Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

And I had to admit I'd become addicted to the idea of Robert, as well. I caught myself feeling outrage on his behalf as lesser mortals rejected his offerings. What had he been like? What about his hopes and fears? I'd formed my own theories, of course, but there were gaping holes. Perhaps this latest letter would fill them in.

I took a quick look around, though by now my ears had become attuned to the early morning sounds of the house, and it was obvious no one was coming. I picked up the envelope and slid it down, as far as it would go, into the pocket of my dressing-gown.

As I was going back upstairs, Sophie's door opened.

'Any post?' she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

I felt like a sales assistant who'd been caught with her fingers in the till. 'Couple of things for you, I think.'

Sophie peered at me sleepily, but there were faint creases of amusement around her eyes, as though she knew exactly what I'd been up to, and wanted me to know she knew.

'Any letters for Robert? ' she murmured and slipped past me, carrying on down the stairs without waiting for a reply. I fled up to the sanctuary of my flat. Did she know? How could she know? Still trembling, I made myself a cup of Earl Grey and sat down by the window, putting my feet up on the table.

I slit the envelope open.

Dear Robert,

Much as I'd like never to hear from you again, I feel I must remind you I still have several of your notebooks, the third draft of your unpublished novel, your fancy French edition of Edgar Allan Poe, and that wretched sheep skull you picked up on Dartmoor.

I realize these things probably have some sort of warped sentimental value for you, and so conscience prevents me from consigning them to the dustbin where they belong, though serve you right if I did, because you've never shown any such consideration to me or the things I value. Anyway, you know perfectly well what my feelings are, so perhaps you could arrange for someone to collect them. I would rather you didn't come in person, as I really have no desire to see you again.

If I don't hear from you within two weeks, I shall donate the Poe to Oxfam and bin the rest.

Adios, creep

Polly

I'd hit paydirt. Not only was there an address at the top of the notepaper; there was also a phone number. Not for the first time, I wished I'd gone to the trouble of having a telephone installed; leaving the flat to make calls was becoming more and more of a chore. But later that morning, I nipped out to buy a phonecard from the newsagent's and installed myself in the BT booth by the church.

After about the sixth or seventh ring, someone answered. A woman's voice said, quite peevishly, 'What?'

I asked to speak to Polly.

'You've got a wrong number.'

'Oh,' I said, 'I'm…'

'Hang on…'

I hung on. My ear was tickled by a distant buzzing at the other end of the line. While I waited, I read the suggestive stickers plastered all over the Perspex booth. ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE. IF IT'S PAIN YOU WANT, IT'S AGONY YOU'LL GET. THE GATES OF HELL ARE NOW OPEN.

I stood there, wondering why no one went in for simple pleasures any more, with the gathering conviction that someone was standing right behind me, staring with gimlet eyes at the back of my neck.

I turned to look, but of course there was no one there. There never was anyone there.

I was about to hang up and retreat to the safety of my flat when the voice at the other end of the line said, 'There used to be a Polly, years ago, but she didn't leave her new number, oh, apparently she did… but it was a long time ago and, uh, apparently we've lost it.'

'Thanks anyway,' I said, feeling almost relieved.

'Hang on,' said the woman.

I hung on again, and listened to the sound of strange subterranean creatures shifting deep within the bowels of the telephone system; it reminded me of the darkness at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Again, I had the eerie sensation of being watched. I shuffled my feet, anxious for the call to come to an end so I could retreat to a less exposed location.

The woman had placed one hand over the mouthpiece, but sloppily, so that parts of the brief discussion she was having with her companion kept breaking through.

'Omigod,' she was saying. 'What happened?'

My ears picked out the word 'blood'.

I felt a cold draught on the back of my neck.

I was about to hang up when the woman at the other end of the line started to speak again, in a stop-start fashion, as someone dictated information to her. 'She used to work… a photographic darkroom… Gravesend?… No, somewhere off the Gray's Inn Road.'

I asked if Polly was a photographer.

'A secretary,' the woman said.

'You mentioned something about blood.'

'She made a complete recovery,' the woman said, and hung up before I had a chance to ask from what.

A few days later, I had to go to Covent Garden to drop off the latest batch of step-by-steps. These days, it took a real effort for me to venture outside Notting Hill. W11 was fast getting to be the only place where I felt secure, but I made it across town with only one or two unpleasant sensations and afterwards managed to hop almost lightheartedly on to a number 38 bus. I got off at Gray's Inn Road, and armed with the address I'd found in Yellow Pages, detoured beneath a bridge.

The first spots of rain were spattering down as I entered Devo's. The air reeked of artificial pine air-freshener. A curly headed man was stuffing strips of negatives into translucent envelopes. 'Polly Wilson? She stopped working here years ago. Had to, really, after what she did. Oh, and by the way, it's no smoking in here.'

I had no intention of smoking, but instead of objecting to his high-handed manner, I asked, 'What did she do?'

'You don't know?'

'Haven't seen her in years,' I said.

He looked pensive. 'Maybe she'd better do the explaining.'

'Where does she live now?'

'Haven't a clue.'

This was useless. I have up and turned to leave. As I opened the door, Curlytop shouted something after me, but his words were drowned out by the rumble of a passing van. I looked back. 'What?'

'She opened a bicycle shop with the insurance.'

'A bicycle shop?'

'Yeah, I remember now,' said Curlytop, nodding slowly to himself. 'Because bikes was the last thing in the world you'd have expected her to go in for. Considering what she did.'

'What did she do?' I tried again, but he wasn't going to be drawn any further. 'Can you remember where the shop was?'

He scratched his head. 'Somewhere around King's Road? If it's still there. Probably gone belly-up in the recession.'

'Well,' I said, 'thanks.' I made a vague resolution to keep my eyes peeled for bicycle shops next time I was in the King's Road, but it didn't sound too promising a lead.

'Cycles , the shop was called. That I do remember.'

'Oh, very imaginative,' I said, and was stepping back out into the street, when Curly said something that had me glancing over my shoulder all the way back to W11.

'Didn't take any bloody notice, did he, that friend of yours,' he grumbled. 'I told him there was no smoking in here.'

Sweet little Ann-Marie met a super bloke in a coffee-bar. She was dressed in her best skinny-rib and her most bum-skimming mini and her kinkiest, slinkiest boots in white patent leather with fake ermine trim. The super bloke was wearing a turtle-necked sweater and flared velveteen hipsters and his name was Gordon. She told him she was up on a day-trip from Purley, and they exchanged sun signs, and he asked her if she'd ever considered becoming a model, and then he let slip, not altogether accidentally, that he was manager of a trendy pop group called the Drunken Boats.