Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

I carried on all the way down the bar and straight out the street door, much to the confusion of the waiter. I needed a drink, but definitely not in the Dorchester cocktail bar. I crossed the forecourt and headed round the corner to the tall redbrick building that houses the University Women’s Club. It’s the only women-only members club in the country and it’s my haven in central London. I first joined when I moved there and needed somewhere other than my horrible flat in Stepney to have meetings. Maggie recommended it and I was nervous at the thought of posh women with grand voices and even grander degrees looking down on me. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. I warmed to it the first time I crossed the threshold and it’s been my home from home in London ever since.

As soon as I walked in, I could feel my shoulders dropping in relief. I found a quiet corner and subsided in a comfortable wing chair with a Pimm’s. The first welcome mouthful did the trick of calming me down. Bloody hell. Had I seen what I thought I had? Was that really a secret romantic tryst? Surely not. How could Simon be stupid enough to become entangled with a patient? And if they were an item, how crazy was it to be making eyes at each other in a public place? Even somewhere as discreet as the private area of the Dorchester bar? Especially after everything she’d said about the eyes and ears of the media upon her.

Which indicated that, whatever I thought I’d seen, I’d been mistaken. It was nothing more than two friends having a quiet drink together, enjoying each other’s company. I was her dinner date, after all. It wasn’t like they were making a night of it. What was wrong with me? Was I jealous of Scarlett having other friends? How old was I, for heaven’s sake?

I took my time over my drink, then headed back to the hotel, walking into the restaurant precisely on time. Scarlett was already at the table, waving to me as I approached. She stood up to hug me in a waft of Scarlett Smile. ‘Great to see you, you look fab, is that a new dress?’ It came out in a rush and we both burst out laughing. ‘Anyone would think we hadn’t seen each other for months,’ she said, settling back into her seat. ‘Speaking of not seeing people for ages, guess who I just ran into?’

I shook my head, feeling irrationally relieved. ‘No idea. That dishy cop?’

‘Nick the Greek? You’re blushing, Steph. You totally need to get stuck in there, girl. Give him a call.’

‘I don’t think so. Come on then, tell me who you bumped into.’

‘Simon. Simon Graham. He was coming out as I was coming in, we chased each other round the revolving doors a couple of times. The doormen looked totally offended. Like, you don’t do that kind of thing here.’ She giggled. ‘Anyway, he had time for a quick drink. I tried to persuade him to stay and have dinner with us, but he’s meeting friends.’

‘Small world.’

‘Yeah. Six degrees of Kevin Bacon. It was nice to see him. When Simon says you’re looking well, it really means something. Know what I mean?’ She suddenly softened and I saw a reflection of the fear she always carried with her after her diagnosis.

But the moment passed, as did my misplaced jealousy of Simon. It was a good night, the first of many over the next few months. We’d meet in town or I’d go over to the hacienda and stay overnight. A couple of times she brought Jimmy down to Brighton and we had a typically English day at the seaside. She talked about her colleagues on the TV show, the people she was working with on her merchandising, Georgie and his team, Leanne in Spain and, of course, Jimmy. Choosing a school for him was high on her list of priorities and I lost count of the number of prospectuses and websites we looked at. But Simon never came up in conversation again.

The only time I ran into him after that was at Scarlett’s birthday party. Although she’d pretty much given up on the club scene, and in spite of her regular fulminations against the vile tabloid media, she understood that she still had to make her presence felt in the red-tops. So her birthday bash was in a new triple-decker bar on the South Bank with amazing views of the river from the roof terrace. As usual at Scarlett’s shindigs, I knew almost nobody except the journos, and I wasn’t in the mood for them that night. I found George leaning on the balustrade looking out at the river and the crowds walking past towards the South Bank complex and the London Eye. The music pulsed around us, quieter than it was on the dance floor below, but a presence nonetheless. ‘Lovely evening for it,’ George said.

‘Perfect venue,’ I agreed.

We stood in companionable silence for a bit, then he said, ‘You’ve been terrifically good for her, Stephanie. She’s a much improved piece of merchandise since you got your hands on her.’

‘You are dreadful, Georgie.’

‘It’s the truth, sweetie. Look around you. At least half of the people here are perfectly respectable. Most of us have never been on reality TV. Our ugly duckling has turned into a swan, I rather think.’

‘It’s all been her own doing.’

Before George could say more, Simon Graham moved alongside me. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he said, both hands on the stem of his glass in an anxious posture. He gave a quick, nervy smile. ‘I don’t know anybody else here,’ he added, throwing himself on our mercy.

‘Neither do we,’ George said.

‘Liar, half of them are your clients,’ I said.

‘That doesn’t mean I want to engage socially with them, Stephanie. I fear that I no longer number among the bright young things.’

‘I never did, Georgie.’ I smiled at Simon. ‘You’re welcome to hang out with the boring old farts, even though you are clearly not one of us.’ And in truth, he did look more of a piece with the other guests than us in his low-slung jeans and body-hugging black satin shirt.

Still, he stayed and we made genial, forgettable conversation about this and that for quarter of an hour or so, then Simon’s phone beeped. He dipped two long fingers into his tight pocket and pulled it free, then frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. Work, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s a pity,’ George said politely.

He gave a half-shrug. ‘Goes with the territory. Nice to see you both again.’ And he was off, weaving through the dancers and the drinkers and the talkers.

‘He seems like a nice bloke,’ I said.

‘If a little dull.’

‘There are worse things than dull.’

‘Indeed, Stephanie. And I suspect both of us have had rather too much of them. Personally, I think dull rather a fine quality in a doctor. It suggests a devotion to his work which always inspires confidence.’

‘Obviously worked on Scarlett,’ I said.

George raised his eyebrows in an arch expression. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Only that she invited him to her party.’

George chuckled. ‘I think she invited the entire contents of her phone contact list to her party.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Are you staying in town tonight?’

‘I’ve got a room at my club.’

Now his smile was wholehearted. ‘How very splendid. The University Women’s, I assume? Are you ready to let me drop you off on my way back to Chelsea?’

I was ready. Maybe if there had been a handsome copper around, I’d have contemplated dancing till dawn. But I was

out of luck on that score. Clearly his number hadn’t made it into Scarlett’s phone memory. We skirted the crowd, looking for Scarlett, fighting against the press of bodies and the growing volume of the music.

We found her near the top of the stairs leading to the dance floor, vaguely gyrating with a couple of fashion models. ‘We’re off,’ I said. ‘Great party.’

‘Really?’