What Men Say (14 page)

“Loretta?”

Sam was watching her over the paper, brows drawn together, and she realized he had read part of the report aloud and was waiting for her reaction. “Urn,” she said, grasping at straws, “Wolf, did you say? What was her first name?”

“Paula.” He was holding the paper out again, folded
open at the inside page, and she exclaimed with genuine interest as she took it from him: “It's you—your picture.”

“Yeah, they were snapping away all through the press conference. You want some coffee, Loretta?”

“What? No thanks.”

“Juice?”

“Please. Who's the man on your left? Oh, it says here he's the man who recognized her.” The caption identified him as Kevin Day, a company director from Essex who had been on the same flight from New York as the dead woman, but his sharp suit and greedy expression had reminded Loretta at first glance of a City shark, gleefully announcing a hostile takeover bid. “He looks very pleased with himself.”

Sam snorted as he filled her glass with orange juice. “Can you believe it? The guy was handing out business cards—seemed to think it was some kind of a business opportunity.”

“What does he do?”

Another snort. “He sells mobile phones. Moment he saw all those journalists he was in hog heaven.”

“Did he sit next to her? I mean, did he
talk
to her?” The flight to London took seven hours and Loretta knew from experience that a neighbor who was determined to make small talk was hard to ignore.

“I got the impression he tried”—he shrugged—“but nothing doing. He said there was a seat between them and he spent most of the night sleeping. When he did wake up she was reading a book, some kind of a blockbuster.”

She read quickly through the story and looked up. “So they still don't know why she came to England?”

“Last time I spoke to the cops they were waiting to
hear from her folks—from the cops in Ohio, that is. Maybe she had an English boyfriend.”

“Wait a minute.” A point had occurred to Loretta and she was no longer listening. “It says here they confirmed her identity through
fingerprints
—they got her name from the airline and then they sent her fingerprints to the States—”

“So?” Sam sipped his coffee standing up.

“Well, surely that means she's got a criminal record? I mean, even under Reagan they didn't fingerprint the entire nation.”

“So she's a junkie or something,” he said dismissively. “I'm sure we'll find out. I'm kind of surprised the cops haven't called already, I told them I was staying here last night. Listen, Loretta”—he put down his cup and saucer, glanced at his watch—“I don't have much time, but I want to thank you for everything you're doing for Bridget.”

“Oh—” She shook her head, unwilling to talk about Bridget after their row on Port Meadow the previous afternoon. “It's me who should be thanking you—for dinner last night, I mean. I haven't been there for ages.” Sam had insisted on taking Loretta and Bridget out to eat at the Lebanese restaurant at the bottom of Walton Crescent, where he had impressed her by ordering a bottle of Chateau Musar without wincing at the price. She had enjoyed the meal less than she usually did because of the strained atmosphere between herself and Bridget, but Sam had given no sign that he was aware of the tension or of the longish gaps in the conversation.

“Glad you liked it. Is it OK with you—I wanted to ask if she could stay on here a while? Just till the cops finish up at the house.”

She looked at him in surprise, having assumed that
Bridget would be going home today. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Thanks, Loretta.” He looked at his watch again, sounding relieved. “Will you excuse me? I'm going to give her another call, I have to leave in five minutes.”

He went to the door and Loretta cleared her throat: “Sam?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Did Bridget . . . Oh, it doesn't matter.”

“Hey, what is it?” He came back into the room.

“Nothing. This solicitor you mentioned. There's no chance of seeing him today?”

“He's in court. I checked.” He reached out and moved the freesias a fraction to one side, standing back to study the effect. “Is that all?”

“Mmm. I'm just . . . you know.”

He shook his head. “Tell me.”

“Anxious. All these visits from the police. I'm probably worrying too much.”

To her surprise, he studied her face for a moment, then sat down. “Loretta, I'm sorry—this is really getting to you, isn't it? I've been so concerned about Bridget I didn't think . . . Listen, hon, everything's going to be all right I promise.”

She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable with this sudden intimacy, and said quickly: “Then why did they come round twice yesterday? I don't like their
attitude.”

He laughed. “You should meet some of the cops we have back home. You ever hear of a guy called Darryl Gates? They're just pissed because they didn't get to her for so long, that's what the lawyer told me on the phone. They reckon to collect most of their evidence in the first forty-eight hours, after that it starts getting”—he narrowed his eyes and moved his hand gently from side to side—“you know, dicey.” He leaned across
and patted her arm. “Don't
worry.
Listen, I really have to find out what's happened to Bridget—I have a meeting at nine.”

“Life goes on?”

“Sure it does.” He stood up. “Don't get me wrong, I'm sorry for the woman, but it's not like she's a relative or anything. Hey, you didn't have your croissant.” He picked up the Blanc bag and held it out to her. “Go on, eat. You need your strength.”

She reached inside, fingers closing on a croissant, and had lifted it to her lips before she smelled the almond paste. She was about to get up and exchange it for a plain one when it occurred to her that her blood sugar was probably low, and she bit into it anyway. The sweet, sticky pastry dissolved on her tongue, her teeth crunched on slivers of almonds, and she began to eat greedily, devouring the whole thing in half a dozen large bites and licking her fingers enthusiastically afterwards. She heard voices on the floor above and got up to make a pot of Earl Grey tea, expecting Bridget and Sam to appear in the kitchen at any moment, but they remained upstairs, conducting an animated discussion in the hall. Loretta warmed the pot, poured boiling water onto the loose tea and carried it to the table, glancing at the home-news pages of the paper while she allowed it to brew for a couple of minutes. She was just pouring an experimental inch into her cup, gazing in approval at the transparent golden liquid, when the cat flap clattered and Bertie trotted into the kitchen. He dropped a small, mangled corpse at her feet and sat down, stretching his front legs and jerking his head round in obedience to a sudden urge to wash his left flank. Then, satisfied that his toilet arrangements were complete, he gazed up at her adoringly and let out a soft yowl.

Loretta screwed up her nose, pushed back her chair
and reached for the roll of kitchen paper. She advanced on the cat stealthily, her hands protected by makeshift paper bandages, and was about to snatch his prey from under his nose when Bridget sauntered into the kitchen.

“Morning, Loretta.”

The cat seized the corpse in his mouth and bolted. Loretta groaned, knowing he would probably sneak back later and hide it under a sofa or in a dusty corner of her study. “Honestly, Bridget,” she complained, “I'd nearly got it.”

“Never mind, he's taken it into the garden. Best place for it.”

“He'll bring it back. Half the time I don't know where he's put them till they start to smell.”

“Oh, well.” Bridget shrugged. With a sudden access of delicacy, she lifted her nightclothes and skirted the minute bloodstains on the floor, dropped into a chair and poured herself a glass of orange juice.

“Mmm, this is what I call breakfast,” she said, peering into the Blanc bag and taking out a croissant. Loretta raised her eyebrows, crumpled the unused kitchen paper from her hands into a thick wad and knelt to wipe the floor.

“What, will these tiny hands ne'er be clean?” Bridget intoned for no obvious reason, observing her with interest. “You look like Lady Macbeth in one of those minimalist modern productions. You know, Katherine Hamnett T-shirts and the witches with mobile phones.”

“No,” said Loretta, thinking she would have read about such a production if it really existed, “I don't.” She got up and stuffed the soiled paper into the bin. “You're very cheerful this morning.”

“Mmm,” Bridget said again, glancing down at her croissant with a secretive smile on her lips. She offered no explanation for her late appearance, but finished her
croissant with an abstracted air and lifted a freesia stem to her nose. “Sam doesn't do things by half, does he? Is there any coffee?”

Loretta, who had just filled her cup with tea and discovered it was stewed, reached for the cafetiere and dumped it next to Bridget's plate. “Has Sam gone?”

Bridget didn't answer at once, staring instead at the photograph of her husband on page two of the
Guardian.
“God, what a terrible picture of Sam.” She groped for the coffee with her free hand, pouring it carelessly into her cup and allowing it to drip onto the tablecloth. “Yes, he had a meeting. Oh, they've released her name at last.” She shook her head, confirming it meant nothing to her, and continued reading. When she had finished she tasted her coffee and immediately pulled a face. “Ugh, it's lukewarm. Is that tea you're making?”

Loretta nodded and Bridget got up, rinsed her cup out and returned to the table. She took up the paper again and flicked through it, folding it open at the letters page. “Oh, good, someone's written in about that piece last week. Did you see it, Loretta? Arguing against tax relief for childcare? Funny piece for the
Guardian
to have.”

“No,” said Loretta as the kettle boiled and she filled the teapot for a second time. She reached across and switched on the radio, thinking she might catch the nine-o'clock news on Radio Four, but the bulletin had just finished and the announcer was introducing the next program. She turned the dial irritably, searching for Radio Three but unable to remember its frequency. Her ghetto blaster was in a repair shop in Walton Street and the old wireless she had brought down from the attic was a monument to the early days of radio, marking obsolete stations like Hilversum and Daventry.

“Hang on,” Bridget protested as a robotic bass line
blasted the kitchen and was quickly displaced by someone speaking French. “That was Madonna.”

“Was it?” Loretta continued her search, pausing over a few bars of country music.

“God, Loretta, don't be so stuffy. Madonna's great, she's so upfront about her sexuality—”

“She's an exhibitionist, and she can't sing.”

“What's wrong with being an exhibitionist? At least she's in control, she knows exactly what she's doing.”

“In control?” Loretta turned to stare at her. “Only of turning herself into a commodity, which is what women have had to do for centuries. It's true she's doing a better job of it than Marilyn Monroe, but do you really think that's progress?”

Bridget dropped her gaze and turned a page of the paper. “If someone
chooses
to make herself an object—”

“What?” Loretta demanded, turning the radio down. “I can't hear you.”

“All I was saying,” Bridget said, still in a low voice, “is that power relations aren't that simple. I mean, what you're overlooking is that a woman who chooses to put herself in a—in a certain type of role is actually making a powerful choice—”

“Blimey,” said Loretta, “what have you been reading? The Marquis de Sade?”

“No.” Bridget noisily folded the paper. “Forget it.”

“All right.” Wondering if she had missed something, Loretta turned the dial back until she heard the familiar breathy voice. “There you are,” she said, “you can listen to Madonna and I'll have my tea in the bath. I was going to have one anyway.”

Bridget put down the paper and said rather aggressively: “What
is
wrong with you this morning? You're not still cross about . . . you know. Yesterday?”

“No,” said Loretta, not wanting to continue the argument. She poured tea into her cup and held her hand out for Bridget's. “There's milk in the fridge if you want it.”

“Loretta—”

“I'm tired, that's all, and I don't want to listen to Madonna. Is that strong enough for you?”

“Mmm, fine.” Bridget watched her, visibly weighing up the pros and cons of saying more. She got up and went to the fridge, taking a bottle of milk from the door and adding a fraction to her tea. “Actually, Loretta,” she began in a different tone, pressing the foil top back in place, “there's something I wanted to ask you. Could you do me a favor and run me over to the house later this morning? I really need my car—I had to wait twenty-five minutes for a taxi back from the John Radcliffe yesterday. It won't take long, promise.”

“This morning?”

“Well, this afternoon if you're busy.”

“No, let's get it over.” It sounded much more ungracious than she intended and Loretta added: “Sorry, I didn't mean . . . Is there any washing you'd like me to do? I'm going to put one on this morning.”

“Yes, please,” Bridget said hurriedly. “I haven't got much, but it'll save me going home with a bag of dirty washing.”

“OK, put it in the machine—you know where it is.” She picked up her cup. “Shall we say—what? About half ten?”

“Perfect. Thanks, Loretta.”

“Hello, Bertie. Back again?” The cat had reappeared, minus dead rodent, and was rubbing himself against her legs. He followed her out of the room, overtaking her on the stairs and lying in wait to ambush her feet as she turned the corner.