The Greening (15 page)

I dressed up in my finery, including some ridiculous high-heeled shoes that pinched my feet, spent an hour applying make-up and arrived at the rendezvous a few minutes early. Five minutes passed and there was no sign of Paul. At five to eight there was still no sign of him. I looked around desperately. Had we somehow missed each other? Gradually, the foyer emptied and I heard the opening strains of the overture.

Perhaps he had missed me and gone on ahead to our seats. I ran up the stairs to the circle and quietly opened the door. The orchestra was in full flood and the auditorium a buzz of expectancy. And there, in the third row, was Paul. He looked happy and relaxed.
Seated next to him was Marcie, the pretty blonde Californian who was over on a scholarship. I saw her gaze up at him adoringly, squeeze his arm and kiss him on the cheek. He smiled and gently ruffled her hair.

I was speechless with rage. How dare he! Part of me wanted to storm down the aisle, yank him out of his seat and give him a good, hard thump. Fortunately, the rest of me realized that if I did so I would make a complete fool of myself and live to regret it.

I ran from the theatre, tears streaming through my make-up. I pulled off the uncomfortable shoes and padded, barefoot, to the bus stop. Half an hour later I was back in my room, pulling off my best frock, washing off my make-up and swearing that I would get my revenge.

I saw Paul the following day. To my amazement, he did not even attempt to offer an apology. I ignored him. A couple of days later I saw him again, in a corridor. He came towards me with a friendly smile. I gave him a frosty glare and marched past. It was near the end of the summer term and I was working hard. I made a point of avoiding him. On the last evening, he was in the bar with the rest of the crowd. He was being his usual charming self, surrounded by a group who were lapping it all up. Paul smiled at me and waved. I was outraged that he had humiliated me and was adding insult to injury by rubbing it in. I thought:
How easily people are fooled – but not me, mate
. I ignored him and turned away.

Paul did not return the following September. I heard he had won a scholarship to Harvard and would complete his degree there. A few hearts were broken. Perhaps mine was dented a little, but I knew very well that my heart was resilient and would mend.

Over the years, since those early days, I had come to admire his work. He had made a name for himself and carried off several industry awards. I always wondered, though, about his methods, how many people he had fooled and upset to achieve his success, and where that cruel streak I had witnessed fitted into his modus operandi.

I was in a foul mood when I arrived at work the following morning. Alex greeted me wearily, with a wide yawn.

“When did you finish?” I asked.

“Midnight. And I had to be back here for eight.” He lowered his voice. “Have you spoken to Masterton?”

“It’s over.”

“I’m sorry. It’s tough, I know. But believe me, Jo, you’re doing the right thing.”

I poured Alex a coffee and asked, “Did Huntingford come back for my number?”

“Nope.”

“No? Well, isn’t that just – ”

“Course he came back. I said you’d told me to tell him to bugger off.”

“Oh.”

“Got you there, didn’t I? No, he came back like a good little lad and, just to oblige you, I pretended to be a blithering idiot who couldn’t find staff numbers on the system. So in all probability he’ll try to reach you again.”

“Oh dear. Why does life have to be so complicated?”

“Because you make it so, I suggest. You should try being straightforward about things. Find out what he wants. Maybe he wants to work with you on a story. Pity to lose out,” said Alex.

“People don’t change.”

Alex eyed me quizzically. “Well, that’s just not true.”

“Here’s one who doesn’t,” I said, spotting Milo heading our way. Milo poured himself a coffee and perched on the edge of my desk with an air of self-pity.

“Bloody, isn’t it? Just my luck,” he said gloomily.

“What?”

“This influx from the
Obs
. You know Paul Huntingford’s joining? There’s talk of a couple of bods from the news desk coming over as well.”

I deduced that Milo was worried about his own position. “It’s probably just another unfounded rumour,” I said. “This is the place for them, after all.”

“Huntingford has a lot of clout and he’s bringing his mates in. But I’ll have one powerful ally,” said Milo, brightening a little. “Felicity hates his guts.” Felicity Garner was the Features Editor. “They had an affair and he dumped her,” said Milo, gleefully. “His wife found out what he was up to and gave him an ultimatum.”

I felt the blood rising in my cheeks. Another adulterous, deceitful rat. Huntingford was even worse than I’d thought. Or he’d got worse over the years. I was tempted to make a disparaging remark about Paul, but knew that Milo would somehow use it against me.

“Yes, it was rather nasty,” Milo continued, relishing the opportunity to spread bad news. “He’d shagged a native out in Kashmir and was stupid enough to marry her. Obviously forgot the elementary rule of foreign postings – stick to Reuters hackettes. They’re glad of the action and don’t expect you to write.

“When he was posted back here she stayed on in Srinagar, where Ma-in-law was dying of cancer. While the dusky-hued spouse is waiting for the old girl to croak, doting hubby’s having a dalliance in the London fleshpots with La Garner. Wifey finds out and flies over in high dudgeon. Garner gets dropped like the hot proverbial. And back in Srinagar Ma-in-law kicks the bucket without the customary ‘Cheerio, I’m off’ to her daughter. Some people are complete bastards.” Apparently cheered by this
pronouncement, Milo placed his half-empty coffee cup on my desk and departed.

I was seething. Paul was clearly as big a rat as ever. Why were these men incapable of behaving decently? I determined to avoid contact with Paul at all costs. I thought he might show up in the office during the day, but there was no sign of him. So much for wanting my number, I thought. Then, late in the afternoon, as I was walking past the foreign desk, I overheard a snatch of conversation. Justin, the Foreign Editor, was talking to his deputy, and I heard him mention Paul’s name. I slowed my pace and pretended to read a notice on the wall, in order to hear more.

“He’s due there at nine. Get me a briefing then,” Justin said.

At that moment the Editor appeared in the doorway of his office and beckoned Justin, who grabbed a handful of papers and hurried across.

So Paul had gone off on a story already. Could it be connected with whatever he had wanted to talk to me about? Now I wondered if I had missed out. But no, a foreign story was unlikely to involve me.

I finished work at eight o’clock and Alex, who was again working an evening shift on the news desk, suggested going for a drink during his meal break. He looked exhausted, his customary breeziness displaced by a weary despondency. I was surprised to see him down two whiskies in quick succession.

“Don’t give me that mumsie look,” he said. “It gives me an edge and it’s better than drugs.”

“It is a drug. And it’s not the only drug you’re on, is it? This is how addiction starts.”

“Jo, you’re imagining things. Anyway, I only drink spirits when I’m on late shift. And you’re always whingeing on about the amount of chocolate you eat.”

“Chocolate works. And it’s not addictive. Just fattening.”

“This works. And yes it is, chocolate, I mean. If you can’t do without it, it’s an addiction.”

“Who says I can’t do without it?”

“You do. Do we have to continue this circular conversation?”

“Not like you to be grumpy,” I said.

“I know.” He grinned. “That’s usually your prerogative. Y’know, I don’t know if I’ll stay in this game long-term. I’ve a feeling that you eventually become disillusioned or someone you don’t like.”

“Or both.”

“Or both. But then again, when you look at the kind of work someone like Huntingford produces… he’s inspirational. He reminds me why I got into this game. Sorry, I forgot he’s in your bad books.”

“Oh, come on. I agree, he’s produced some fantastic work. But I wouldn’t like to think how many people he’s walked over in the process,” I said.

“You don’t know that.”

“What is it with you? Why are you defending him?”

“Things are rarely black and white,” said Alex.

“Hah. That’s rich, after everything you said about Patrick.”

“I said rarely, not never. I’m not defending or condemning. How could I? I don’t know the guy. Anyway, life’s more complex than that.”

“You’re the one who was telling me to be more straightforward.”

“Straightforward, yes. Simplistic, no.”

“Any more criticism you’d like to chuck my way, while I’m already feeling like crap?”

Alex laughed. “Oh, poor you.” He rose and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. “I’m sorry you’ve had a rotten time, Jo. It’ll get better. Gotta get back. I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow evening.”

“I’m OK.”

“I’ll buy you dinner. Don’t be so obstinate,” said Alex. “And don’t stick pins in any dolls.”

I arrived home feeling defeated by the day. I was cross with every man I knew: Patrick, Paul, Alex – and Milo, who, in his customary manner of sharing his bad mood around, had been particularly annoying.

I remembered that Anna had reached a crisis point. I wondered how she had coped with her brutal let-down. Why was she hanging on? She was being so hard on herself. I wanted to say to her, “You’ve got so much going for you – a good brain, work that you love, a kind and generous nature. You deserve so much better.” But I had to ask myself the same questions. Had I been blind to reality? I had hoped Patrick’s love for me would sweep me up and hold me in a tender embrace, like the homely figure, described by Anna, on the front of the book of extracts from Julian’s writings. Was there any hope that I would ever know such a love? Why did it come to others, but not to me? I took up the journal.

We met today. As his eyes held mine I felt a great wave of love sweep over me, but I also felt terribly anxious. Mark was in good spirits. He looked at me with the sweetest expression of tenderness and love. We talked about nothing. I found it impossible to say the things I wanted to say. It had been so long since we’d met, I didn’t want to upset him and frighten him off. Fear of someone else’s fear; how complicated it has all become. Suddenly lunch was over and we were in the street. He is going skiing with his wife and will call me when he returns. He pulled me to him in a quick hug, holding me as one might hold an object, allowing himself no warmth in the contact.

I walked away, bravely while he was still in sight, then unsteadily, into Oxford Street, feeling as though my world had come to an end. Colours blurring, the noisy bustle of shoppers – I was not a part of it, I was walking through it, longing to be in the quiet of my home.

This evening I am beginning to recover. How could I have allowed the opportunity to pass without discussing everything and reaching some conclusion? Now my thoughts are occupied with our next meeting. Then I shall get some answers.

Mark has telephoned me several times. His company is in deep trouble and he’s very worried. There have been signs of problems for several months, but he believed he could sort things out. Now he’s no longer sure and terribly worried about the future. I can’t help wondering if this has something to do with the stranger who followed us, but Mark won’t discuss it. I feel so very sorry for him. He has worked so hard. It looks as though I shall have to wait for our talk.

We met for lunch today but all Mark could talk about was his work. He is waiting to hear from an American company that he hopes will go into partnership with him. Once again I walked away from the restaurant in deep despair. I need Mark so much. What does he want from me? I feel I can hardly push things now he’s in such difficulties. It’s agonizing to be kept in limbo, with so much left unsaid and unresolved. He promised that we’ll meet in a few weeks’ time.

We had lunch today. The Americans have agreed but seem reluctant to put in as much money as Mark wants. He’s very busy, travelling around the country and to and from Chicago. He was stressed and worried, but happy to see me. I seem to cheer him up. It’s six months since we first met. This routine with Mark is becoming unbearable. Perhaps he’s planning to get out of his marriage and doesn’t want to speak out until he knows he can be free. I need to know where I stand. But I’m afraid if I try to say what I want to say the conversation will go wrong. So I’m going to put it all down in a letter. I have to take a big risk to move my life forward. One way or another, the agony will end.

As we sat together in the restaurant, Mark was his usual chatty, lively self. At last, I plucked up my courage. I said, “I have something I want to say to you. I want to get it right, so I’ve written you a letter. I’d like you to read it now.” Suddenly he looked serious. He took the letter and read it slowly and carefully. I noticed that his face turned slightly pink. Then he put the letter down and said, “I have nothing to say.”