Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

The girl pushes the duvet away a little. She still has on her sweatshirt and jeans, and her other clothes remain in a neat pile on the floor beneath the window. She should go now, he knows this, but it is already dark outside and the idea of her tramping off to some hostel is too depressing. He can open a bottle of wine and sit with her in the living room, and maybe they can even watch a DVD. It will be better for her to leave in the morning, and by then she might have had the decency to tell him just what the hell is going on instead of teasing him with these half-snippets of carefully calibrated anxiety about this boy Rolf.

‘Listen, Danuta, you can stay here tonight, but in the morning I think you should probably go. I’ve got things that I have to attend to. To be honest, it’s not a good time for me at the moment.’

‘You want me to leave in the morning?’

He can hear a mixture of hurt and anger in her voice, so he decides to think carefully about how he is going to phrase his response.

‘Look, here’s the thing.’ He pauses. ‘The longer you stay, the more complicated it will be for you.’

‘So you are thinking of me?’

‘Yes, I’m thinking of you, but I am thinking of me too.’

‘I would like to get dressed now.’ He looks down at her, but she will not look up and meet his eyes. ‘Please, I need to get dressed.’

He stares into the bathroom mirror and then cups his palms together and splashes cold water into his face. It shouldn’t take her too long to get dressed, and he has decided that once she has done so, and is ready to leave, the best course of action will be to give her the minicab fare and offer to pay for her first night at the hostel. He imagines a somewhat gloomy dormitory room, full of unwashed European and Australian backpackers, a place where the urge to sleep is not as powerful as the desire to stay awake and keep an eye on one’s possessions. He knows that he is doing the right thing, and given her rapid descent into angry silence, she would clearly have only become more irritating with each passing hour. Maybe he should suggest accompanying her to the hostel and checking her in, and then perhaps taking her out to see a film? If there’s time afterwards, they might even have a drink together and then he can walk her back to her place. As annoying as she is being, he has no desire for things between them to end on a bad note. As he buries his face in a clean towel he hears the door to his flat slam shut, and then the thumping of feet bounding downstairs. He waits a moment and is then jolted by the crash of the front door, which is followed by a vacuum of ominous silence. He tosses the towel over the side of the bathtub. She has gone. The problem is solved, and he knows that she will not come back and ask him for any help. She has gone.

He is not sure what is happening. He reaches out a hand and presses the button on the front of the digital alarm clock, but the ringing continues. Then he realises that he has left his mobile phone in the living room. He looks at the dimpled white ceiling and waits for the voicemail to pick up. The sudden storm is over and he now rolls on to his side and stares at the wall. Today he will try and do some more work on the book, but he knows that he should soon make up his mind and decide whether to try and get a publisher involved, or maybe even an agent. The truth is, he has been avoiding rejection, but he understands that he needs to put his ego to one side and get some proper feedback and professional advice otherwise the whole thing is in danger of becoming little more than a time-consuming vanity project. The phone starts to ring again and this time he leaps from his bed and dashes into the living room. Somebody is obviously keen to speak with him.

He doesn’t recognise the slightly shrill voice, but he decides to buy a little time and pretend that it is a bad connection. He asks the woman to repeat herself.

‘It’s Lesley. Can you hear me now?’

‘Yes, I can hear you. I’m sorry. I think I need a new phone.’

‘I left you a message. Just a few minutes ago. You didn’t pick up.’

‘I was in the shower so I didn’t hear the phone, and I haven’t checked the messages. What’s going on?’

He tries to sound as casual as possible, but he wants to know how she has managed to get hold of his mobile number. Perhaps Clive Wilson, or one of the researchers, passed it on.

‘I need to talk to you, Keith.’

‘Okay, but I don’t have a land line to call you back on. Is this clear enough?’

‘No, I need to talk to you face to face. In person. Now.’

He can hear the urgency in her voice, and he realises that she is panicking.

‘Do you want to come round here?’ The line goes silent, as though the call has been dropped. ‘Are you still there?’

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea. Do you know the Starbucks by the Bingo Hall? Across the road from the bus depot.’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ll see you there in half an hour, but it’s probably best if nobody knows we’re meeting.’

‘It’s okay, I haven’t got you on speakerphone. Do you want me to wear a disguise?’

‘Trust me, this really isn’t the time for jokes, Keith. I’m trying to help you, okay?’

‘Trying to help me?’

‘I’ll see you in half an hour, okay? Bye.’

He closes the phone and then immediately finds the charger and plugs it in. If he leaves in ten minutes, and walks quickly, he can get there in time. He rushes into the bathroom, where he stares at himself in the mirror. It is not good. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, and he needs to shave, but it could be worse. At least the girl left. He turns on the shower, and while the water heats up he speed-brushes his teeth. He looks again in the mirror. There is going to be no time to shave. Everything else he can manage.

He sees her through the huge pane of glass. She is sitting at a window table with two cups in front of her and idly fidgeting with the string of pearls that she often wears. Then she sees him and her face momentarily brightens as though she is relieved that he has turned up. He’s late, he knows this, but only by five minutes or so. As he slides into the chair opposite her, she places a large paper cup in front of him.

‘I didn’t put any milk or sugar in. I don’t really know how you take it.’

‘Thanks. It’s fine as it is.’

She looks worried, but good. Younger, actually, and he wonders if it’s her clothes, or if she has cut her hair. He has never been very good at figuring out whatever it is that older women do to themselves when they change their appearance, but from experience he knows that it is generally best to say nothing.

‘Look,’ she begins, ‘I can’t stay long, but I do want to have a quick word with you. Something’s been bothering me.’

‘Is it about us? I’ve never told anyone, apart from Annabelle, so you don’t have to worry on that score. I’m just sorry that things didn’t work out.’

‘“Things didn’t work out”? Are you taking the piss, Keith? You didn’t want to know, or did I miss something?’

‘It wasn’t that straightforward.’

‘No, I’m sure in your head it wasn’t straightforward. Somewhat convenient, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I wouldn’t really describe it as convenient. It did break up my marriage.’

She shakes her head in exasperation, and he realises that he had better offer an olive branch of some sort.

‘Look, I’m sorry if I caused you any distress. What else can I say?’

‘Let’s just drop it, okay. I haven’t come here to talk about us, or about the past. It’s not my place to offer you advice, but I think you should seriously consider resigning. That way you’ll at least keep your pension.’