Nicci French - The Memory Game

‘There’s no wheelchair access, Jane.’

‘The issue was never really raised,’ I replied, incredibly feebly, but it was Monday morning and I was feeling self-conscious in front of my niece.

‘I’m raising it now.’

I needed to go away and think this through but it didn’t seem possible.

‘As far as the brief went, this is a hostel where highly independent recently discharged people can stay briefly with light supervision. I agree, Carolyn, that ideally every building should have full wheelchair access but with my alterations this is now a narrow four-storey house. Surely it would be better if wheelchair-bound patients, or, indeed, employees, were directed to premises that would be more suitable.’

The two women exchanged glances. They looked ironic, contemptuous. Pandora was clearly not on my side, but she was obviously happy to leave the talking to Carolyn.

‘Jane,’ Carolyn said, ‘I didn’t come here to debate disabled politics on the pavement. And I’m not bargaining. I’m simply here to make sure you understand the council’s policy on access in new buildings. You should have been told about this already.’

‘What needs doing?’ I asked wearily. ‘I mean specifically.’

‘I’d show you myself if I could get into the premises,’ said Carolyn icily. ‘You’ll have to arrange an appointment with another member of my department.’

‘Who funds the extra equipment?’

‘Who funds the fire escape, Jane?’ Carolyn asked sarcastically. ‘Who funds the double-glazing?’

I felt a small stab of rage at her unfairness.

‘If I were Miës van der Rohe, you wouldn’t be forcing me to put ramps across every angle.’

‘I would if he were designing a building in this borough,’ said Carolyn.

‘Who’s Miës van der thingy?’ asked Emily, when we were back in the car.

‘He’s probably the main reason I became an architect. His buildings were based on complete mathematical clarity, straight lines, metal and glass. His greatest building was for an exhibition in Barcelona in the twenties. The building was so pure in form that Miës wouldn’t even allow a wall where pictures could be hung because that would have violated its perfection.’

‘That’s not much good for an exhibition,’ Emily protested.

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t think he would have had any more success with this hostel than I have. When I went into architecture, we still thought it might be a way of transforming people’s lives. That doesn’t seem particularly fashionable at the moment.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I think I’m too old to retrain as a civil liberties lawyer.’

‘No, I mean with the hostel.’

‘Oh, the usual. Put some things in, take some things out. Lose a little bit more of my original inspiration. I haven’t lost hope entirely. Slashing my budget is partly their way of showing that they still intend this hostel to get built.’

We drove back to my office and I introduced Emily to Duncan and he showed her how to move his drawing board up and down. I dictated a couple of letters which it would have been quicker to type myself. We made coffee and I told Emily a bit about the profession and what I could remember of the training and we gossiped and then I drove her back to Kentish Town a little after lunch. I went in with her and had a cup of coffee with Peggy. She was always worried about things. She was worried about Paul’s documentary, with which she was refusing to have anything at all to do. She was worried about Martha, and I couldn’t think of anything to say about that. She was worried about Alan making a complete fool of himself, but I told her that that wasn’t worth bothering about. And she was even a little worried about me. Paul had told her about my therapy and she wanted to discuss it with me.

‘As you know, I had years of therapy after Paul walked out,’ she told me. ‘After about two years, I plucked up courage and looked around and my analyst was asleep.’

‘Yes, you’ve told me about that, Peggy,’ I said. ‘I think it’s quite common.’

‘It was a waste of money all the same. I decided that pills would be cheaper and more convenient. I was prescribed Prozac, I got through my crisis and I took the girls to Kos. I worked out that the holiday cost less than three months’ therapy. Admittedly, when I was there I felt that I’d need about three years’ therapy to recover, the way that the girls behaved with all those waiters buzzing around them like bees round a honey pot.’

‘What are you saying, Peggy? Do you think I’m wasting my time?’

‘No, it’s just that I suppose I’m surprised. You were always the strong one. Also, now you mustn’t get offended by this, I don’t understand what you’re doing. You were the one who suddenly decided to break up with Claud. He was shattered, he’s desperate about it. Now you’re feeling bad about it and looking for help. Not only that, Paul tells me you’re going around stirring things up about Natalie. I don’t understand what you’re doing, Jane, I really don’t.’

I felt an acid ache of rage in my stomach and I wanted to shout at Peggy or hit her but I’ve never been any good at Mediterranean displays of emotion, much as I’ve always envied them. And I felt that Peggy was right, in a way. I responded with icy calm.

‘Maybe I don’t understand what I’m doing myself, Peggy. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to find out.’

The cocktail glass in the freezer, and the jug and the spoon. The gin of course should be there for at least a couple of days so that it pours viscous. For that reason, something like Gordon’s Export Gin, the one with the yellow label that you get in duty free, is essential. Anything weaker, like the Gordon’s domestic in the green bottle, and it will freeze, defeating the point. A few drops, perhaps a teaspoon, not more, of dry vermouth, then a slosh of gin into the jug which is so cold you can scarcely hold the handle. The briefest of stirs. A fat slice of lemon peel, twisted to release some of the oil, into the frosty glass, then submerge it in the harsh, icy liquid. If there is any liquid left in the jug, it can be returned to the freezer for the second glass.

Later that evening I snapped the polythene off a new packet of cigarettes and rinsed the ashtray in the sink. I opened a tin of black olives and tipped them into a small ramekin. They were pitted. I didn’t want to have to concentrate on anything this evening. I took them, along with my dry martini, so cold that it seemed to be steaming like a witch’s potion, and sat in front of the television. I switched it to a channel at random and watched without paying attention.

The drink took effect almost from the first sip and a pleasant numb sensation sank through me. I do some of my best thinking while sitting in the audience at an orchestral concert or wandering round a gallery ostensibly looking at pictures or, as here, half drunk, half watching a TV programme. I had been shaken by what Peggy had said. I am a person who likes to be visibly in the right, I really want to do the right thing, and I realised that I must seem – to Peggy and others – like a person self-indulgently doing the wrong thing. I was relying on Duncan ’s good nature when I neglected my work. I was relying on my sessions with Alex Dermot-Brown to relieve me of the responsibility for the decision I had made. I was carrying out some halfbaked investigation into the Martello family… Why? As revenge? I had things to do, and there were things I was looking for. But I didn’t know what they were. Would it be better to drop it all and return to my life and make a go of it there with the stoicism that I’d always prided myself on?

I went to the freezer and emptied the remains of the drink into my glass, which was now wet and warm. I stopped thinking and the television programme began to take shape, like a picture coming into focus. A woman – rather striking, except that her eyebrows were drawn too fine – was talking about the family as the basis of society.