Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

She was staring at me with concern. As she had been talking, I had felt myself growing tauter and tauter. I realised I was still rigidly clutching the spoon. “Are you all right?” she asked, and leaned forward to touch me again, and this time I could not help it. I jerked my arm away.

She was left with her hand stretched out over the table. Her face was wide-eyed with surprise. The moment seemed suspended with an awful clarity. I noticed she had a small, white smear of cream on her top lip. I tried to say something.

“I...” Nothing else came. My throat felt constricted. At last, her hand sank down and was withdrawn back to her side of the table. “I’m not... I don’t...”

“What? What is it?”

She stared at me with shocked incomprehension. I tried again to form the words. “I’m... I’m not... I think you’ve got the wrong impression.”

She blinked. “Wrong impression?”

I could not look at her. “This... meeting again. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She did not say anything.

I fixed my eyes on the table cloth. The wreckages of the pavlova as confronted me.

“I don’t... I don’t want a... a relationship.”

I forced myself to look at her. Now her expression was almost one of horror. “Good God,” she said.

“I’m sorry...”

“Good God.” Her hand went to her mouth. She closed her eyes.

“I don’t want to be rude...”

Her head was turned slightly away. “Whatever gave you the impression that I... that I expected anything like that?”

Something about the way she said it gave me a premonition of disaster.

“The telephone calls... All the invitations...” My voice trailed off. What had seemed obvious now suddenly seemed much less so. She slowly set her spoon down on the edge of her plate. She looked down at it as she spoke.

“Mr. Ramsey... I enjoy meeting people. I always have, but now I make a point of doing it. I was married for thirty years, and when my husband died it left a gap. I fill it the best way I can. I don’t believe in putting any more pressure on my children than I have to. They have their own lives to lead, and so I try to make mine as busy as possible.”

She looked up at me. Her mouth was trembling. The smudge of cream was still on her lip. “I know I talk too much, and that sometimes puts people off. And I know I’m too pushy sometimes, and that puts people off too. But I’m not looking for anyone to take my husband’s place, so you’re quite safe. If you misunderstood that, I’m sorry. I can’t see that I’ve really done anything to give you the impression that I was being anything more than friendly, but obviously I must have. Even so, I don’t think you had to make your... your reluctance quite so obvious.”

She suddenly reached for her handbag and swiftly took out her wallet. She set several ten pound notes on the table. “I said I’d pay, and I will.” She stood up. Her chin was quivering. “To be honest, Mr. Ramsey, I thought you were gay anyway. So you needn’t have worried after all.”

She walked quickly out of the restaurant. I looked around. One or two people had glanced up as she left, but no one was near enough to have heard what had been said. I sat where I was. For the time being, I was incapable of moving. After a while a waiter appeared and asked if I had finished. I let him take the plates and her money. There was a substantial amount left over, but I left that as a tip.

I went home.

That was the last I saw of the Thornby woman. I half-expected her to try and sue me over the car accident now, possibly producing some newly found ‘witness’, or a delayed injury. But nothing of the sort happened. The claim continued to go through without a hitch.

By a day or two after the meal I had recovered enough to feel relieved that at least she would not be pestering me again. The memory of the awful night was still painful, but only when I thought about it. Consequently, I avoided doing that. Soon the incident was shelved safely away, causing only the faintest twinge if something happened to remind me. And then I heard news that wiped even this from my mind.

Anna was coming home.

I received another postcard, saying that she would be back at work the following Monday. It was only brief, but the tone seemed much brighter than the first. Like clicking a switch, I came to life again.

The next few days were both a pleasure and a torment. Knowing that Anna would soon be back made even the most mundane act enjoyable, but at the same time the wait was unbearable. By the weekend, I had worked myself up to such a pitch that I felt ill.

On the Monday morning I went to the gallery early. I bought a bunch of flowers for Anna, and tried to occupy myself by making sure that everything was neat and tidy for her arrival. When I had finished there was still a half-hour left to fill. I sat down and watched the clock. The two-month wait was approaching its final minutes, and passing more slowly with each one.

Then, just before nine o’clock, I heard the ching of the bell as the door opened, and suddenly Anna was there.

“I’m back!” she said, grinning.

“Anna!” I could think of nothing to say. “You look wonderful!”

She did. There was no sign of the pale, lifeless girl I had said goodbye to. Her skin glowed with a warm, golden tan and her hair, tied loosely back, shone bronze from the sun. She looked fit and healthy, and more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

“Thank you. A month in the sun does wonders.” She kissed my cheek. My flesh felt seared. I breathed her familiar fragrance, complimented by the underlying smell of suntanned skin. “Have you managed to cope without me?”

“Limped along with the help of a somewhat retarded temp. How was Tunisia?”

“Hot. And pretty boring after the first two weeks.”

“It certainly doesn’t seem to have done you any harm.” I could not stop smiling. It’s good to see you. Oh, and I bought you these.” I produced the flowers, a little self-consciously.

“Donald, they’re lovely! Thank you!” She laughed. “I’m the one who’s been away. It’s supposed to be me who brings you a present. Speaking of which...” She rummaged in her bag and came out with a tissue-wrapped object. “I’ve brought you a bottle of the local plonk. It’s awful, but you’ve got to bring souvenirs back, haven’t you? And I got you this, as well.”

She handed me a small parcel. “I found them by accident,” she said as I unwrapped it. “We got lost one day, and ended up driving through this tiny little village in the middle of nowhere. An old man was making them.”

The paper came off. Inside was a hand-carved wooden statue of a woman. It was crudely but skilfully done, and while it was not particularly to my taste, I had to admit it was still quite a beautiful little thing.

“They were all different, but she was my favourite,” Anna said. “I hope you like it. It’ll be difficult changing it if you don’t.”

“It’s lovely. Thank you.” Even if it had been the most tasteless piece of junk, I would probably have felt the same way. It was a gift from Anna, and therefore priceless.

“It’s for being so considerate. You know.” She seemed embarrassed. So was I. But touched.

“You didn’t have to bring me anything. But thank you, anyway. I’ll give it pride of place. And thank you for the plonk, as well. I was going to suggest opening it this afternoon, but if it’s as bad as you say, perhaps that wouldn’t be such a good idea.”

“Not if you value your stomach lining.”

“In that case I’ll save it for someone I dislike.” Zeppo, perhaps. I hesitated, awkwardly. “How are you feeling now?” I felt I had to ask.