The Likes of Us (41 page)

In any gathering Otterburn merged with the background, but he prided himself on missing little. He observed and speculated and remained uninvolved. It occurred to him now that this was probably the ideal make-up of a writer. Except that he couldn't write. But how did he know that? There he went, dismissing himself before he had even tried. Wasn't that something else he might explore in his new-found freedom? Of course, while he might be good at noting people's appearance and mannerisms, his speculations about their character and their private lives could be wildly wrong. But did that matter? His guess was that, while a writer might use real people as starting-points, he very soon found himself casting their personalities into the mould of his own. And there was an obvious snag. Had he himself enough personality, did he care enough, to be able to draw characters who could make a reader care? Yet Otterburn felt excitement stir again at this second new prospect. He could do no more than try. It amused him, gave him even a strange feeling of power, to think of himself going about noting people not simply from a habit of his nature, but as a collector. If he couldn't think of plots all at once, he could at least keep a written sketchbook and train himself after each outing to record, as objectively as a painter or a photographer, what he had seen and heard.

Otterburn had lifted his newspaper and was looking past it with renewed interest at his fellow drinkers when he saw his wife coming into the room. Intensely startled, he raised the paper higher until his head and shoulders were hidden as Hazel glanced round the room then half-turned to speak to the man who was following her.

There was nowhere for Otterburn to hide. If he got up now, it was unlikely that he could reach the door before she turned again and saw him. But what was she doing here and who was that she was with? From his first startled glance Otterburn couldn't recall ever having seen him before, though he supposed he could have met him and forgotten. In which case the man might remember him, especially if there was something irregular going on.

Otterburn risked moving his paper slightly to one side. His wife had taken a seat at a table in the middle of the floor and now had her back directly to him, showing him a quarter-profile as she removed her gloves and spoke to her companion, who was ordering drinks at the bar. Hazel was looking particularly smart. She had on her best black suit and a white blouse with a jabot, black nylon tights and high-heeled black patent-leather shoes. Her hair was newly washed and set and she had had that blonde rinse which restored its fading colour. He supposed she was, to some eyes, a handsome woman. It was amazing the improvement brought to her legs by the right shoes and stockings. Her hips and her breasts were ample but still shapely, only hinting yet at the excess another few years might bestow. To his surprise, Otterburn felt his flesh stir; as though he didn't know all too well the briskness and lack of finesse with which she despatched sexual appetite. Not that he had had any direct experience to compare that with, but he did read, and today's explicit novels left him in little doubt that there were prolonged delights to which they were both strangers.

In his contemplation of his wife's back, Otterburn had, he suddenly realised, let the paper down until his face was completely visible. And at that moment the man Hazel was with turned with the drinks and looked directly at him. His stare hardened. Otterburn lifted the paper again. After a moment's consternation, he felt himself grinning broadly. Of course the man didn't know him. Otterburn had just been given warning that he was not to ogle his own wife! How rich! Whether or not Hazel and her companion were any more than just good friends, the man was obviously jealous and possessive. What a joke, Otterburn thought, if he were to stare at Hazel until the man felt forced to do something about it. How their faces would fall when Otterburn then went over and let Hazel see him. A pity it wasn't worth it. But it wasn't. Once Hazel knew where he was, she would give him no peace.

She was looking over her shoulder as she picked up her handbag. Her companion nodded to a sign on the wall. She got up and crossed the room without looking at anyone and went out through the door nearest to Otterburn. Otterburn knew where the Ladies was. He gave her a moment to find it herself, then stood up and emptied his glass. The man was staring again. Surprised at his own boldness, Otterburn grinned at him and winked before walking out through the same door.

There was a huge pale American Ford parked on the cobbles outside. For some reason it reminded Otterburn of an enormous double bed. He knew instinctively that it belonged to Hazel's companion. Ownership of such an opulent and extravagant car, parked where no one was supposed to park, fitted exactly that arrogant stare and that black moustache, so thick and neatly trimmed it looked like something glued to the fellow's upper lip. So, Otterburn asked himself, was Hazel having an affair, and if so was it one which had started since he left her, or had it been going on before? Further, did it help or hinder him in his new way of life? More to the immediate point was that Hazel's appearance had ruined his own assignation. And what could he do now except wait for them to leave? And by that time might it not be too late?

Otterburn strolled aimlessly along the embankment, tapping the rolled newspaper against his leg. He felt now like someone who has turned up to a party on the wrong night: to a party, in fact, that was already over. ‘All dressed up and nowhere to go.' He turned up off the riverside and into the town. A few minutes' aimless walking found him outside the painted window of a pizza parlour. He looked at the menu. He was peckish. He went in. He'd always maintained that he didn't care for pizzas, but now he wanted something simple and cheap which would satisfy his sudden appetite, if not delight his palate. He ordered at random from the ten or more variations on the menu and asked for a half-pint of lager. The place was busy. There were even some families with quite young children. People were coming and going all the time and the waitresses in their green aprons and matching caps hurried between kitchen and tables without a moment to catch their breath. A young woman came in, stood looking round for a moment, saw that she hadn't much choice, then sat down at the next table. She took a small square of handkerchief from her shoulder bag and polished her glasses before reading the menu. Otterburn read his paper. His pizza came. It was enormous. He picked up his knife and fork, hardly knowing where to make the first incision. He cut a piece. The topping was still sizzling and he gasped, reaching for his lager, as it scorched his mouth. The outer door opened and shut again. A group crowded in.

‘D'you mind?' a voice asked.

Otterburn looked up. The girl from the next table had half-pulled out the chair opposite him. He didn't understand at first but with a mouthful of pizza he couldn't yet swallow he made noises and waved his knife about. She sat down.

‘If I sit here, they can all sit together,' the girl explained. Otterburn looked past her. Five young people had taken possession of the table she had left. He swallowed.

‘Very thoughtful of you.'

‘It's so very busy tonight.'

‘Is that exceptional?'

‘Well, no. They seem to do well most nights.'

‘You've been in before, then?'

‘Yes. It's simple and convenient, and not expensive.'

‘Quite. That's what I thought.'

‘What is that you've got, if you don't mind my asking?'

Otterburn turned the menu round. ‘Er... it's a number eleven.'

‘It looks good'.

‘I'm not an expert on pizzas,' Otterburn said, ‘but there's plenty of it and it's very hot.' He swallowed another mouthful. ‘And quite tasty too.'

‘Mmm.'

A waitress came and put a plate of spaghetti bolognese in front of the girl, then sprinkled grated cheese over it with careless haste. The girl put her fork vertically into the spaghetti, twirled it and lifted some to her mouth. Her light brown hair fell softly across each cheek as she bent her head slightly forward.

‘You've done that before,' Otterburn said.

‘Yes. I lived in Italy for a while. The only reason I eat this after what I got used to there is because it's cheap.'

‘It's not a country I know,' Otterburn said. ‘I've been to Spain, but not Italy.'

‘Do you live here?' the girl asked.

‘Yes. Do you?'

‘I do just now, yes.'

‘What's your job?'

‘Oh, I'm sort of in-between things.'

‘I suppose a lot of people are like that just now.'

‘Yes. What do you do?' Otterburn hesitated. The girl said, ‘I'm sorry, if you don't want to tell me. But you did ask me.'

‘I'm a writer, actually,' Otterburn said.

‘Oh? That must be interesting. Would I have heard of you? Do you write under your own name or a pseudonym?'

‘You won't have heard of me,' Otterburn said. ‘My name's Otterburn. Malcolm Otterburn.'

The girl was frowning politely. ‘No, I'm afraid I haven't. And it's quite an unusual name, isn't it? I mean, not one you'd forget.'

‘Think nothing of it,' Otterburn said.

‘I can see now why you hesitated to tell me, though,' the girl said. ‘It must be terribly embarrassing to say you're a writer and people have never heard of you.'

‘It happens all the time,' Otterburn said. ‘But you haven't told me your name.'

Now it was her turn to appear reluctant. ‘Promise me you won't laugh.'

‘Why on earth should I laugh?'

‘Because this is where I always get embarrassed.'

‘You mean, you're somebody famous whom I ought to have known?'

‘No, no, nothing like that. It's just my name.'

‘Well...?'

‘It's Dawn,' the girl said. ‘Dawn Winterbottom.' Otterburn grinned. ‘You did promise,' the girl said.

‘No, no,' Otterburn said. His smile broadened. He could not suppress a chuckle. The girl's colour was up as she looked at her plate. Otterburn found himself reaching over to touch her hand.

‘Please. Don't be offended. I'd probably have found nothing funny in it if you hadn't so obviously expected me to. Please,' he said again, when she didn't respond. ‘Finish your spaghetti before it goes cold, and don't mind me.'

The girl took some more spaghetti onto her fork. ‘I've thought of changing it,' she said. ‘But after all it is my own name and I think people should make the best of their own names. They're part of them, after all. Aren't they?'

‘Of course they are,' said Otterburn, who saw little logic in what she was saying.

‘And after all it's the quality of the personality behind the name that counts, isn't it?'

‘I suppose it is.'

‘And there's nothing wrong with your personality,' Otterburn went on. He was enjoying himself. ‘You're good-natured enough to do a kindness for strangers, like letting those people have your table, and unself-conscious and natural enough to sit with another stranger – a man, what's more – and make pleasant conversation without fear of being misunderstood. I'd say all those are qualities very much in your favour.'

‘You seem rather specially nice yourself,' Dawn said.

‘Oh, there's nothing special about me.'

‘Oh, but there is. Writers are special. They must be or there'd be more of them about.'

‘There are more than enough already,' Otterburn said. He was sure that must be true.

‘Yes, the competition must be frightening. Tell me, do you actually manage to earn a living from it?'

‘Well…' Otterburn looked a touch bashful. ‘I wish I could say I did. But the fact is, I have a private income.'

‘Lucky for you. I'm sure that must take a lot of the worry out of it. It means, I suppose, that you can write what you want to write and not just to make money.'

‘You're really very perceptive,' Otterburn said.

‘And what are you working on just now?' the girl asked. ‘If it's not too personal a question.'

Otterburn emptied his mouth, took a drink of his lager, and said, ‘I'm writing a story about a man who comes to live on his own in this city. One day he finds a letter pushed through the door with his name on it, which is strange because nobody knows he's there.'

‘What does the letter say?'

‘It says, “I shall be in the Ferryboat at seven tonight'.”

‘Is that all?'

‘That's all. No signature, no address, no postmark.'

‘Is it from a man or woman?'

‘He can't tell. The handwriting may be disguised.'

‘And what does he do? I mean, does he just tear it up and ignore it, or does he take it seriously?'

‘He can't help being intrigued by it.'

‘No, I expect not.'

‘Someone's interested in him, you see.'

‘It sounds like something out of a spy story.'

‘Yes, it does. But he's just an ordinary sort of chap, who certainly doesn't know any official secrets.'

‘But he must have a secret of some kind. Perhaps a guilty one from his past.'

Otterburn looked at her with admiration. ‘You know, you really are clever. But I'm afraid that's not the answer. He's led a rather dull and totally respectable life.'

‘Hmm. So is it a man or a woman who's written the letter?'

‘You asked me that before. I don't know.'

‘Well, does he go to the... where is it?'

‘The Ferryboat. Yes.'

‘And what happens?'

‘I don't know,' Otterburn said again.

The girl frowned. ‘But you must know. You're writing the story.'

‘But I don't know how it ends,' Otterburn said. ‘Not yet.'

‘You mean, you've made up this, this intriguing situation, but you haven't worked the rest of it out?'

‘Yes.'