Линда Ла Плант - Cold Heart

Decker was relaxed but not too relaxed, respectful but not obsequious, and when she asked why he had applied for the job he shrugged, admitting without any embarrassment that it sounded better than working tables at a bar and that money was short. His last employer had refused to give him references which had made it difficult to get a decent job since. Lorraine was confused: she had references from his last employer in front of her on her pristine desk. Rob nodded towards the paper, and said he had typed it himself. When she asked why he had no references from his last employer, he told her that he had refused to go down on him and, equally candidly, that he was homosexual. Then he had laughed and added that she probably knew that already, and probably he had not got this job either.

‘Yes, you have.’ Lorraine surprised even herself. She hadn’t given it as much thought as she should have.

Decker’s handshake was strong and he assured her that he would not let her down.

‘I hope not, Rob. This is very important to me — I want the agency to succeed more than you will ever know. Maybe when you get to know me better you’ll find out why, but in the meantime, when can you start?’

‘Why not right now? We need some plants in here, and I have a contact in a nursery — I get the best, half-price.’

Lorraine arranged salary and office keys, discussed hours, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked if he liked dogs. He told her another anecdote, about when he had worked in a poodle parlour, and she said that Tiger was not exactly a poodle and needed firm handling. Just before Decker left he seemed suddenly vulnerable, and Lorraine liked him for that too. She knew Rob Decker would become a good friend.

The following morning, Lorraine looked over her office. As promised, Decker had bought two ficus trees in copper buckets, a mass of pink and white impatiens in a glazed terracotta planter, and a deep square plain glass vase, which he had filled with Casablanca lilies and placed on the little table in Reception. The whole place seemed to have come alive. He had left on her desk a note of the cost of each plant and a receipt, plus watering instructions. He had also bought coffee, tea, cookies and skimmed milk, and a new percolator, which he insisted was his own, so that not only was there a sweet fragrance from the blooms but a wonderful smell of fresh coffee.

There were no calls and no work on offer, so at lunchtime Decker and Lorraine went off to buy some exhibition posters and prints from the Metropolitan Museum of Art shop, as the office walls were bare. He also talked Lorraine into stopping off to pick up an elegant up lighter to put in Reception, a swing-arm graphite lamp, a violet glass ashtray for her desk, and — having divined her sweet tooth as though by magic — a jar of jelly beans. By three o’clock their new purchases were on display. The advertising had, as yet, failed to generate any work, but she was not disheartened, she knew things would take time, and during the afternoon they had been able to get to know each other better.

Lorraine never divulged everything about her background, but Decker knew she had been a cop, and knew she had had a drink problem. In fact, he was such a good listener she felt that she had told him more than she really should have, but he was equally forthcoming about his life and his partner, with whom he had lived for eight years — Adam Elliot, late forties, a writer for films, TV or washing-powder commercials, still hoping to crack the big time before he turned fifty.

They left the office at six. Not one phone call had come in: it was Thursday, 26 October. Decker had asked Lorraine if she would like to have dinner over the weekend at his place, but despite the offer of masala chicken and chocolate pie, she had declined. She felt that perhaps she should keep a little distance between them.

Friday was just as silent, telephone-wise and job-wise, and they had talked even more, had lunch together again and discussed how they should rethink the adverts. Decker suggested they use Adam to reword them in a way that might grab a potential client. Again Lorraine refused his offer of lunch or dinner over the weekend. The initial buzz of her getting her new life together began to dry up. She didn’t feel so confident any more and even her new face began to annoy her: she was so used to flicking her hair forward over her scar, but there was nothing to hide any more. She began to wonder if it had all been make-believe and that the old Lorraine still lurked ready to pull the new one down.

She wished she had accepted Decker’s invitation, as she was alone the entire weekend, going over her accounts, totting up her bank balance. She was still in good shape financially as well as physically, but she had spent a lot of money on pampering herself and seeing it in black and white made her a little scared at her foolishness. Maybe she should have taken her time, but it was too late now — the money was gone. She had just over two hundred thousand dollars in her account, a lot, but at the same time she knew that, realistically, she could not keep the office and Decker running without some finances coming in: the outgoings would drain her savings. Still, any new venture needed time. But despite her forced optimism, something was eating away at her. She awoke one night with a faint voice in her head, telling her over and over she didn’t deserve this new life. As if on cue, the phone rang. It was three o’clock in the morning.

‘Hello,’ Lorraine said suspiciously.

‘Hi, blossom, how’s things?’

‘Rosie?’

‘Yeah, guess where we are? No, I’ll tell you, Vienna! My God, Lorraine, it’s unbelievable !’

Lorraine lay back on the pillow as Rosie listed, at full volume, the restaurants and sightseeing tours. It was so nice to hear her voice, even if it was ear-splitting. She sounded so close, as if she was in the next room. ‘Eh! How’s life? You found a guy?’

‘Nope, not yet, but I’m looking.’

‘Well, you make sure you don’t get one that snores!’

Lorraine smiled as Rosie continued to fill her in on the trials of sleeping with Rooney, never once pausing for breath. ‘Hey, you there? Or I did I just bore you off the phone?’

‘No, Rosie, I’m still here, making notes in case I meet my Mr Right.’ She could feel Rosie’s smile. She gave her the new address and phone numbers, and she could hear Rosie repeat them to big, bulbous-nosed Bill Rooney. Then she put Rooney on the phone and he complained about the cost of the call and then said, so softly, in a voice she would never have expected from the old, hardened cop, ‘You know, Lorraine, I’ve got a lot to thank you for. Not just for making us a load of money, but if it wasn’t for you, I’d never have met the woman who’s made me happier than I ever thought possible.’

There was a long pause and Lorraine could hear his heavy breathing at the other end of the line.

‘I love her so much,’ he mumbled, and then repeated it, sounding almost in tears.

Rosie grabbed the phone, laughing. ‘He’s drunk — but he tells me that every day. Nice, huh? Hey, I better go. We’ll send you postcards, bring you presents and... Oh, yeah, can’t wait to see your new place.’

Lorraine said goodbye. It didn’t matter that Rosie had shown little or no interest in what was happening in her life because right now it didn’t feel too wonderful and she couldn’t see anyone in her future saying they loved her. Lorraine was lonely — deeply lonely.

The following morning she went to her local AA meeting, the only social life she had. She still couldn’t rid herself of the feeling of isolation: it didn’t make her want to drink, but it made her think, and face the fact that she had no friends. She started thinking about her ex-husband and his family. She had not seen her two daughters for a long, long time, and though they knew where she was, they had made no contact. She often thought about going to see them, but always talked herself out of it. She didn’t want to disrupt their lives any more than she knew she had already.