Thieving Fear Part 6

Had the afternoon grown humid, or was that her body? As she crossed the car park the sunlight felt treacly on her skin. She wanted to be home, to look up the phone number of the tribunal, but she could have mistaken her urgency for fever. Her skin was crawling with moisture by the time she reached the road to Hesketh Park.

Crossing the park on her way to the interview, she'd imagined walking through all its seasons to her new job. She'd wished she had a notebook for scribbling her observations: a girl being led by the hand past the duck pond by a boy stripped to the waist for some kind of action; a Crazy Golf course so miniature that you couldn't call it crazy, just mildly deranged. This no longer seemed inspired, and as she pa.s.sed the aviary beyond the vandalised greenhouses she was distracted by a rooster puffing itself up. It reminded her of her appearance in the mirror, and so did the chubby-cheeked jovial moon on the front of a small blue engine carrying toddlers along a path. Perhaps she could do without a notebook.

Three-storey blocks of apartments faced her side of the park, but hers was at the far end of a side street. The numbers of her cousins' first initials admitted her to the square white concrete lobby. Mrs Sharp from the left-hand ground-floor flat kept replenis.h.i.+ng a vase on a table with flowers from her plot behind the block. The current bunch was as white as the solitary envelope beside the vase. Although it hadn't been there when Ellen had picked up her mail a bills and offers rendered personal by computers a it was addressed to her. Someone had ringed the address with an incontinent blue ballpoint and scrawled more than one sputtering version of a word beside it. MISDELE was succeeded by MISDILIVERED, so forcefully that several of the letters were italics.

The item had been posted first cla.s.s several days ago. Ellen tore open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet, which was apparently all it took to sum her up. The Appellant's att.i.tude to a disabled witness was judged to be unsatisfactory. Her approach to this witness went some way beyond cross-examination and, given the age and frailty of the witness, could only be described as bullying. The Appellant displayed tolerance of racism and exhibited racist tendencies of her own. By the unanimous decision of the Tribunal, the appeal of the Appellant is dismissed and the decision of the Respondent is upheld.

The sheet bore a telephone number, but what would calling it achieve? The impersonal language had left her feeling exposed, unfamiliar to herself, guilty of behaviour she hadn't been aware of. What else was she unwilling to acknowledge about herself? She was refolding the page rather than s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g it up in her fist when she saw Mrs Sharp's Punto puttering into the car park. She didn't want to talk to anyone just now. She ran upstairs, at least until she reached the last flight, and arrived panting on the top floor.

Her family were waiting in her hall, or rather Rory's portraits were. He'd made prints for his cousins and Hugh while he was at art school. Each of them was gazing past the artist as if they were seeing the future, but now their fixed stares seemed more ominous; she might almost have imagined that they'd noticed an intruder. Ellen shut the door and halted in front of her own portrait, where her faint reflection on the gla.s.s doubled the image. Whichever way she moved she was unable to fit her present face within the younger model. Why was she wasting time? She ought to be checking whether she'd heard from Charlotte.

The computer occupied much of the desk beside the bookshelf full of Cougar t.i.tles in the main room. She switched on to find there was indeed an email from her cousin, headed Take Care? It was hundreds of lines long, and she sent them racing down the screen as she tried to find their point. Cougar might want her novel, but not under that t.i.tle. Charlotte's senior editor Glen had suggestions for improvements a many of them, though some were Charlotte's. Ellen felt heady with elation and yet heavy with the prospect of so much extra work on a story she'd been sure was finished. In particular she could have done without Glen's choice of words or Charlotte's decision to quote them unedited. 'Right now your work feels bloated. Try to slim it down.'

SEVEN.

As Charlotte looked away from the poster of a flooded St Mark's Square the restaurant manager said 'Have you gone?'

'To Venice? Only in my dreams.'

'She ought to make them real, shouldn't she, Fausto?' Glen said and pointed at her with the grappa bottle. 'You could be there quicker than it took us to eat dinner. You can sink into the past like nowhere else I know.'

The thought of being shut in an aeroplane for hours made the small noisy Venetian restaurant feel cramped. 'Sink looks like the word,' she said.

Despite the lamps reflected in the water, she could easily have taken the black expanse for mud that was about to engulf the dim basilica. The impression seemed to darken the lanterns on the tables and to shade the manager's already swarthy face, unless her remark had pained him. 'I meant it's not the best advertis.e.m.e.nt,' she said.

'Our daughter took it. We asked for it so big.'

'It's a great photograph. She must be talented.'

'Your family's creative too, right, Charlotte?'

'Some of us are.'

She meant to leave herself out, but the manager was grinning at Glen. 'Is she another of your writers?'

'I'm just a colleague.'

'Hey, less of the just.'

'Bella, anyhow.' The manager pinched a kiss from his lips to flick towards Charlotte. Perhaps he was indicating the grappa, since he added 'On the house.'

'Bella for sure, Fausto. The end to a perfect evening.'

The manager gave Charlotte a comical frown. 'Don't say it is the end.'

As he sidled away between the tables, pulling in his proud dinner-suited stomach so as not to dislodge a pink-check tablecloth, Charlotte murmured 'Another in what sense?'

At first she wasn't sure that Glen had heard, given the Vivaldi that had joined the uproar, having lent the restaurant its name. He rested his gaze on her before saying 'A girl I was seeing wanted to write us a book. It didn't work out.'

'Sorry to hear it.'

'I should have known you shouldn't get too close to your writers.'

'Are you saying I am? Gosh, that's more than enough.'

He'd replenished her liqueur gla.s.s to the brim. As he refilled his own he said 'Not so long as you can be an editor. How's work progressing on your cousin's book?'

'I've sent her the suggestions.'

Glen stoppered the grappa, none too firmly. 'Any comeback yet?'

'She's had a new idea.'

'Fine if it works with ours. Sounds like we triggered her imagination.'

'An idea for another book.'

'OK then, sounds like she's productive. Don't forget your drink.'

Charlotte had a sip of brandy to fire up her enthusiasm. 'Four people share some kind of magical experience but they don't realise till years later when it starts to affect all their lives.'

'Go on,' Glen said and more than matched her sip.

'That's all so far. Maybe she doesn't want to risk developing it till she's had a response.'

'We need to see how she shapes up with Bad Old Things. If she fixes that I guess we'd want to option her next novel. Did you talk to her?'

'Not yet.'

'You could tell her that. Could be it's what she needs.'

'All right, I will.' Charlotte felt as if she'd neglected her cousin, although she had been waiting to speak to Glen. 'I'll call her now,' she said. 'I'll be outside.'

Ellen's soft voice couldn't have competed with the din, but as Charlotte unfolded her mobile beside a dormant streetlamp under the nine o'clock sky she realised how oppressive she'd begun to find the boisterous dimness. If there hadn't been so many people spilling off the pavements of Camden Road, outside would have been more of a relief. The phone had almost rung enough to rouse the answering service before the simulated bell subsided. 'Is that my author?' Charlotte said.

'Would you want it to be, Charlotte?'

'I wouldn't have written all that to you otherwise.'

'I knew really. Thanks for spending so much time on me. You're not still at work, are you? You sound shut in.'

'I'm not. I'm outside a restaurant.'

'Not dining alone, I hope.'

'I've just had dinner with Glen. I mentioned him, my senior editor.'

'You don't mean old.'

'Four years older.'

'That's not too bad, is it? He's the one who's giving you ideas. What did you think of my new one?'

Charlotte glanced around, but n.o.body was eavesdropping. 'I was wondering what kind of magical experience.'

'The kind you don't know was one till it's got inside you and changed you. That's part of the point, the people it happened to didn't notice.' Ellen paused and said 'I hoped you might help me work it out.'

'Glen thinks we need to concentrate on your novel first, so you'll have some kind of track record.'

'I wouldn't want to cause any friction.' Before Charlotte could absolve her of the possibility Ellen said 'Will you have time to help me if I need you?'

'You know I'm here whenever you do,' Charlotte promised, only to wonder 'Now, do you mean?'

'Of course not now. I don't like to think I'm interrupting your date.'

'I did that. So what would you like me to do?' Charlotte thought it best to add 'About your book.'

'Can I send you bits when I think they're done?'

'Absolutely.'

'And if you still don't think it's right . . .' Rather than continue Ellen said 'I'll try not to let it take up too much of your time. I'll be giving it all of mine.'

'You mean you've given up looking for another job.'

'Wherever I tried they'd be able to check what was said about me. It won't do me any harm to stay out of sight for a while.'

Pa.s.sers-by were crowding close to Charlotte, but n.o.body was peering around the streetlamp beside her. 'Why, who's been saying what?' she protested.

'Do you mind if I don't talk about it? Let's just say I wouldn't look suitable for the kind of job I used to do. Maybe I've been denying I'm what people say I am.'

'If it's anything bad I very much doubt it. Honestly, Ellen, you should tell me so we can deal with it together.'

'Just tell me if you think I'm a writer.'

'If you're willing to do all the work I'd say you must be.'

'Then I definitely must, because you're a lot more of one.'

Charlotte would have met this with a modest smile if they had been face to face. Before she could think of a verbal equivalent, Ellen said 'I was going to ask if you still don't think I've got it right, would you have time to rewrite it for me?'

'Let's hope that won't be necessary. Let's see how well you can do.'

'Have there ever been cousins who collaborated on a book? By Charlotte Nolan and Ellen Lomax.' A silence suggested she was dreaming of the prospect until she said 'Would you get half the money?'

'Of course not, Ellen. I'm being paid to edit.'

'Do you think I'll be seeing some soon?'

Charlotte heard how casual Ellen was trying to sound. 'As long as you're happy to work on the changes I'll look into what can be done.'

'We'll stay in touch, shall we? Not just us.' Ellen might have paused for thought, but all she said was 'Anyway, I've kept you away from your date long enough. I hope you'll be pleased with me.'

With that she was gone. Charlotte folded up her phone and dodged through the crowd to the Vivaldi. How had she overlooked the lowness of the ceiling? The room hardly seemed to have s.p.a.ce for so much clamorous dimness, let alone for her. She might have indicated that she would wait for Glen outside if he hadn't been sitting with his back to the door. As she struggled alongside the table he reached for the grappa. 'Anything to celebrate?'

'Maybe, but do you think we're finished here? I'm feeling a bit closed in.'

'Let's chase that, then. I've got the check.' When Charlotte made to take out her purse he said 'No, I mean I got it.'

'Well, thank you for a very pleasant evening.'

As they emerged into the crowded thickening darkness he said 'Can you use a coffee?'

'If I'm buying, Glen.'

'Everything's bought,' he said and steered her by the elbow towards Kentish Town.

As they left the crowd beyond a side street where three-storey houses propped up the black sky, he let go of her arm. He turned along a narrower street and then down one that might be narrower still. All at once his height dropped inches, followed by twice that. 'Going down?' he said.

Charlotte tried to find the sight of his lean face smiling up at her as comical as he might intend, but it made her less than eager to descend the steps. 'This is it, then.'

'It's worth a whole lot more than I paid for it back when.'

'I wasn't putting it down,' she said and ventured onto the first step.

It was dark in the cramped stone yard at the bottom, and darker beyond the door Glen unlocked. As she waited for him to switch on some light Charlotte had the unwelcome fancy that he was about to encounter an intruder in the blackness. She heard a beeping that suggested Glen was trying to summon help on a mobile phone, but he was switching off an alarm. In another moment the hall lit up, and he looked out of the doorway. 'Are you OK on the steps?'

She felt less so with each one she took. 'I didn't drink that much,' she said, wis.h.i.+ng that were the problem, whatever it was.

The click of the latch reminded her how she was shutting herself in. The short hall was decorated with Cougar posters as if, she felt unfair for thinking, Glen antic.i.p.ated a visit from their bosses. Past the bathroom and a bedroom where a double bed lay low in the dark, the main room managed to contain a leather suite and a home cinema system with a plasma screen, as well as bookshelves and a hi-fi and a desk bearing a computer. Glen crossed the room to a panelled kitchen largely occupied by fitted units and a pine table with six chairs. 'Sit anywhere you're comfortable,' he said.

'Can I open the curtains?'

'Handle whatever you like.'

Was she hoping for a sunken garden? When she parted the black curtains they revealed French windows, but these opened onto a subterranean brick enclosure where a round metal table and four chairs were surrounded on three sides by boxes spilling blossom. 'What do you think?' Glen called.

Charlotte retreated to the farthest leather chair in case at that distance the enclosure could be mistaken for the edge of a darker garden. It couldn't, and she was thrown by her desire for the illusion. 'It's neat,' she had to say. 'You must be quite a gardener.'

'I'm not. My girlfriend was.'