Wishful Thinking (22 page)

‘There's a couple on your forehead which your fringe hides, and the hint of a smile line . . .'

‘See? No more smiles.'

‘Then you'll just be old and miserable,' Lin pointed out with a gleam of mischief. ‘No one's going to fancy you if you're gloomy.'

‘You're right,' Georgie agreed, stricken. ‘It's no good, I'm finished. My career as an attractive woman is over. I shall just have to decline into someone's aunt, or an elderly eccentric who bores people by reminiscing about her beautiful youth. I shall carry a stack of photographs to show them how lovely I once was.'

‘How about a wedding cake?' I said. ‘With cobwebs.'

‘You're just not taking me seriously. Hi, Cal.' It was ten to six and nearly time for close of play, and he had drifted into the office looking like a man in need of a drink.

‘Georgie's worried she's getting old,' said Lin.

‘Ain't we all. Ten years ago I could shag six times a night, and not necessarily with the same woman. Nowadays, I don't have the stamina.'

‘Good thing too,' said Georgie, reviving. ‘One, I want all the energy you've got, and two, I don't share. Let's go to the pub.'

Lin went home to relieve the child-minder, cook for the brats and swap e-mails with her would-be admirers, and I headed pubwards with the other two. Georgie, forgetful of her advanced years, eyed up the new barman in an automatic way and managed to infuse a request for dry-roasted peanuts with come-hither overtones. The barman – inevitably – was an Aussie, with bleached-blond hair and a skimpy T-shirt revealing his six-pack. ‘Behave yourself,' Cal ordered, hauling her away and depositing her at a table. ‘I think I'll put you on a lead.'

‘Kinky.'

With Jerry Beauman's book to work on, I left early. Cal was staying the night with Georgie; he did so on a fairly regular basis these days, telling Christy he was with one of his mates, an explanation she accepted without question or interest. After I'd gone they wandered off to a small Italian restaurant, ate seafood linguine, splashed out on a bottle of Barolo.

‘Would you ever leave Christy?' Georgie asked suddenly. ‘Not for me particularly. Just – leave. Because the marriage doesn't work.'

‘God knows. I live in the moment – don't look ahead very far. I can't plan things. Who knows how I'll feel next year, or the year after? But . . . I couldn't fail the kids. You know that.'Specially Allan. Christy's always so absorbed in Jamie – well, I've told you how it is. Allan needs me; they both do. I want to be a good dad. I couldn't bear to let them down.'

‘Your dad left, didn't he?' Georgie said.

‘Mmm.'

‘So . . . you don't want to be like him, right?'

‘Mmm.'

‘So this is all just temporary, you and me. A casual affair.' She looked down at her plate, toying with a strand of pasta. ‘“Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part.”'

Cal, the dyslexic, had little acquaintance with poetry. ‘No need to rush it. Anyway, it's not casual: you know that.'

‘Isn't it? These things don't last. D'you know of one single relationship between a married man and an unmarried woman that has ever been permanent? I don't. Sooner or later I'll meet some guy with less baggage – an ex instead of a wife, kids only on Sunday, double bed with a vacancy – and I'll succumb to the lure of security and a wedding band. It always happens that way. Will you mind?'

‘Of course I will.' The trace of sadness in his face, so often erased by his smile, was suddenly very plain. ‘Why're you talking like this? I thought I made you happy. I didn't know you had this craving for security.'

‘Doesn't everybody?'

‘You aren't everybody. Please – let's just enjoy now. I told you, I don't like to look ahead. Typical male, I guess; I don't want to face unpleasant things. I prefer to put them off.'

Georgie grinned wryly. ‘Typical male.'

It was Cal's turn to focus on his plate. Then he looked up at her, his expression intent and very serious. ‘I love you,' he said. The L-word, the word he never said – or never when he was sober. But he wasn't drunk this time, and she knew it was true, it was deep and real, and now it was out there it couldn't be brushed aside. It hung in the air between them like a musical note that would never die away. ‘I don't know where we're going, or what will happen next. I can't make promises. There are the children, and Christy needs my support. But I do love you.'

She found there were tears in her eyes, and blinked furiously, knowing they would smudge her mascara. ‘I suppose . . . I love you too. Damn. This is getting like
Brief Encounter
.'

‘What's that?'

‘Movie classic. Black-and-white. Rachmaninov in the background.'

‘Sounds bloody depressing.'

‘It's meant to be moving and tragic,' Georgie explained. ‘She's married, and they meet, and fall in love, on a railway station, and part, never to meet again. On the same railway station. They don't even have sex.'

‘Bloody unrealistic too.'

Georgie managed a watery laugh. ‘Too right!'

‘This is us, not some vintage film,' Cal said. ‘It's like books and things. You read too many books. Life's different. Books have endings: happy endings, sad endings, but the writer has to stop somewhere, so he makes the characters stop, the story stop. I'm not saying this very well – I don't say things well – but you know what I mean. Life doesn't have endings, until you die. At least, it doesn't have to. I love you – you're part of me. That won't have an ending. If there's another man, if you marry, and you're secure, and happy, I'll still love you. You'll still be part of me. Even if there's someone else for me, I'll love you. We'll be friends, we'll go out to dinner, and I'll listen to your problems, try to help, do what I can. I'll always be there. I'll be your – your faithful admirer, hopelessly adoring you. Like a puppy. Whatever happens. This is – always. Whatever happens.'

Georgie blinked again. ‘It isn't like that,' she said. ‘Lovers don't become friends. I'll never stop caring for you, even if I marry – women don't – but you'll forget me, or I'll dwindle to a pleasant memory, a pang of nostalgia. That's how it goes.'

‘You don't understand, do you?' Cal said. ‘You really don't understand.'

I'm afraid to, Georgie thought. I'm afraid to believe in it. I'm afraid to believe in
us
.

And: It's never been like this before . . .

‘Well,' she said, changing gear with an effort, ‘since the wine bottle's empty, and this isn't a black-and-white movie with Rachmaninov, let's go home and have sex.'

‘Good idea,' Cal said.

He paid the bill, refusing to split, and they walked some way in search of a taxi, feeling shaken, and sad, and happy, and intensely alive. Back at Georgie's, they made love with a depth of emotion that hadn't been there before, falling asleep at last still welded together, as if they could never bear to part.

During the following week I had a couple more sessions with Jerry Beauman, or rather, at his flat. He put in only brief appearances, but he preferred me to work in his study, on his personal computer, instead of at the office – he said that made collaboration easier. I wasn't offered any food, even though I worked through lunch one day; just coffee and mineral water. As he wasn't around much, I decided to take advantage of his invitation to use the roof garden. I rolled my vest-top down to expose my shoulders and hitched my skirt up to my bum to tan my thighs – doing something useful while reading through the manuscript and scribbling comments in the margin. The second time I did it, I was startled to hear his voice behind me. He must have approached very quietly; I hadn't heard a thing.

‘How's it going?'

‘Getting there,' I said. Damn, damn, damn. He was standing over me, dark against the sky, looking arrogant and sure of himself, exuding the aura of an aggressively dominant male. I didn't need this.

Visions of sexual harassment suits flickered through my head.

‘Too hot?' he said. Shit. I was blushing.

‘A bit. I think I'll come in.'

He backed off, a complacent little smirk playing around his mouth, undoubtedly pleased to have disturbed my equilibrium. Oh no you haven't, I swore to myself. I'm perfectly equilibrious. Just . . .
irritated
.

To my further embarrassment, he insisted on watching while I attempted to pull my skirt down – it got twisted, and I had to wriggle to straighten it out – and resumed my shoulder-straps. Then he drew my attention to the view from the terrace – posh houses interspersed with posh streets, sky on top – steered me downstairs, and offered me a gin and tonic ‘to cool off'. Weakly, I accepted. I needed one. He had whisky and water, lecturing me on how good Scotch shouldn't be ruined with ice or mixers. While we were drinking, the phone rang. The maid answered, somewhere in the further reaches of the living room, and called out: ‘Is Mr Weed, from Switzerland.'

‘Wahid,' Jerry corrected her. ‘Put it through to my study.' He never used pleases or thank yous, with her or me. I got a quick, tight smile. ‘Won't be a minute.' He went into the study and shut the door. I was left contemplating my G & T.

He'd taken calls in front of me before without a qualm, chatting away to his pseudo-friends, occasionally dropping a Name, as though keen to show even me, an editor of little importance, how chummy he was with everybody. He'd never shut me out. Inevitably, the imagination of someone who makes a living in fiction came into play. Perhaps he was being blackmailed by a former cellmate, or threatened, or – no. Not from Switzerland. Switzerland where the Swiss bank accounts come from . . .

The maid had gone. I sidled towards the study door, leant casually against the panels. Jerry's voice carried faintly to my ears.

‘—can't do anything with it right now. Much too chancy – Never mind where I've got it. It's in a safe place – No, not the
safe
: I said a safe place – It's all right for you, you're not a British citizen. They can get warrants to poke their nose in anywhere these days. Bloody New Labour are turning the country into a police state – There's been too much about it in the Press lately. I can't take the risk – Acme City, they're calling it. Those bastards at Dryden must've scooped eighteen or twenty mil – Makes our 500K each look pretty paltry – Yes, I know it's a bugger – Some old dodderer on the Board's been asking questions – Nothing'll come out – We made peanuts; Dryden are the ones who – Okay, Pierre. I'll be in touch.'

I heard him hang up and moved quickly away, my tiptoeing footsteps noiseless on a convenient rug. Well, well. Sounded like Jerry was involved in another shady deal. I made a mental note of the names – Acme City, Dryden – and wondered vaguely how to go about checking up on them. The prospect of leafing through the financial pages was very daunting. It wasn't as if it was my business. And in the unlikely event that I found out something, I couldn't imagine myself turning supergrass to Scotland Yard or the Serious Fraud Office. Nonetheless, a tingle of investigative excitement made its way down my spine.

‘How's the drink?' Jerry again, emerging from the study with smile in place, back in charmer mode. ‘Need freshening up yet?'

‘No thanks,' I said.

‘Couldn't you ask Andy?' Georgie said to Lin. ‘He's a banker. He must know about these things.'

Lin looked unhappy. ‘I can't. Not
now
.'

‘Don't push it,' I murmured. ‘Haven't you got a spare banker left over from your clutch of millionaires?'

‘Not one I'd like to call.'

Lin had a brainwave. ‘Why not ask at your own bank? There's bound to be some nice helpful person there who could fill you in. You could say it was research for someone's book.'

‘I'm online,' I said.

‘I daren't go near mine,' Georgie said, shuddering. ‘I keep hoping if they don't see me they'll forget I exist. It's your idea – how about you?'

‘I'm online too,' Lin admitted. ‘Perhaps Laurence . . .'

‘No,' I said. ‘This is just between us. I don't want half of Ransome to know I'm gunning for one of their star authors.'

‘
Are
you?' Lin queried, wide-eyed. ‘Gunning, I mean.'

‘Not exactly. I suppose I'm just being inquisitive. He's such a creep . . .'

‘How much money did he say he pocketed on this mystery deal?' Georgie asked.

‘Half a million.'

‘And it's hidden in the flat somewhere?'

‘He didn't say that. He said it was in a safe place. Then he said
not
the safe. It could be
any
where.'

‘But it's probably in the flat,' Georgie persisted. ‘After all, if you had half a million, you wouldn't want to risk stashing it away in someone else's house, would you? It isn't exactly peanuts – even to Jerry Beauman.'

‘Actually, he said it
was
. Peanuts.'

‘He owns a big house in the country,' Lin volunteered. ‘Gloucestershire, I think. I've seen pictures.'

‘His wife's got that,' Georgie said knowledgeably.

‘What about the girlfriend?' I inquired. ‘Where does he keep her? She's not resident with him.'

‘It doesn't matter. He wouldn't trust her with a large sum of money; he's not the trusting kind,' Georgie declared. ‘It's bound to be at the flat. You could start having a look for it – in your spare moments.'