sweet menu. “I think I’ll try the pavlova. I know it’s loaded with calories, but I don’t care. How about you?”

I had no appetite, but it seemed easier to have something than not. It would give me something to do. “Yes, the pavlova sounds fine.”

“You should see some of my daughter’s work,” she said, as the waiter brought the dessert. “Not the stuff she’s doing now, so much, although her tutors seem impressed enough with that, but some of her earlier pieces. Of course, I can’t claim to be any expert, but I think it’s pretty damn good.” She gave an apologetic laugh, and suddenly her hand had reached out to touch me again. “I bet I sound just like any other proud mother, don’t I? Oh, well, it can’t be helped. I suppose I am.”

The hand was taken away. She went back to her pavlova. “Still, if I do say so myself, she has a definite talent. You’ll have to meet her sometime, so you can make up your own mind.”

I gripped my spoon. The feeling of claustrophobia was stifling. She went on, blithely tying me to her.

“Damien, on the other hand, can’t draw for toffee. Absolutely hopeless. In fact, I’m not sure what he wants to do with his life. I don’t think he does, either. I love him dearly, but I do wish he’d hurry up and settle down to something. Or with someone, even. He’s the eldest, and I’ve said to him if he doesn’t hurry up and produce grandchildren soon, I’m going to be too old to enjoy them. Only kidding, of course. He’s got the travel bug, and he’s got to get that out of his system before he does anything else. Mind you, if nothing else, he has got some amazing slides of the places where he’s been. I know other people’s photographs are normally boring, but some of these are absolutely breathtaking! In fact, you must come over sometime while he’s still here and have a look at them.” She smiled. “You could even risk my attempt at a curry, if you like. That’s my latest thing, since he’s got back from India. What’s the matter?”

She was staring at me with concern. As she had been talking, I had felt myself growing tauter and tauter. I realised I was still rigidly clutching the spoon. “Are you all right?” she asked, and leaned forward to touch me again, and this time I could not help it. I jerked my arm away.

She was left with her hand stretched out over the table. Her face was wide-eyed with surprise. The moment seemed suspended with an awful clarity. I noticed she had a small, white smear of cream on her top lip. I tried to say something.

“I...” Nothing else came. My throat felt constricted. At last, her hand sank down and was withdrawn back to her side of the table. “I’m not... I don’t...”

“What? What is it?”

She stared at me with shocked incomprehension. I tried again to form the words. “I’m... I’m not... I think you’ve got the wrong impression.”

She blinked. “Wrong impression?”

I could not look at her. “This... meeting again. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She did not say anything.

I fixed my eyes on the table cloth. The wreckages of the pavlova as confronted me.

“I don’t... I don’t want a... a relationship.”

I forced myself to look at her. Now her expression was almost one of horror. “Good God,” she said.

“I’m sorry...”

“Good God.” Her hand went to her mouth. She closed her eyes.

“I don’t want to be rude...”

Her head was turned slightly away. “Whatever gave you the impression that I... that I expected anything like that?”

Something about the way she said it gave me a premonition of disaster.

“The telephone calls... All the invitations...” My voice trailed off. What had seemed obvious now suddenly seemed much less so. She slowly set her spoon down on the edge of her plate. She looked down at it as she spoke.

“Mr. Ramsey... I enjoy meeting people. I always have, but now I make a point of doing it. I was married for thirty years, and when my husband died it left a gap. I fill it the best way I can. I don’t believe in putting any more pressure on my children than I have to. They have their own lives to lead, and so I try to make mine as busy as possible.”

She looked up at me. Her mouth was trembling. The smudge of cream was still on her lip. “I know I talk too much, and that sometimes puts people off. And I know I’m too pushy sometimes, and that puts people off too. But I’m not looking for anyone to take my husband’s place, so you’re quite safe. If you misunderstood that, I’m sorry. I can’t see that I’ve really done anything to give you the impression that I was being anything more than friendly, but obviously I must have. Even so, I don’t think you had to make your... your reluctance quite so obvious.”

She suddenly reached for her handbag and swiftly took out her wallet. She set several ten pound notes on the table. “I said I’d pay, and I will.” She stood up. Her chin was quivering. “To be honest, Mr. Ramsey, I thought you were gay anyway. So you needn’t have worried after all.”

She walked quickly out of the restaurant. I looked around. One or two people had glanced up as she left, but no one was near enough to have heard what had been said. I sat where I was. For the time being, I was incapable of moving. After a while a waiter appeared and asked if I had finished. I let him take the plates and her money. There was a substantial amount left over, but I left that as a tip.

I went home.