The Water's Lovely (21 page)

Eva's flat was the top of a narrow white-brick terraced house with steps and pillars. Lights were on in every window upstairs. Ismay marched daringly up the steps to the two bells and read Eva's name. She thought, I could ring the bell and fetch her down and talk to her. I could show her my tears. She held her forefinger, quivering with fear, an inch from the bell and then she lost her nerve and retreated down the steps. Eva wouldn't be at home, anyway. Girls like Eva never were at home in the evenings, seldom before three in the morning. The lights meant nothing.

Ismay went back to the Vauxhall Bridge Road, found a small humble café, occupied by two couples, two men and a solitary girl like herself, and bought herself a filter coffee. She sat over her coffee for a long time while it grew dark outside. Brightly lit red double-deckers went past. A fire engine roared and howled on its way to the Embankment. She had had nothing to eat at the reception and quite a lot to drink. She bought herself a stale Danish pastry and a chocolate bar. Then
she walked back to Sark Street where not a soul was about and Eva's lights were still on, unchanged from when she last saw them.

There was no point in staying. There had never been any point in coming. Torturing herself, she imagined Andrew dancing with Eva in some dimly lit place where the music was soft. Andrew was a good dancer, especially at the tango. She walked back to Pimlico station and got into a tube to Brixton.

It was far more crowded than she had expected and she had no hope of a seat. She got out at Stockwell and found the Northern Line platform densely packed. It was a crush to get on to it at all. That always meant only one thing: that no Northern Line train had stopped here for maybe twenty minutes and meanwhile passengers had poured on to the platform from the street and, like her, from the Victoria Line. The public address system emitted its usual incomprehensible announcements, the accent Chinese, the interference with transmission an ear-splitting crackle. Whatever the voice had been saying, a train appeared, clearing perhaps a third of the people who waited. Within a minute or two a mob surged through the entrance, most of them young men, drunk and noisy. Another train came and this time she got on. She was carried on, pushed from behind and jostled on either side, shoved and pulled, buffeted to stand up against the opposite doors, clinging for dear life on to one of the uprights.

The train started with a lurch. She reached for her handbag to adjust the strap on to her shoulder. It was gone.

Edmund heard Heather put the receiver down. He was in the living room of their flat, hanging the few paintings he had brought from Chudleigh Hill, polishing the glass and renewing the picture cords, and Heather was in the tiny hallway.

‘I could hear you,' he said when she came in. ‘You sounded quite friendly.'

‘If we are, isn't it better that way?'

He turned round and looked at her. A deep flush coloured her forehead and cheeks. He had never seen her look like this before and he realised he was witnessing some powerful emotion which somehow changed her face but he was unable to say what that emotion might be. Fear? Shame? Pity? No, anger.

‘What is it?'

‘Nothing,' she said and her voice was low-pitched and slow. ‘Nothing really.'

‘She won't give him up? No, of course not. Did you ever seriously think she would?'

‘I hoped.' Heather gave a cry of rage, of fury, and clenched her hands. He had never seen her lose control before and he stared. ‘I hoped she'd do a – well, a good action. She's not in love with him. She's more or less said.' She grew calmer and took a deep breath. ‘You said we sounded friendly. She talks to me now like I was a friend of hers. She calls me by my name. But she won't budge. She wants to keep hold of him.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

She turned on him and he expected something he had never had from her, shouting, reproach, anger, perhaps insults. But she put her parted lips together, touched her hot cheeks with her fingertips and came up to him to kiss him.

‘I shall try again, Ed. I can't give up.'

‘I can see that.'

‘I forgot to tell you. Issy's had her handbag stolen, her Marc Jacobs bag.'

‘Who's Marc Jacobs?'

‘You sound like some old judge. They never know who anyone is. He's a designer. Luckily, she always carries her keys separately but the thief took everything else, her wallet with quite a lot of money in it and three credit cards, her mobile, her diary. It happened when she was getting into the tube.'

‘Coping with all that may at least take her mind off Andrew.'

‘It won't,' said Heather, thinking, though fondly, that that was just like a man, a man's judgement.

Eva hadn't told Andrew and she hadn't told Daddy. When Andrew came round to take her out to dinner she had asked him if a socialite was the same thing as being in the Labour Government and he had laughed so much that his face had turned unbecomingly red. She had shouted at him not to be so mean and beastly and his laughing some more had put an end to her speaking to him at all for the next hour. As for Daddy, he'd probably advise her to tell the police. Daddy loved the police almost as much as he loved the army and was thrilled to see so many of them carrying guns these days.

Besides, telling Andrew would require bringing her own feelings about him out into the open. Young as she
was, Eva was the kind of girl who believes it is best never to show a man how you feel about him and lethal to let him believe you will hang on to him at all costs. And anyway, she wouldn't and she didn't really know how she felt about him. The truth was that if this Heather persisted she probably would give him up, simply to avoid trouble. If she persisted and it had begun to look as if she would.

She had phoned again two days after their meeting. It was early in the morning and Eva was still in bed, it being Thursday, her day for going to the swimming pool and her yoga lesson. She said her name and asked if Eva had thought any more about what she had said in the park.

‘No, I haven't. I
told
you. It's not your business. Anyway, he wouldn't go back to your sister.'

‘Is he there now?'

‘He's just gone.' It wasn't true. Eva knew it was weakness on her part to answer Heather Litton's questions but Eva didn't want the woman thinking theirs wasn't a full sexual relationship. ‘D'you know what he told me?' She was driven to be spiteful. ‘He told me he doesn't know now how he let himself be seen about with your sister for so long.'

‘I don't believe that,' Heather said.

‘Believe what you like. It's true.' Eva sat up in bed, wishing there were someone to bring her coffee and orange juice and half a piece of crispbread as there was at home with Mummy and Daddy. ‘Look, what's in this for you, for God's sake? Andrew wasn't your boyfriend.'

‘My sister means a lot to me. I don't like seeing her suffer.'

‘Well, I'm sorry if she's suffering. I didn't mean to cause her pain. I couldn't help Andrew falling in love with me.'

Eva was dimly aware that she was starting to be – well – almost
on good terms
with Heather. She couldn't help it. Though not much older than she, Heather had a motherly manner, a way of talking reasonably and patiently that Eva wasn't used to in her contemporaries, still less her own mother. ‘She'll get over it, Heather,' she said rather desperately. Using that Christian name made it worse. ‘People always do. She'll meet someone else.'

‘I used to think that but now I don't know. I don't think so.'

‘People always do,' Eva said again. ‘I'll have to go.'

‘St James's Park again?'

‘No, it's not. And I don't want you following me anywhere. Is that clear, Heather? I don't want it. It's harassment.'

‘OK, I'll phone you tomorrow.'

Eva didn't answer that. She said goodbye and put the phone down.

Avice lifted her eyes from the paperback she was reading and told Marion Mr Karkashvili would be coming to lunch on Thursday.

‘That's an interesting name,' said Marion as if she had never come across it before.

‘Yes, it's Georgian, dear.' Avice explained rather condescendingly that she referred to Georgia in Asia and not Georgia in the United States. ‘His grandfather came here from Tiflis or whatever they call it these days.'

Marion waited expectantly. She had been waiting for over a week now. But Avice was still occupied with nomenclature. ‘If it had been me I'd have changed it to something more English. Carter perhaps or Carville.'

‘Will you go out for lunch or have it here?'

Avice hesitated for so long that Marion wondered if she meant to answer at all. Finally she said, ‘I don't
know, dear. He'll have to come here even if we eat elsewhere. The trouble is Figaro doesn't like him.'

‘I hope he's never done anything unkind to him,' said Marion in a suitably indignant tone. ‘Rabbits are like elephants. They never forget.'

‘He's never had the chance,' said Avice in the sort of tone that implied there was no knowing what outrages her solicitor would perpetrate if left to his own devices.

‘I could take Figaro into the dining room while he was here. I mean I'd have some of that cow parsley he likes all ready for him and then he'd come in very happily.'

‘That's an idea.'

Her tone was neutral and unenthusiastic. Marion waited and then, suddenly, she understood. Avice was thinking. Avice put the piece of red ribbon which had come off a box of chocolates between the pages to mark her place, and pondered on her suggestion. Not the one about taking Figaro out of harm's way but the other one, made after she received the news of Deirdre's death. Marion could understand her hesitation. A large sum would have to be involved and she hadn't known Marion long. But whom else could she ask? And how much should the large sum be? Asking Mr Karkashvili would be unwise, especially as he seemed to be an animal hater. Should she give Avice a prod? Not yet. If Mr Karkashvili was coming on Thursday she must make up her mind soon.

The restaurant in Pinner village was Italian and called La Mandritta. It didn't seem very upmarket to Marion who had phoned the place and made the reservation. The man who answered the phone sounded as if he wasn't used to people ringing up and booking tables. Especially for lunch, he said. ‘Most just come and take potluck.'

Marion didn't like the sound of that but what was it to her? She wasn't going to be eating there. She was
going to be at home with those rabbits and meeting Mr Karkashvili when he came back with Avice to redraft her will. After Avice had gone off to meet him at La Mandritta, Marion did one of her little dances. She tripped around the living room in a kind of flamenco style, wishing she had some music. Her dancing frightened the rabbits who plunged through the flap into their hutch as soon as she waved her arms about.

The previous night she had gone off to bed despondently. It was more than a week since she had been back to Lithos Road, sticking close to Avice being the wisest thing to do. Avice had passed almost the entire evening immersed in what she called ‘the new Julie Myerson' while Marion watched television, necessarily turned very low so as not to disturb Avice. They had both had some hot chocolate at ten and that was when Avice first mentioned the events scheduled for the following day. Marion, to use her own words, perked up a bit at that. But all Avice said was that she thought she and Mr Karkashvili would be back at the house by three at the latest and would Marion like to make tea when he came?

Half an hour later she was sitting up in bed, massaging her face with anti-ageing night serum, when Avice knocked at the door and came in. Marion eyed her warily. She had just come to a decision. She'd go home tomorrow and maybe not come back. Avice, who was holding the photographs of Figaro and Susanna Marion had fetched from the pharmacy that day, asked if she might sit down.

‘It's your house,' Marion said not very graciously.

‘Yes, but your room, dear.'

‘Was there something you wanted?'

‘Well, yes. Oh, dear, I find this quite embarrassing. I'm so afraid you'll say no. That's why I've been putting off asking for days – well, weeks.'

Marion knew now. ‘No need to be embarrassed with me.'

‘Well, you may not say that when you hear what I've got to ask.'

Oh, get on with it, Marion thought. Spit it out.

‘You must just say outright if you can't take it on.' A deep breath and Avice spat it out. ‘Do you remember when I heard about Deirdre's dying you said she ought to have left money in her will to someone who'd look after her cat?'

‘Did I?' said Marion.

‘Oh, yes, you certainly did, dear. Well, would you?'

Say how much, Marion prayed. How much? ‘Would I what, Avice?'

‘Take care of Figaro and Susanna when I – when I pass on? I thought fifty thousand. Would that be enough?'

Marion would have liked twice that but she dared not ask for more. The whole scheme might come to grief if she did. ‘I think that's very generous, Avice,' she said in a humble submissive voice, and then – this took more self-discipline than Marion had ever summoned up before – ‘May I give you my answer in the morning?' She couldn't resist adding, ‘Very first thing in the morning.'

Avice said in a tone anyone else would have found pathetic, ‘Rabbits seldom live beyond six years old, you know, and mine are nearly two now.'

Tea was ready when they came back from the restaurant. Marion poured it out and handed biscuits like a servant. Mr Karkashvili was a slender, not very tall man and, with his small pale face, resembled President Putin. He kept giving Marion the sort of looks that imply, go, go, leave us, get out. He never once smiled
or said thank you. With great dignity, Marion passed him the last biscuit, said to Avice, ‘I'll be in the dining room with Figaro if you need me,' scooped up the struggling rabbit and departed, leaving those two to make the arrangements that would enrich her, for at seven thirty that morning she had said yes. ‘Yes, I will. Of course I will.'