What Will Survive (24 page)

Iris narrowed her eyes.

‘Yeah, I thought
Saturday Night Fever
straight away, which didn't go down very well. White is the colour of mourning in Vietnam or somewhere. I think they've settled for white T-shirts. They're both anti-black.'

‘Of course. Aisha didn't wear it much.'

‘I never really noticed.'

‘Didn't you? She didn't like shoots where she had to wear lots of black, that's why she turned down — oh, his name's on the tip of my tongue.' Iris paused, then shook her head. ‘I'm going to wear blue, if that's OK with you and the boys.'

Iris had bought a tailored Vivienne Westwood dress on a shopping trip to London with Aisha, who'd persuaded her to try it on against her better judgement. They had eaten on the top floor of Harvey Nichols, laughing over the idea of being ladies who lunch, gone to an exhibtion in the Sainsbury wing of the National Gallery and met Stephen for an early dinner at the House; it was the first time Iris had seen them together and she was startled to see how naturally and affectionately they behaved with each other. When there were delays on the track to Taunton, which meant that the train home didn't get in until two in the morning, she and Aisha had had a couple of glasses of wine from the buffet car and giggled together like schoolgirls.

‘Iris?'

She looked up with a guilty start, as if Tim might be able to read her mind.

He didn't notice. ‘At least they don't keep saying it's what she would have wanted. I could strangle that Hickman woman — every time she comes over with one of her bloody tofu casseroles she says something crass.'

‘Susan Hickman? The couple who converted the barn? I didn't think you knew them well.'

‘We don't — didn't. Husband's a civil servant. Stays up in London during the week. I wouldn't have thought he was the sort of bloke to
tolerate all that bollocks about feng shui and lentils.' His face twisted and he said angrily: ‘What Aisha would have wanted is to be here, with us, not in some fucking —'

Iris said, ‘Tim, have you talked to your GP?'

‘What can she do? Send me for counselling?' His face flushed. ‘I don't want to be rude, Iris, but you know how I feel about shrinks.'

She stifled a sigh. ‘I thought you said Max is seeing someone.'

‘That's different. He can't sleep, when he does he has nightmares and he eats all the time — crisps, biscuits, any old rubbish. Anyway, she's not a shrink as such. She taught him history a couple of years ago and she does some work with... with troubled kids, on the side. Old Trout recommended her; he's a decent sort of bloke at heart. Mr Fish, I mean,' he corrected himself. Aisha had always protested when either of the boys used their headmaster's nickname.

‘Well, it doesn't look as though you're eating or sleeping. Your GP could help with that.'

‘What's the point?'

‘The boys need you. If you were having regular meals, Max might not have such a problem. You don't want him to develop an eating disorder.'

‘An eating disorder? The way things are going, a bit of anorexia wouldn't do him any harm.' He held up his hands. ‘I know, sorry, that was in terrible taste. This is all new to me. I always left that sort of thing to Aisha.'

After another silence, Iris said wearily: ‘Even if you just pick up some of those meals that go in the microwave from Marks & Spencer, it would get you into the habit of sitting down and eating together.'

‘Ricky's gone back to London. He went this morning. Olivia — his boss — she thought it might take his mind off things. Now he's just the opposite, I've hardly seen him eat for days, he says he feels sick or something. He's coming back on Thursday afternoon for the —'

‘Oh yes, you said.' Iris glanced down at her watch, wondering how soon she could bring the conversation to a close. She cleared her throat and began to get up from her chair.

Tim lifted his head. ‘Did you see the article on Saturday?'

‘The article?' Iris sank down again. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.'

‘Bit over the top, wasn't it? All that stuff about Plato.'

‘Well, I did think —'

‘Made me sound a complete prat. But she's been really helpful — Amanda. The journalist. I've been talking to her a lot, it seems to help, I don't know why.'

Iris said quickly: ‘She's not coming to the funeral?'

Tim shook his head. ‘No, though there's not much I can do about the rest of the
meedjah.
Did you see that programme at the weekend? They wanted to interview me, all of us I mean, but I told them where to go.'

‘I switched off after five minutes.'

‘I wish I had. But Amanda's not like that; she seems a decent sort of girl. She's going to Beirut and she's promised to tell me anything she finds out.'

Iris frowned. ‘What's there to find out? The car ran over a landmine.'

‘Well, they checked out of the hotel in Damascus on the Sunday, that was the thirteenth, and the — it didn't happen till the Monday. No one seems to know where she —'

‘Tim, stop torturing yourself. Horrible things happen, it's something we all have to come to terms with.'

‘Oh for Christ's sake, Iris, don't give me all that crap. If Aisha'd gone straight to Beirut, none of this would have —' A spasm crossed his face. ‘I've given up with the Foreign Office. They just give me the official line — tragic accident but they shouldn't have been there, the website warns against travel in the south of Lebanon etcetera, etcetera. According to Amanda, the Lebanese government's no better. Now all the hostages are free, the last thing they want is more bad publicity involving foreigners.' He paused. ‘I can't stop thinking about it. Where did she spend that night? Was she scared, did she have any inkling —'

Iris snapped, ‘Of course she didn't. The whole point about landmines is you can't see them.'

Tim stared at her. ‘I thought you people were all in favour of what's-it-called, closure.'

Tear stung Iris's eyes. She closed them and lifted her hands to her face, her hair falling forward to cover her cheeks. ‘Tim, I can't — I'm still finding the whole thing terribly distressing.'

In a shocked tone, he said, ‘Sorry, Iris, you always seem so — capable. Aisha always used to — I know she was very fond of you. Look, I hope you didn't mind me turning up like this? I just wanted to make sure you knew the form for Friday.'

Iris took the last of several deep breaths and dropped her hands. She wasn't wearing make-up, so at least her eyes weren't smudged. ‘I — are you sure you're happy with me reading last? You don't think it should be you or May? I assume she's coming from France?'

Tim sighed. ‘She is, but you know May. She and I never really —' He stopped. ‘Anyway, you're a professional — less likely to make a fool of yourself. This is going to be hard enough as it is, without everyone breaking down all over the place.' He changed the subject, saying with forced brightness: ‘How's Clara?'

Iris's daughter had flung open the front door as he arrived, rushing past him in her riding gear with a cry of ‘Oh hi, Mr Lincoln'. She had hurried down the short drive and turned left on to the road, disappearing before he had time to speak to her properly.

‘Worried about Max. They talk on their mobiles a lot. But you know that.'

‘I didn't, actually.'

‘He rings her at night.'

‘Thank God he's talking to somebody.'

‘They want to go back to Chile. Has Max said anything?'

‘No, not at all.' Once again, Tim sounded surprised.

‘The college is OK about it, I spoke to them last week, so it depends on the insurance company.'

‘Insurance?'

‘Whether it'll cover Clara's costs. I had to get her a scheduled flight from Santiago, which cost a fortune. It was the last thing on my mind at the time, but the insurance company is saying it only pays out if a relative dies. I'm not going to give up without a fight, but I can't afford another full fare. She's been very good about it — she's working at the stables most days, but most of her savings went on the original ticket.'

Tim said vaguely: ‘Oh well, perhaps the four of us should get together and talk about it. Is she coming on Friday?'

Iris's eyes widened. ‘Clara? Yes, of course.' She waited a few seconds and then got up, this time with a more purposeful air. ‘I don't want to hurry you, Tim —'

‘Oh yeah, sure.' He sighed and ran a hand over his scalp, his eyes darting about the room as if he was reluctant to leave. ‘What is that?'

Iris turned in the direction he was staring.

‘That thing. Sculpture.'

‘It's by a friend. There wasn't room for it in her studio so... Haven't you seen it before?'

He shook his head and Iris realised she could not remember when he had last visited the cottage.

‘Not that I can recall. There's something spooky about it.' He stared at the amber bracelets on one of the metal arms. ‘Did they come with it?'

‘No, I collect them.'

Tim remained where he was, staring, then gave a slight start: ‘Right, then. You've got all the details for Friday?'

‘Yes.'

He stood, making another attempt to straighten the carpet. ‘Ricky's going to meet the humanist woman at Taunton; her train gets in just before ten. That's his idea as well. Apparently we're expected to give her lunch afterwards.'

Iris made a note to call Ricky, who seemed to be taking on all the responsibilities his father couldn't or wouldn't shoulder. She motioned for Tim to precede her into the hall, giving her watch another glance. He turned: ‘Did you—' The phone rang. ‘I expect you want to answer that.'

Iris dodged round him, murmuring, ‘Excuse me.' She lifted the receiver, identified herself and listened for a few seconds, her features tensing. ‘Oh — no, it's not a problem. We'll make it one-thirty, then.'

‘Patient?' Tim asked as she returned the phone to its cradle. ‘Client, I should say.'

‘You know what the M5 is like,' Iris said, not answering him directly.

‘The M5 Christ, they're coming from miles around! I suppose everyone's in therapy these days.'

Iris said shortly: ‘I'll see you on Friday, Tim.'

He took a couple of steps forward, as if he was about to embrace her, then settled on shaking hands. At the front door, he turned. ‘I thought you had a dog?'

‘I did — Ginger. He died.'

‘Oh. Sorry.'

Iris waited at the door as Tim unlocked his car. He started the engine, gave a half-wave and drove off.

‘God,' Iris breathed, closing the door. She walked mechanically into the kitchen, noticed that the dishwasher had finished its cycle and began emptying the machine, a thoughtful look on her face.

— Amanda, it's Stephen Massinger, you left me a message. Something about getting my name from Jack Porter on the Foreign Affairs Committee? Sorry not to get back to you before now. If you still want to speak to me, and I don't think you said what it was about, call my office and let them know when's a good time to ring you.

— Amanda? Damn, you're not there. I've got tickets for the theatre tonight and Alex has just phoned to say he's got to work late. If you get this message and you're free this evening, call me. I'm going to try your mobile now. It's Jane, by the way.

— Oh, er, Amanda. Sorry to bother you again. Tim here, Tim Lincoln. I know you're of to Beirut and I just wondered if you had time to meet and have a, urn, chat before you go. There's no need for you to come all the way down here, I'd actually be grateful to escape this benighted place. We could have lunch or something — on me, of course. You've got my number — not the mobile, that's my son's... All the best.

— Hi, Mandy, it's Mark calling from the gulag. Give me a bell when you —

— Hello? Sorry, Mark, the phone keeps ringing and I'm in the middle of writing.

— Not the Diana thing?

— Afraid so. Diana and Dodi: has she found true love at last?

— She better have. The pictures are costing more than a royal bloody wedding, and they're crap. Long lens, no definition; could be anybody walking of a boat.

— It has all the ingredients of a holiday romance, according to the people I've been speaking to.

— You mean a man, a woman and a yacht? Not exactly Shirley Valentine, is it? Listen, you going to be in later?

— Until four, I should think. Then I've got my yoga class. Have you got Fabio's films?

— Yeah, yeah, don't get excited. Most of it's bog-standard coffee-table stuff. The editor loves them, especially the one of what's-her-name and some
cute kids. Makes a change from having Ginger Spice in the mag all the time, I suppose. I've printed up anything that's halfway decent for you.

— What about the rest?

— What about them?

— Well, I've got to write three thousand words but I don't know who she met or where she went, not in any detail. I thought the driver might be able to help but apparently he's disappeared to Syria.

— Fuck, you have got a problem.

— I know. That's why I need the pictures.

— Yeah, but who's going to pay for all that printing? Anyway, it looks like Greece to me.

— I don't know what I need without seeing them. It won't cost that much, surely?

— Come on, Amanda, I don't have the budget to print hundreds of bloody holiday snaps. I'm supposed to be cutting my budget by another five thousand.

— What do you want me to do, take them to Boots?'

— That's not a bad idea. OK, OK, I suppose I might be able to sneak it on to the magazine budget; Sandra's not as tight as the newsdesk. But you'll have to wait till tomorrow.

— I've got a lunch in town, I might as well come in and pick them up. Save you the cost of a bike.