Dancing With Mortality (10 page)

PART TWO

Dancing with Mortality

2001

Tunbridge Wells, England.

He eased the Mercedes smoothly into
the vacant space, right outside the restaurant.

‘That was good luck,’ said Sophie.

‘Perfect timing actually,’ answered Harry, grinning across
at his wife.

He’d reserved their usual table, in a private room made for
dining à deux. The place was run by Alain, an ex-Parisian who specialised in
distinctive French cuisine, with an eclectic selection of stunning wines from
lesser known vineyards all over France. And the better known ones.

‘Any more of that Cheval Blanc we had last time?’ enquired
Harry after Alain had seated them and asked them how they both were.

‘The ’71? Yes, I think so. Shall I bring a bottle?’

The room was oak panelled, with a polished oak table and
darkly upholstered leather dining chairs. A small skylight admitted the dark
blue of a clear summer evening. Discreet lighting on the walls behind both of
them emitted a soft glow, complemented by the flickering flame of a candle
stood centre table in a simple brass holder.

‘I’ve always liked this place,’ said Sophie. ‘Very private,
no distractions.’

Alain returned with the wine. After tasting it and making
the appropriate noises, they ordered a starter and then settled back to wait,
just feeling the easy ambience of the place.

She looked good. Dark luxuriant black hair brushed right
back and loose, smooth-skinned face with a generous mouth and well-shaped nose.
She was ten years younger than him, with an easy assurity of manner and
intelligence that had been honed by an expensive education, backed by an
upbringing with all the material advantages one could wish for.

‘What’s the occasion?’ she asked, with a hint of irony.

‘Do I need a reason?’

‘Not at all, I just thought we might be celebrating
something.’

‘They’ve renewed my contract at the bank, with a rate rise.
I thought that might be a cause for celebration.’

‘Honestly, Harry.’ She raised her eyes. ‘You think of
nothing but money.’

He said nothing. Sophie was beautiful and expensive. She’d
studied fine art at the Royal College and was now something of a Picasso prints
and ceramics expert with one of the London auction houses. Although this paid a
reasonable salary, it was an unspoken understanding that Harry’s income was the
driver keeping them both in in the style she was accustomed to.

She raised her glass. ‘This wine is gorgeous. Let’s drink to
renewed contracts.’

The wine went down easily, and Harry ordered a second bottle.
Sophie was chatting about a catalogue she was putting together for a European
ceramics auction scheduled for the following week. It was an important sale
event, and she was enthusiastic about the prospective bidders and potentially
record prices that might be achieved.

Harry knew very little about the subject. He was content to
listen and drink, and didn’t interrupt her flow. The main course came and went.
He poured himself another glass of wine, and found the bottle was almost empty.

‘You’re putting it away tonight,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ve only
had two glasses.’

‘Good, you can drive then.’

She sighed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t drink so much.’

‘I don’t drink so much,’ he shot back, his annoyance
showing. This was becoming a familiar refrain, on both their parts.

She looked disconsolate for a moment then regained some
composure. ‘Let’s not argue about it. Why don’t we order some coffee?’

‘Yes, sure.’ The waiter appeared shortly afterwards and took
the order. ‘Actually, I meant to tell you something,’ said Harry. ‘I gave blood
last month, and I had a letter this morning from the Blood people. Only opened
it on the way to work.’

‘Why would they write to you?’

‘It appears I have some antibodies – hepatitis of some kind.
I should be tested to see if I’ve still got it.’

‘I doubt it, Harry. You’d feel lousy if you did. Tom picked
it up in India a few years ago and felt miserable for months as I remember. It
went away in time.’

Tom was Sophie’s older brother. She’d met Harry when he’d
worked with Tom at a fund management company.

He smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Still, I’ll
go to my GP and arrange something. Then I can assure them my blood is just
fine.’

The coffee arrived. He drank half a cup to pacify Sophie.
What he really wanted was another bottle.

Sophie drove home. Once out of the
town it was a 15 minute trip along a winding country road, finishing at the
1930’s three bedroom art deco style house they had bought two years ago. It was
a detached property in a private location that backed on to farm land, with no
neighbours for at least 200 metres. The village primary school was within easy
driving distance too. Sophie had decorated one room as a nursery, but despite
their efforts it remained unoccupied.

‘Up early tomorrow,’ muttered Harry. ‘You coming to bed?’

‘Soon. Just want to finish this.’ She sat on the living room
sofa studying a magazine.

Harry retired upstairs. The wine was an effective
anaesthetic and he was asleep within ten minutes. Downstairs Sophie discarded
the magazine and stared wistfully into space. At least he doesn’t snore, she
thought.

‘When was the last time I saw you
then, Mr Ellis?’ asked his GP the following Saturday morning.

‘Not sure. Think I was here for a travel vaccination last
year.’

Dr Finch, a young man with an earnest disposition, studied
the letter Harry handed him. ‘We’ll take some blood and send it off. The
antibodies they mention relate to hepatitis C. You may have cleared it early
on, but we’ll know soon enough. Make an appointment for next week and I’ll have
the results.’

A blood sample was taken. Harry thanked Dr Finch and left.
He knew nothing about hepatitis C, but he felt well enough. At 46 he was in
good shape, not carrying any extra weight. His hair was thinning a little on
top and greying at the temples, which was only to be expected, really. He’d
worn reasonably well in his estimation since arriving in England some twenty
years ago. A little hepatitis, if he still had it, wouldn’t change that.

Sophie was waiting for him in the car. They were driving up
to London to have lunch with his in-laws, a tedious duty from Harry’s
perspective, only relieved by the fact that his father-in-law had a capacity
for wine that matched his own, and a well stocked cellar to indulge it. Harry
was capable enough of being civil on these occasions, but he’d never felt
particularly comfortable with his in-laws. They were very different people from
his own parents. His father was a carpenter and his mother had stayed home to
bring up the children. Sophie’s father was a partner at a top management
consultancy, and her mother something of a Sloane Ranger, who’d never done
anything much except socialize with other Sloane Rangers. He sometimes detected
an air of perplexity about them when they saw him, as though they couldn’t
quite figure out how their beautiful daughter had chosen such an incongruous
husband. At times he wondered that himself.

‘Everything all right?’ asked Sophie.

‘They’ve taken a blood sample. I’ll know more in a week or
so.’

‘I think I might stay up in London for the weekend, if you
don’t mind. I can get into the office early on Monday. There’s still an awful
lot of work to do before the auction.’

He was turning out of the surgery car park into busy
Saturday morning traffic. ‘Sure, if that’s what you want to do. I’ll amuse
myself around the house on Sunday.’

They arrived in Fulham an hour and a half later, only
marginally late. The house was an Edwardian five bedroom detached, with a large,
well-landscaped garden. A Mercedes convertible and a Bentley graced the driveway,
still leaving plenty of room for Harry to park his own Mercedes without
obstructing anyone.

The door was opened by his father-in-law, Clive Sutherland.
He was a tall and portly man in his mid-sixties, dressed as ever in a well cut
suit, without tie. Harry couldn’t recall seeing him in anything else. He had a
florid complexion, complemented by slightly bloodshot eyes that could have been
the result of some pre-existing medical condition, or just too much booze.
Harry’s money was on the latter. He hugged Sophie and extended his hand to
Harry.

‘Lovely to see you both. Come on in, just time for an
aperitif before lunch I think.’

Susanna, Sophie’s mother, appeared as they walked inside.
‘It’s pheasant darling, needs another half hour or so though. Come and help me
in the kitchen, Sophie.’ She took Sophie’s arm and steered her away, flashing a
brief smile of welcome in Harry’s direction. She was a fifty-something senior
version of Sophie, well groomed and attractive, with a trim figure. She began
chatting away to her daughter, who wasn’t getting a chance to get a word in, as
they retreated to the kitchen.

‘Let’s leave them to it, Harry. Come and have a glass of
something. I’ve got a nice malt you might appreciate.’

Lunch was eventually served. The conversation turned to
Clive’s interest in rare coins, moved on to the upcoming auction, and then to
the refurbishment of a second home in Italy. Susanna shared Sophie’s interest
in art, and painted herself. They were thinking of turning the old stable on
the property into an artist’s studio. Harry was finding Italy mildly
interesting when Clive changed course completely.

‘Going to Dublin next week. Pitching for a project with
Allied Irish Bank, Harry. It will be my first time in Ireland. How did you find
it?’

‘It was a long time ago now,’ replied Harry. He didn’t think
about Ireland very much, not in his waking hours. Of course Clive knew that
Harry had been married before, but the circumstances of Natalie’s death had
never been revealed to him or Susanna. And they’d never shown much curiosity
about it.

Sophie, who knew everything, looked apprehensive. After a
few drinks on Harry’s part, she knew that Ireland was a subject best left
unmentioned.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ she ventured.

Harry had a far away look. He sat slowly twirling the stem
of his wine glass. She wondered how many malts they’d had before lunch, and it
did nothing to alleviate her anxiety.

‘I never did tell you about Ireland.’ He looked up and
smiled at Clive, who reached for the wine bottle and refilled Harry’s glass.
Harry took a generous sip. ‘We were there for about two years, I was studying
Irish and had a little part time job with a security firm.’ He laughed. Clive
and Susanna caught the edge to his voice. Clive tried to retrieve the
situation.

‘Sorry, Harry, let’s change the subject. I forgot you lost
your first wife back then.’

‘Yes, that was careless of me. I left her alone for five
minutes, and when I turned around she’d been blown to bits by a car bomb. Very
careless, wouldn’t you agree?’

For a few moments there was a stunned silence. Susanna was
the first to react.

‘My god, Harry. I’m so sorry, we had no idea.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ Harry got up. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned
it, really. If you’ll excuse me, I think I might drive home.’

‘Have a coffee first.’ Sophie was at his side.

‘I’ll be fine. Thanks for lunch.’ She knew he wouldn’t
change his mind. He kissed her, and when he moved away she saw the anguish in
his eyes.

She touched his arm. ‘I’ll walk you to the car.’

Both Clive and Susanna were lost for words. They watched as
their daughter linked arms with her husband and walked him out of the dining
room. A few minutes later they heard the sound of a car traversing the gravel
of the driveway.

Sophie reappeared. ‘Well done, Daddy.’ She held up her hand
as Clive began to speak. ‘You had to know sometime, I’m surprised it’s taken
this long.’

Harry slept badly. A part of him
retained a peripheral awareness of the room, even with his eyes closed, and
just as he began to sink into unconsciousness he would mysteriously snap back
to a state of semi-wakefulness, as though a mild electric current had been
passed through his brain, forbidding him to sleep. After some time he stopped
trying. He got up with the sunrise and the dawn chorus, feeling disturbed and
unrested.

He didn’t feel like eating right away. He decided to wait
till mid morning, and once the supermarket opened he’d get fresh croissants for
breakfast. Right now it was that time just after dawn when the world felt new again.
There was a light mist over the field behind the house, dissolving as he
watched in the warmth of the new day’s sunlight. He pulled on his jeans, jersey,
and Wellingtons and headed to the bottom of the garden, unlatched the wooden
gate and stepped on to the damp green grass.

He was quite alone as he walked across the field. He didn’t
want to think, and perhaps because he was tired his mind decided to co-operate,
turning down the volume on the usual chatter of thought to an unobtrusive
level. He passed through pockets of mist, aiming for the fence dividing this
field from the next, about 100 yards ahead. Right by the fence he could see two
large copper beech trees, their auburn colour contrasting sharply with the
other predominantly green trees around him. As he looked, the morning sun
bathed them in bright light, turning the auburn leaves to a shimmering gold.
For a long moment he stood there, completely absorbed by the beauty of this
unexpected spectacle, and totally one with the view in front of him. Nothing
else existed.

He snapped out of it, after how long he wasn’t sure. I must
have seen that view a thousand times, he thought, but never like that. He
walked back to the house, feeling unusually serene. It was still far too early
to go croissant hunting, so he returned to bed, and this time there were no
electric currents. He slept until Sophie called four hours later.