Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

It appeared I had met someone whose antipathy to Marty matched my own. But I did not want to compromise myself by agreeing with her. My loyalties lay with her daughter, and I was not sorry when Debbie saved me from answering by returning with the tea. And Mrs. Palmer’s coffee. With half a sugar.

Anna was summoned from the bedroom by Debbie, at her mother’s command. Mrs. Palmer commandeered the conversation, and I was happy to let her. The occasional comment from either Debbie or myself was enough to keep her commentary running. Anna said nothing. She did not appear to be listening.

Finally, putting her mug down I noticed Debbie had given her a chipped one Anna’s mother announced that it was time to go. My tea was unfinished and so was Debbie’s. Anna’s remained untouched.

I had managed to avoid thinking about Anna leaving until then. Suddenly, I felt the pit drop out of my stomach.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay for lunch?” I asked.

“No, thank you all the same. I don’t want to hit the rush hour.”

“You’ll have plenty of time. And I think you’ll find the rush hour lasts all day.”

Mrs. Palmer would not be put off. “We’d still better be making tracks. The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll get there.”

With this homily, she began preparations for their departure.

These consisted of instructing Anna to fetch her cases from the bedroom, and Debbie to take the mugs back into the kitchen. “Give them a quick rinse while you’re there, will you dear?” she asked. I was permitted to remain while she busied herself poring deeply into her handbag and renewing her lipstick and powder.

We left the flat. I carried Anna’s suitcase downstairs and packed it in the boot of her mother’s Volvo. Debbie hugged her and gave her a kiss: I stood back, uncertainly. Anna came and put her arms around me. She was on the verge of crying again. “Thanks, Donald. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

I patted her back. She let go and climbed into the car. I waved as they pulled away, and then they were gone.

Debbie snorted, angrily. “God, I pity poor Anna, having her for a mother. I mean, what did her last slave die of?”

I did not answer. I was too choked to speak.

Anna was away for much longer than the two or three weeks I had hoped. It was almost two months before I saw her again. During the third week, when I was beginning to hope she would soon be back, her mother telephoned to say they were taking her to Tunisia for a month. Predictably, she did not ask if I minded her having the time off; she presented it as a fait accompli . I consoled myself by nurturing a sense of injustice. But that was immediately forgotten when Anna herself called a few days later. It was good to hear her voice again, and I reassured her that I did not mind her going in the least. Cheered by talking to her, at that moment in time I meant it. Anna, on the other hand, seemed unexcited by the prospect. She sounded as though nothing mattered to her very much one way or the other.

Without Anna to look at and occupy me, I fell into a mechanical, listless routine. Life would begin again when she returned. Until then, I was merely treading water. I hired a temporary assistant from an agency, but the sight of another girl in the gallery only made Anna’s absence more marked. I coped by switching myself off as much as possible, functioning on a surface level only: a state of semi-permanent limbo. It worked so well that when the girl eventually left, I could remember neither her name nor what she looked like.

I contacted Zeppo only occasionally during that period. He was his usual sardonic self, hiding any relief he felt at the petering out of the police investigation behind sarcastic comments. But even he failed to reach me. His barbs slid off almost unnoticed which, I realised later, was probably the best reaction I could have had to them. The last time I spoke to him I said I would let him know when Anna got back and hung up. I think he was beginning to say something when I put the receiver down.

My state of apathy was unassailable. Or so I believed. On the morning I received my first postcard from Anna bland and perfunctory I was also contacted by someone else. Someone much less welcome.

It was when I was trying to explain the basics of my cataloguing system to the temporary assistant. The girl’s repeated inability to grasp it was beginning to rub at my patience. I lacked the enthusiasm to be angry, but I felt a tired, irritable frustration at her continual stupidity. When the telephone rang it seemed a further, needless distraction.

“Look, just don’t do anything until I get back,” I told the girl, as I went to answer it. “Hello, The Gallery?”

“Mr. Ramsey? Margaret Thornby here.”

This time I had no difficulty placing either the voice or the name. I felt a weary resignation.

“How are you?” she asked. “Well, I hope?” I assured her I was. “Just phoning to let you know I’m coming up to London again later this week, and I thought if you weren’t too busy that we could perhaps meet up sometime.”

I made a polite expression of interest and asked what day it would be. “Thursday,” she said. “Is that convenient for you?”

“Is that this Thursday?” I asked. “The nineteenth?”

She gave a laugh. “Well, it’s this Thursday, but don’t ask me what the date is, because I haven’t a clue. I’m awful on things like that. I’ve got a diary somewhere, though, if you want me to check?”

“No, that’s all right. There’s no need. I’m afraid if it’s this Thursday I won’t be able to make it anyway. I’m out of town all morning, and I’ve a meeting scheduled in the afternoon.” The excuses came easily, fabricated without effort from my lassitude. I waited for the expression of regret, already looking past them to the goodbyes, and the mild relief I would feel on hanging up.

“Oh, have you? Well, never mind. What about Thursday evening then?”

“Thursday evening?” The question pierced through my complacency.

“Yes. If you’re not doing anything. I’m going to be staying at my daughter’s overnight, and the friends I normally see are both on holiday, so if you’re not busy we could make it the evening instead.” Again, she gave a laugh. “It’ll save my daughter having to think of something to entertain her mum, anyway.”

I scrambled for an excuse. But the sudden departure from what I had expected was too sharp: I could not make the adjustment in time. “Mr. Ramsey, are you still there?”

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry, I was just... I thought someone had come in.” I searched for inspiration. None came. My mind was blank. “Yes, Thursday evening’s fine,” I heard myself saying.

“Oh good. What time suits you?”

“Whenever.” Numb, I let her fix a time and arrange a suitable place to meet. When she had finished, I put the phone down. The feeling of relief I had looked forward to had been replaced by a dull sense of entrapment. I went back to where I had left the girl. She had followed my instructions to the letter and done absolutely nothing. She looked at me, waiting mutely for instructions.

“Take an early lunch,” I said.

The threat of Thursday night cast a pall over the intervening days. Whenever I tried to rationalise it away, I would think what Anna had said, and it would immediately darken. I could see no innocent reason for the woman’s persistence, nor could I think of a way to avoid it. As horrific as the prospect of spending an evening alone with her was, I could not bring myself to confront her with excuses.

I awoke on Thursday morning with a leaden sense of oppression. Its weight lay heavily in my stomach as I went into the gallery and tried to get through the rest of the day. The ordeal waited for me at the end of it like an impassable block. I could not see beyond it. My entire future was reduced to that single evening.