Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

When she stood up and crossed the room, I watched as the flesh of her moved. Legs, arms, breasts. There seemed a heavy, bovine quality about her that I wondered how I could have missed before. Suddenly, I could see her mother waiting behind the youthful facade, could detect the sagging fleshiness of the woman she would become. She turned and saw me watching her, and smiled. Her mouth stretched, and I remembered how it had slobbered over Zeppo. It struck me that it was too large for her face. Her lips were too wide, almost rubbery. I smiled back.

The anxiety I had felt about seeing her again faded. I wondered why I should have been so bothered. She was just a girl. Only her persistent intimacy prevented me from withdrawing into my old, now attractive isolation. It was a nuisance, but I was soon able to respond mechanically, without being touched by it. Even her frequent references to Zeppo left me unmoved. Like her, he belonged to the past. And that was something I chose not to dwell on.

“Have you had a postcard from him yet?” she asked one day.

“No.” Then, because I felt obliged to, I added, “Have you?”

She tried to sound casual. “No. I expect he’s been too busy. Or it’ll arrive after he gets back.”

“I expect so.”

Later, she said, “Donald, is everything all right?”

“Of course it is? Why?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I just wondered. You just seem a bit... I don’t know. Distant, lately.”

“Do I? I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“No. Thank you.” On impulse, I added, “One or two little financial problems. That’s all.”

She looked worried. “Bad?”

“Well... let’s see what happens, shall we?” I gave a brisk smile, and moved away. I felt a small grain of self-congratulation. I had prepared the ground. Now, if I decided to, I could always take it further. She was only an assistant, after all. There had been others before her. There would be others after.

One day she came up to me with a bright smile on her face. “Guess what? A friend of mine’s started work at the Barbican, and she can get us complimentary tickets for the Russian ballet this Saturday! If you can make it, of course.”

I looked disappointed. “This Saturday? Oh, I’d love to, but I’ve already arranged something.”

“Oh. Oh, well, never mind.” She smiled and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I just thought you might like to go.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

I waited one more week before I called Charles Dryden.

“Good to hear from you,” he said. “Are you buying or selling?”

“Buying,” I answered.