Familiar Rooms in Darkness (11 page)

Little bursts of clapping and laughter broke his train of thought and he looked round to find Megan gazing pointedly at him. He let his glance stray on as though he hadn't noticed.

When the speeches and formalities were over, little knots of people began to move between tables, finding friends and talking. Music began at the other end of the marquee. Adam leaned back in his chair and took a huge gulp of rather flat mineral water. He would be driving in an hour's time. He wished it were sooner.

‘Adam Downing, isn't it? I've been expecting to hear from you.' Adam looked up to see Charlie smiling down at him, resplendent in full morning dress, glass in hand. He sat down in the chair which one of Adam's neighbours had vacated. ‘How's the book coming along?'

‘A bit stalled at the moment, I'm afraid.'

‘Oh? Why's that?'

‘Earning a living is rather getting in the way. But I hope to be getting down to it soon. I will be in touch.'

‘Good, good. I know Harry was really keen for the book to happen…'

Suddenly Bella appeared and laid a hand on Charlie's shoulder. ‘Toby's looking for you.'

‘Is he? Better go and see what he wants.' Charlie gave Adam a nod, and went in search of Toby.

Bella sat down. Adam smiled at her. They both began to speak at once.

‘Go on, you first,' said Bella.

‘No – please. After you.'

‘I was going to ask why you were staring at me all through Alan's speech.'

‘Was I?'

‘Yes.'

‘I was thinking.'

‘Oh?' She waited for the usual flattering elaboration.

‘About you. Largely. About you and your family.' He glanced around. ‘Look, this isn't really the time or the place, but I need to have a talk with you.'

Bella gave Adam her best soft, sensuous smile. She always felt terrifically sexy after a few glasses of champagne. She had already decided she couldn't let this one get away, girlfriend or not. He was too good-looking, too much of a challenge. It would be fun to seduce someone so achingly conventional, to find the animal beneath that literary exterior. That night at Gandercleugh had just whetted her appetite for the challenge. ‘Sounds serious,' she said.

‘Well, it is, actually. I know you must be very busy, but I was wondering if we could meet up in the next few days.' Just the thought of trying to tackle the subject made
him go cold, but it had to be done. It could be that he was worrying needlessly.

‘Mmm, I'm sure we could manage that. Why don't I come over one afternoon after rehearsals?'

‘I don't want to put you to any trouble. We could meet in town, if you prefer.'

‘It's no trouble, honestly.'

Perhaps it would be better if she came to the flat. It wasn't the ideal thing to discuss in public. ‘What about Tuesday, then?'

‘Fine. Tell me where you live.' He told her his address. ‘I'll be round a little after four.'

Adam gazed after her as she threaded her way through the crowd of guests. Just three days in which to work out how to broach the information which he had bought from George Meacher. If he had three years, he didn't think he'd find the right way.

Bella dressed with care on Tuesday. Normally she wore any old thing to rehearsals, but that day she put on a blue cotton shirt tied above her midriff, showing an expanse of smooth, soft skin, and a pair of Versace hipster jeans. Not too dressy, simple but sexy. All day she felt elated. Then, on the way over to Baron's Court in the taxi, she was suddenly assailed by a dipping, familiar sense of depression. No use pretending to herself that this was going to be anything special or different. Bella knew herself too well. It was just the pattern repeating itself. Always the same old thing. She would meet someone, and decide she wanted them. It didn't matter that she didn't really know them. All that mattered was getting
what she wanted. She would go after them, just as she had with Adam that first night. He'd turned her down, and it had made her mildly delusional, giving her a heightened sense of need. That was what she craved. Connection, the other person's desire. It was never the actual person she wanted, not in the long run. What she really yearned for was that high, the hit that came from flirting, touching, taking… That lovely rollercoaster that started with a shared glance, and ended up in bed. Nothing, nothing was ever as good as that first time. The shock of the new. The high curve. And after that – downhill all the way. Because she never cared enough.

Adam was probably going to be another one just like that.

She stared dejectedly out of the taxi window at Baron's Court cemetery rolling by. In America they had clinics for people like her, serial seducers, people who couldn't sustain nice, proper one-on-one relationships without getting bored, or resist gratifying their own impulsive desires. She never had the patience to wait for any man to take the initiative. The ones who did weren't the ones she wanted. It was always the ones like Adam – the ones who were spoken for, or apparently not interested. Even gay men – the ultimate challenge. She swallowed a sigh. One day she'd get some serious therapy, sort herself out. In the meantime, she might as well just get on with being the way she was. Someone might turn up along the way, someone with whom she could go the distance. It might even be Adam. Maybe he was the one. In which case, sod the girlfriend. And sod the therapy. Maybe she and Adam would live happily ever after.

In this confused state, Bella paid the taxi, got out, crossed the road, and pressed the bell of Adam's flat.

Adam was too wound up about the potential conversational minefield to pay a great deal of attention to the way Bella looked. Pretty as ever, he thought, as he let her in, but his thoughts shifted swiftly and nervously to what lay ahead.

‘Coffee?' he asked as he led the way through to the living room.

‘A drink would be even better. I've had a gruelling day.' She sat down on the sofa, kicked off her shoes, and tucked her bare feet beneath her. Nothing like a little alcohol to get things mellow. She looked up at him and felt a shiver of pleasure.

Adam glanced at his watch. ‘What would you like?'

‘Any old thing – a beer will do. Cold, if possible.'

He went into the kitchen, and while he searched out beers in the fridge, Bella jumped up and wandered through to his study, which lay off the living room.

Adam came back through, realized where she'd gone and followed her in, a chilled bottle of lager in either hand, mildly annoyed at this invasion of his private sanctum.

She was perusing his bookshelf. ‘So this is where you toil away.' She plucked a copy of
The Penguin Book of Journalism
from the shelf, glanced through it, then put it back. ‘Don't you find it lonely?'

‘No. Never.'

She turned and took one of the bottles. ‘Thanks.' She raised it to her lips. He was looking a bit distracted, clearly not yet in the kind of mood she required. Oh, well. Give
it time. She went back to the living room, brushing past Adam, and sat down on the sofa. She sat to one side, leaving room for him, but Adam sat in a chair opposite, nursing his beer between his hands. He seemed preoccupied, nervous. Maybe he did have some hidden agenda, after all. She smiled to herself.

‘So–' She put up a hand to ruffle her hair, ‘what's this serious thing you need to talk to me about?'

‘I have to warn you – what I'm going to talk about, you may not find easy.'

She let her hand drop to her lap. Whatever was going to happen here this afternoon, it was not the seduction of Adam Downing by Bella Day. The atmosphere and the man were too intent, too serious for that. Her mental focus shifted.

‘I take it this is to do with the biography?'

‘Of course.' What else, he wondered fleetingly, did she think he'd asked her here for?

‘Well, go on.'

‘A couple of weeks ago I met someone who knew Harry back in the fifties.'

She sat sipping her beer, waiting for Adam's next words.

‘His name is George Meacher. Have you ever heard of him?'

She shook her head. Adam was acutely aware of how artlessly lovely she looked, sitting cross-legged, gazing at him. He wondered if the heart-stopping feeling he experienced was to do with that, or his own immediate anxiety.

‘He's a photographer. That is – he was, once. Anyway,
that's not important…' Adam took an anguished swallow of his beer. ‘Maybe I'm about to tell you something you know already, in which case–'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake, get on with it!'

‘Right. Right.' Adam took a deep breath. ‘According to this man, Harry and Cecile never had any children. He said that… you and Charlie were adopted.'

Slowly Bella put down the bottle of beer. The change in her expression, from mild annoyance to one of stark incredulity, told him that she had never heard anything of this in her life before.

‘Is that some kind of a joke?' She stared at him. ‘I mean, is it?'

Adam looked at her helplessly. ‘Look, Meacher shared a flat – a room – with your father after the war. He knew Harry very well. He knew your mother. It's what he told me. I'm really sorry. I thought – I hoped – you might already know. If it weren't for the fact that I'm involved with the biography, I would never dream of–'

‘Oh, just shut up! Shut up talking!' She put both hands to her temples, clenching her eyes shut, taking deep breaths. She stood up and walked to the window, then back to the sofa, dashing tears from her cheeks. ‘Well, clearly it's a load of lies! I mean –
clearly
! She folded her arms, but he could see she was trembling a little. ‘Don't you think my parents would have mentioned something like that? I mean, don't you? You're not a very good journalist, Adam, if you let people con you like that! Who was this man? Someone on the make, probably. Did you pay him for that rubbish?'

‘No. Not exactly.'

‘Well, what a horrible,
stupid
thing to try and tell me! I know for a fact that it couldn't possibly be true.' He couldn't tell whether she was more agitated than angry. ‘I think it is utterly, utterly pathetic of you to repeat that kind of drivel! Do you know what?' He gazed at her blankly, aware only of a physical wish to grab her and stop her, soothe her. ‘I think you should just pack this rotten book in right now! If this is the kind of nonsense you're going to peddle, then just forget it! I don't want to know about it, or you! And that goes for our entire family!'

She picked up her bag from the sofa and swung it on to her shoulder, sending the beer bottle flying as she did so. As the flat door slammed shut, Adam sat there, staring at the puddle of lager spreading on the carpet and wondering whether this whole thing was George Meacher's horrible idea of a joke.

Bella paced the pavement until a cab appeared. Back in her flat fifteen minutes later, she sat smoking and thinking. Once or twice she wept. At the end of two and a half hours she rang Adam. Finding him out, she left a message on his answering machine. ‘I'm sorry. I should have been a bit calmer. I want to hear it all, properly. Everything this man told you. Ring me.'

Adam had gone out for the evening with Megan and some friends. It was late when they got in. He saw the message light flashing and was unspeakably relieved to hear Bella's voice. He rang straight back.

‘It's Adam Downing,' he said, when she picked up the phone. ‘Did I wake you?'

‘No. No, don't worry, you didn't.' Her voice sounded flat, distracted. ‘I'm sorry I got so upset today.'

‘I'm the one who should be apologizing.'

‘I think we need to talk some more. We can't just leave things as they stand.'

‘No. No, I realize that.'

‘Do you have any free time tomorrow?'

‘As much as you need. You can come here, or we can meet in town.'

‘No, that's all right. I don't have rehearsals till after lunch, so I'll come over around half eleven.'

‘That's fine.' He paused, hesitating, wanting to say something more, but she had hung up.

‘Who were you ringing?' asked Megan, as he came into the bedroom.

‘Bella Day.'

‘Bit late, isn't it?'

‘She left a message. I had to call her. She's very upset.'

‘What about?'

‘Nothing important. Something to do with Harry. I'll tell you about it another time.' He couldn't tell Megan. He couldn't tell anyone. Until he had sorted out truth from fiction, this was between himself and Bella. He lay awake for a long time after Megan had fallen asleep, remembering the wild misery etched on Bella's face, and how he had wanted to take her and hold her like a child, and make everything better.

The next morning, Adam found it increasingly difficult to concentrate as eleven-thirty drew near. It was almost ten to twelve when Bella rang the bell of his flat and he
buzzed her up. Anyone else, he thought, taking in the grubby hipster jeans, trainers, beige denim jacket over a once-white T-shirt, would have looked a mess. But Bella, ethereal with dejection and tiredness, seemed to outshine the clothes she wore. Rather like George Meacher, thought Adam.

He made coffee, and once again she sat on the sofa, shoes kicked off, while he sat opposite.

‘Tell me about this man, the one you spoke to. What's he called again?'

‘George Meacher. He was a photographer. He worked for
Vogue
back in the sixties and seventies. He was quite well known.' In his research, Adam had been surprised to discover that Meacher had been something of a celebrity, not least because he found it hard to reconcile erstwhile fame with the abject seediness of Meacher's present existence. ‘A friend put me in touch with him,' said Adam. ‘I saw him in a photo, one of the ones your mother gave me. Hold on a minute, I'll show you.' Adam went through to his study and returned with the photograph. He handed it to Bella and sat down again, watching her intently as she scrutinized the faces. ‘That's him at the back, the little guy with the dark hair. Evidently he had known your parents, but your mother skipped over him when I asked her to name everyone in the photo.'