works at Peggy Guggenheim’s palazzo in Venice. A couple of interesting things, apparently.’
‘I see.’
‘So why did you call? I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.’
‘No – that’s not – I do. I do. I spoke to Cynthia. She said you’ve been miserable.’
There was quiet on the line. ‘I was miserable.’
‘You’re not miserable any more?’
He was silent again. ‘I shouldn’t have rushed in like that,’ he said.
‘No, it’s fine – I mean—’
‘I won’t ever say what I said to you again.’
‘I see.’
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘I don’t really know what I want you to say, or not say,’ I admitted. ‘I just know that when I heard you were miserable, that made me sad. And I realized I’d been miserable too. And I was wondering whether it might be a bit easier – if we were miserable together.’
Quiet on the line again. ‘Are you – asking me on a date, Odelle?’
I didn’t – couldn’t – say anything. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything,’ Lawrie went on. ‘Thank you. Let me just check my diary – oh, no need. I’m free.’
A pleasurable warmth spread through my stomach and I couldn’t hide the smile in my voice. ‘Convenient,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Now, where would you like to meet?’
13
We met early the next morning, as early as we could, in the middle of Skelton Square, before I started work and Lawrie went in to see Reede. He was clutching a bottle of champagne. ‘For your first published story,’ he said, handing it over. ‘That’s vintage, you know. Sorry about the dust. Nicked it from the house.’
‘Gosh, thank you.’
‘Actually . . . I knew about the London Review.’
‘What?’
‘We do take modern periodicals in Surrey, you know. I read it.’ He looked down at his shoes. ‘It was just brilliant.’
‘Shut up.’ I took the bottle, my head about to explode with pleasure. I read the label: Veuve Clicquot. ‘Lawrie, can we start again?’ I said.
He sighed. ‘I don’t know if that’s possible.’
I sat down on the bench, trying to bat away my despondence. I was so sure he’d say yes. He was here, wasn’t he? ‘I suppose not,’ I said, looking up at him.
‘You could hit me over the head with that champagne bottle,’ he suggested.
‘What?’
‘Knock the memories out of me. But then I’d lose the first time I saw you, reading that poem. Or the first time I spoke to you; those yellow rubber gloves. Or the way you pretended to like the Bond film, your nose all wrinkled up. Or when you out-danced me at the Flamingo and the manager offered you a job, or when you told me about that idiot in the shoe shop. Or when we had that shepherd’s pie, and I messed everything up. It’s all part of it, Odelle. It’s not going to be perfect. Personally, I don’t want it to be. I’d go through that horrible drive up the A3 again, just for the sweetness of hearing your voice after so long. I wouldn’t change any of it. I don’t want to start again, because that would make me lose memories of you.’
I couldn’t say anything for a moment. Lawrie sat down next to me and I felt the warm solidity of his body. I took a deep breath. ‘I – get scared,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how else to explain it. I get feelings that I’m lost, that I’m no good, that if someone likes me there must be something wrong with them.’
‘But why?’
‘Well, if I knew that, Lawrie . . . and when I met you, I told you things I’d never told anyone. Then you swept in with your declaration that you loved me, and – well – it felt like you were filling out a form, obeying some pattern.’
‘A pattern?’
‘Of what people do, what they think they’re supposed to say.’
‘No one tells me what to say.’
‘But I also realized I didn’t want you not to say it. I just wanted you to say it – when I wanted to hear it.’
He laughed. ‘You really are a writer, aren’t you? All right. How about, whenever I feel that I might be about to say I’ve fallen in love with you, or that I love you, or that you’re wonderful, we agree on a sign that such a declaration is coming – and you recognize the sign, and give me the go ahead or not as to whether I can say it.’
‘You make me sound mad.’
‘I’m joking.