The Last Voice You Hear (11 page)

‘Speaking of which,’ she said. She retrieved the bag of light bulbs, and emptied it on to the table.

‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘I’d been meaning to get some myself,’ and for the first time he smiled, and Zoë saw that his ordinariness – the pancake mask his features seemed ready to settle into – could vanish as smoothly as if a switch had been thrown.

They roamed the flat, replacing bulbs that didn’t work. It didn’t feel like kindness once the lights were on; more an act of exposure, training light on to corners best hidden. Zoë remembered the scrum of reporters on Severn Street, their cameras aimed like torches. Meanwhile, here in the flat, surprising amounts of dust swam upwards, as if magnetism were involved. And in the old man’s room, he lay fully clothed on the bed; the smell of used alcohol tainted the air, along with others she didn’t want to dwell on. When she closed the door, he didn’t stir.

In the kitchen, Chris was washing up. ‘It doesn’t matter how long they’ve been on their own,’ he said. ‘The ones who had wives. They still expect a woman to turn up any time, to clear away.’

‘Do you do a lot of this?’

‘No. The bare minimum, to keep my conscience quiet.’

It seemed like he’d accepted her; he was easier now.

‘I didn’t realize he was a drinker.’

‘He’s not, much. Couple of glasses, he’s away with the pixies.’

‘Did you bring it?’

‘Bring what?’

‘The bottle.’

He flushed. ‘You think I’d do that? Go round supplying booze to frail old men?’

‘Possibly. I don’t know you.’

‘Well . . . Well then stuff you, all right?’

‘I didn’t say I thought it was a bad idea.’

He was shaking his head. ‘You’re kind of weird, you know that?’

‘I think of myself as normal. I suppose most people do.’

She took her cigarettes out, and he said, ‘I don’t think you should smoke in here.’

‘What do you do for a living, Chris?’

‘Is that your business?’

‘No.’ She put the cigarettes away. ‘Do you think he’s all right?’

‘You were just there.’

‘Still . . .’

‘He doesn’t need strapping in.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. If he rolls off the bed and breaks his neck, though, I don’t want to be the one tells his daughter.’

Chris said, ‘If it makes you any happier, I’ll go and check, all right?’

As soon as he’d gone, she unmagneted the note stuck to the fridge she’d not noticed earlier and pocketed it. He was back immediately: ‘Sleeping like a baby.’

‘Did you know Wensley?’

‘. . . No.’

‘He used to call here.’

‘I’m sure he did. I don’t visit to a regular schedule, is that all right with you?’

‘I think we got off on the wrong foot, Chris.’

‘You tried to break my face.’

‘No. I almost tried.’

He said, ‘You’re probably a nice lady underneath. I mean, you brought him a TV and all. If you didn’t think you were Roy Keane, we might get along.’

Chris might not be the pushover he appeared, she decided.

She left him to it, and on the drive back home half-managed to convince herself that that was a line drawn, a chapter closed; that the Deepman story was separate and different, and her own job clearly defined. But she couldn’t quite banish the old man’s words –
You speak English? Why
they reckon he did it –
and the second set of lights she stopped at, she fished the swiped note from her pocket, and transferred it to her wallet.

A name – just ‘Chris’ – and a mobile number. Just in case.

iv

That evening she felt restless; animated, but not in a good way. Animated like one of those East European cartoons, where the figures jerk and the background never changes. She ate standing up, brushed her teeth and headed for town. The bars on George Street had big glass frontages, and from outside might have been broadcasting wide-screen footage of a good time happening elsewhere. She drank a large glass of white wine in one, then moved next door and ordered another, and lit a cigarette while waiting. When it came, it was already paid for.

‘Gentleman down the far end,’ said the bartender.

Something about
gentleman
in a Geordie accent made it a slur.

It took a second to place the gentleman in question – she’d not noticed him on arrival. He’d been on yesterday’s trains, wearing an aubergine top and a rueful grin; had offered her his seat on the journey back. He was dressier now: jacket and tie; the jacket urban khaki, as if he were a hunter of some sort. Well, that figured. Zoë nodded, then he disappeared from view behind a crowd of young excitables.

She was glad she’d ordered a large glass.

There were only so many directions once you’d ruled one out. She could study the Cunard posters on the walls, or just stare into the mirror behind the bar – one of those mirrors that didn’t tell a true story. It made Zoë younger, somehow. This would be the effect of distance: the mirror you can’t get close to is the mirror that likes you best. This one had erased some living, and it was a curiously smoother Zoë looking back at her. The kind of Zoë this Zoë should probably take under her wing; drop a few hints about situations best avoided. What struck her, though, was what they had in common: the dark tight crop of curls; the darker eyes giving nothing away.

‘You managed to find a seat this time, I see.’

(He’d worked his line out, then.)

‘Only there are tables back there, if you’d prefer.’

‘I’m good.’ She hesitated. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

‘You’re welcome. You weren’t on the train today.’

‘It was a one-off,’ said Zoë.

He was a little old for the bar, which made Zoë beyond redemption. But the difference was – Zoë Boehm thought this – he was hoping no one would notice, while she didn’t give a damn. Even in the mirror, he was late twenties. Allow him the light and some high maintenance, he’d be mid-thirties, still ten years too young.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

She shrugged.

The crowd had dissipated or moved elsewhere. Jay Harper took the stool next to her, explaining that he’d been Jamie until that TV chef took off, and then rebranded because he ‘wasn’t what people expected a Jamie to be any more.’ Zoë nodded, wondering how many times he’d said that; wondering, also, what people expected a ‘Jamie’ to be, and what kind of grown man worried about such things, and changed his name so easily, as if slipping from one identity to the next. He helped her out on this by filling in background detail; polished enough that he could have released it as a single. She took in the outline – PPE, job in the City, long-term relationship foundering on the twin issues of children and marriage – while fleshing it out with observations of her own: he wasn’t a real drinker; he had a good dentist; and his tousled hair was tousled the way a cobweb was an accident. There were bald spaces there; not huge, but to a used-to-be-Jamie, they probably shone pillar-box red.

‘And what about you, Zoë? Was it business took you to London?’

‘That’s right.’ But she didn’t want him pursuing that topic: some people got antsy when her line of work was revealed. Joe, glibly, had used to say this was because everyone had something to hide. Zoë felt it had more to do with justifiable distrust of the secret-hunters.

She bought another round. Not a real drinker, he had something with Coke in it. The last sticky half-inch of his previous stood abandoned on the counter.

‘This is probably not a sentence that should pass my lips,’ he said, ‘but do you come here often?’

‘It’s my first time.’

‘Bit superficial, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure what a genuine supercruiser’s wet bar looks like.’

‘Good one.’ He touched the knot of his tie briefly. His fingers were surprisingly worn. She wondered if he gardened, or dug an allotment, and with a sudden wave of weariness wished he did, and would talk about it. Instead of this tired ritual. She should get up and leave, but didn’t. ‘Gets busy later, so I’m told. All the thirtysomething lonely hearts, looking for love in all the wrong places.’

She said, ‘So where would the right place be?’

‘Wish they knew.’ He placed his glass on the counter, and Zoë heard the ice ring. ‘Do you know what the collective noun is? A
desperation
.’

‘That’s kind of cold.’

‘I don’t mean to be. But something’s going on, more than just the biological time bomb. Something almost . . . feral. It’s like the last-chance saloon, you know? A man could announce he was clean and single and get damaged in the rush.’

‘Nice for you.’

‘I’m just saying that’s what it’s like. It’s a sad indictment of our society, if you ask me, and I’m sure there are plenty men taking advantage. Me, I’m just making an observation.’

Zoë said, ‘I’ve often thought, the downside of those Bridget Jones books is men read them and think they’ve learned something about women.’

‘You’re not a man-hater, are you?’

‘I pick my hatreds carefully, Jay. I wouldn’t waste one on a whole gender.’

‘Well, I’m not talking about all women either. I’m talking about the ones, they’re single, they’re looking at forty, they come to places like this, they might as well be carrying neon signs.’

‘What did you have in mind when you bought me that drink, Jay?’

‘You don’t think I’m classing you with them, do you?’

She didn’t reply.

‘You’re an interesting-looking woman.’

Zoë nodded thoughtfully; swirled her glass. There was a hint of debris in her wine, settling at the bottom.

‘That was a compliment.’

‘I could tell.’

‘You’re not strung too high, are you, Zoë? I like that in a woman.’

She said, ‘When I hear a phrase like that . . .’

‘Sorry.’

‘. . . I start wondering which decade I wandered into.’ She finished her drink. ‘You’re probably a nice guy, Jay, but somehow I don’t think our future’s written in the stars.’

Outside a chill had set in, and underdressed people leaving bars and restaurants clouded the air with their breath, and shivered. Zoë fastened the top popper on her leather jacket, and thought about smoking, but didn’t. She also thought about Caroline Daniels, and wondered if her romance had started like that – if Caroline had come to a bar,
looking for love in all the wrong places
, which was probably a song. But then, it was only the wrong place if you didn’t find what you were looking for. Zoë was unaware of any rule that said love couldn’t begin with a pick-up.

Or a lonely-hearts column. Or a stranger on a train. Or a conversation in a lost property office.

There were, in truth, a lot of avenues unexplored.

Tonight, though, she thought – lighting a cigarette; a reward for not having lit one a minute earlier – tonight was not a night for discovering them. She felt a slight tenderness after her encounter, as if she’d bumped an old bruise, and wasn’t sure if the ache was on her own account, or Caroline Daniels’, or just for every woman who’d ever sat in a bar, hoping a man would talk to her. Was any of that true, what Jay had said? Or was it just what men thought true, or hoped true, because it made their roles easier; bestowed upon them a sense of superiority and confidence? And did that mean they viewed women with contempt, or just that they didn’t understand them? Or worse, did it mean that they understood them too well: that a single woman, about forty, wasn’t much more than a target. One who’d drawn the concentric circles on herself of her own accord:
come and get me
. And what about me? she thought. Am I like that? But if she was, she’d have stayed there and let Jay keep talking. He’d been clean, good-looking, articulate, well dressed. In a seller’s market, he was a prize. But that was the problem; that that’s where he’d put himself. In the seller’s market.

He’d not been repulsive, and if something about him had left her with this quiet unease, it was to do with her own private demons. With her own damn heart that didn’t work the way it used to. And also, perhaps, because she knew that every encounter left a trace – that half an hour with Jay Harper, and she knew enough about him to find him any time she wanted. And yet Alan Talmadge had shared Caroline Daniels’ life for six months, and now that that life was finished, he hadn’t left enough of himself behind for Zoë to truly believe he existed.

And there was no way that was an accident. We don’t allow accidents round here, she thought, and carefully made her way home, smoking.

v

Imagine, then
(he thinks)
, a life. A life without the trappings
we’re encouraged to expect – it’s the emotional trappings he’s
thinking about. The happy-ever-after with the One True Love.
The handsome prince who chopped through evil shrubbery, or the
beautiful princess so pure and good she was forcefed poisoned
apples. Take all that away. Now: imagine a life, one no longer
young. Not old, exactly, but enough of it gone that mornings
aren’t the rosy-red adventures they once were, and New Years
come tinged with regret. There are no children underfoot. No
queue for the bathroom after breakfast. It’s a temptation to check
the horoscope listings, to see if there’s company coming.

Imagine a woman, he thinks.

Because for a woman, all this is harder. It’s not just a matter
of reality; it has to do with perception. For a lone man, even one
drifting through his forties, single life is freighted with the envy
of friends and colleagues; not a deep-seated, trade-places-in-an-instant
envy, but an undertone that whispers to them during
their boring, domestic weekends. The single man, to the coupled
man’s thinking, is Out There, Doing It. It doesn’t matter if the
reality’s cup-a-soup and Film on Five. The perception remains
Doing It. The single man’s a Lad, and lads know how to have
fun.

But imagine a woman, and remember, too, the importance of
perception. A single woman, marooned in her fifth decade, is not
having fun. Accomplishments don’t matter – we could be talking
world-class businesswoman or international eventer; novelist,
racing driver, brain surgeon – a single woman in her forties is
the object of pity and derision. She has failed at the one thing
society expects of her, which is to be half of a pair. It’s not even
necessary that children happen. Children are a lifestyle choice,
but coupledom’s a must. A single woman in her forties declaring
herself happy is many things – brave, a treasure, inspiring,
impressive – but she’s not happy. That’s the perception.