A Hopeless Romantic (44 page)

“Nothing?” said Mary.

“Nothing,” said Laura, then realized it sounded as if she was expecting to hear something. Of course she wasn’t. “No, nothing. You sound like Aunt Annabel.”

“What do you mean?”

“She rang me—” Laura began, then noticed the look on Mary’s face, the one that brooked no criticism of Aunt Annabel. Laura knew she wouldn’t be able to explain it to her grandmother, so she just said, “Oh, nothing.”

“She’s excited about it,” said Mary unexpectedly.

“Oh, good grief,” said Laura. “There’s nothing to be excited
about.
She’s never called me before, why’s she suddenly so interested?”

“Perhaps she was glad to have something to call you about,” Mary pointed out.

“I doubt that, highly,” Laura muttered. “When was the last time she called Mum up, just for a chat?”

“Oh, darling,” said Mary firmly. “Your aunt and your mother—they’re very different. But they’re more alike than you think. You all are. Annabel—she does love you, you know.”

“We’re not alike,” said Laura, thinking of her and Simon, her mum and dad and their normal, easy life, and the Sandersons, so grand, so snobbish, so riddled with strange and foreign customs and ideas about life, and at the head of them, Aunt Annabel herself.

“That’s just not true,” said Mary softly. “You have far more in common than you realize. Far more.” She ran her nail around the edge of the glass, picking up the sheen of condensation that clung to it. “Why do you want the world to be black and white? It’s not.”

Laura looked down at the rather cheap velvet material of her dress. “I don’t,” she said, wondering whether they were still talking about Annabel or not.

Her grandmother was silent, and then she cleared her throat. “Do you mind if I say something?” she said suddenly.

“No…” said Laura uncertainly, thinking that if yet another person was about to have a go at her—especially Mary, whose good opinion mattered so much to her—she might just throw her hands up and scream.

“I think you have too many people telling you what to do and telling you what you’re like,” said Mary flatly. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Laura, nodding fervently, thinking of Jo, Simon, everyone at work, even Nick, telling her she was weak, pathetic.

“I’m not going to tell you how I think you should live your life, or what I think you should do,” said Mary. “Now’s not the time. But I will say this: Don’t try to paper over things that matter, Laura. The cracks will appear. Maybe not immediately, but they will.”

“What do you mean?” Laura said quietly, not wanting to know but feeling she had to ask.

Her grandmother said firmly, “Just what I say. Don’t paper over cracks, over things you think you can’t cope with.”

Mary’s melodious voice grated on her nerves, and Laura stood up; she had to get out of there. Suddenly the flat was not warm and cozy and full of memories, but crowded and claustrophobic, closing in on her. “I have to go, you know. I’m going to be late.” She gathered up her bag and little evening cape. “Sorry.”

Mary was unperturbed. “Fine. You look beautiful, Laura,” she said, standing up slowly and smiling at her. “I’m—I am proud of you, darling, you do know that?”

“Oh,” Laura said. “Thank you, Gran.” She kissed her. “Thank you.” She went to the front door, Mary behind her. “I’ll call you soon,” she said. “Thanks again, Gran. Lovely to see you. Sorry it’s been…so long.”

“Don’t worry,” said her grandmother. “It will always have been too long, darling.” And she closed the door.

Laura walked slowly down the stairs, wondering if she should go back up, shake Mary out of her strange mood, then reminded herself nothing would be accomplished by it. Paper over cracks? What was she talking about? Everything was fine; she was going on a date, with no expectations other than a nice evening, and with the hope that she might get some money out of him for the program, too. She was on the way, it was a fresh start! She wasn’t papering over anything, and it was silly to say she was.

Pah. Laura shrugged as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The hunter’s moon was rising as the sun disappeared. It was huge, golden, so low in the sky and so close she felt as if she could reach out and snatch it. Laura stared at it through the glass-paneled front door of the building, as it hung above the wide boulevard down toward Oxford Street; then she stepped onto the pavement and hailed a cab, following the moon east toward the City.

chapter forty-one

I
t’s very kind of you to invite me,” said Laura, settled at a table with Marcus twenty minutes later, a glass of champagne in her hand.

Marcus gave her an unsmiling smile and looked round the crowded bar, which, on a Friday night in the City, was pretty much wall-to-wall bankers, lawyers, and accountants, male and female, dressed in suits or black tie, throwing money around like it was going out of fashion. He said stiffly, “My pleasure. Why not.”

“And—Marcus, thank you so much for the flowers, it was incredibly sweet—er, kind of you. Again. Thank you!” Laura said, feeling completely embarrassed at this, though she couldn’t work out why.

“Really, it was my pleasure, as I’ve said,” Marcus said repressively, as if her mentioning the flowers was disgusting.

Laura sighed inwardly and ran her hand lightly along the back of her neck.

“Laura. I’m not being very expansive, I fear. I very much enjoyed meeting you. And it is my pleasure that you’ve agreed to accompany me this evening. I’m honored.”

“Er,” said Laura, not sure how to respond. “Well, thank you there. It—it’s great.”

“I’ve looked over the material you gave me and Clare,” said Marcus. “I
think
”—he touched her arm lightly—“there may be a way we can join your program, give you some money.”

“Really?!” said Laura, her face lighting up. “That’s wonderful, thank you!”

“Let’s see, let’s see,” Marcus admonished. “Let’s talk about it at dinner. We need to discuss it a little further, but—well, all being well—ah.” He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Well, thank you for thinking about it, anyway,” said Laura. “Wow.”

Only a couple of people at work knew Laura was here tonight, but she’d dropped enough hints about Linley Munroe that they were all super-curious about what she was going to pull off. She imagined the scene on Monday, her casually sauntering into the office, Rachel and Nasrin going over some figures again, wondering how they were going to explain to Gareth that the investment still hadn’t come through, as Laura nonchalantly said, “Oh, the money? Yeah—I’ve sorted it. No sweat.” Then high-fives all round, Rachel’s face lighting up with a smile the way it used to, before Laura started screwing things up…. She luxuriated in the image, and then came back down to earth with a bump, to find Marcus staring at her, and realized she had to get through the evening first before this was in the bag.

Silence descended again, unwelcome; but, thankfully, Marcus took the conversational plunge. He took a deep, shuddering breath, adjusted his tie, and said, “So. Let’s talk about it later, eh? Tell me. Where do your parents live?”

Laura smiled at the obviousness of the social questioning. “Harrow,” she said.

“Ah,” said Marcus. “Chap in the office next to mine went to Harrow.”

“Not that bit, I bet,” Laura said patiently. “My mum and dad live in deepest suburbia. About ten minutes off the main road. You have to drive for miles to find a shop selling milk, it’s all mock Tudor semidetacheds and cul-de-sacs. But it’s nice. How about you?”

“What?” said Marcus.

“Are you from London?”

“Yes, yes,” said Marcus.

“Where?” said Laura.

“Near Camden,” said Marcus vaguely, and Laura didn’t push the subject further, knowing from experience that when people seem noncommittal about something, they are doing it deliberately. “But, yeah. I live in Vauxhall now. You know those apartments? Over the Thames?”

“Wow,” said Laura. “How great.”

“Yep. It really is. Pretty expensive, but worth it, I can tell you. Very good investment for the future, you know.” Marcus stuck his lips out and nodded, his eyes half closed. “Not sure if I’ll stay there forever, but it’ll definitely work as a rental. Some guy like me in a few years’ time.” His eyes boggled at her, and Laura nodded, pretending to look interested. “I’ll move on and up then, you know.”

“Mm,” Laura said.

Marcus leaned back in his chair and gave a mock yawn. He stretched his arms. “Yep. Probably to Balham—you can buy a good-size family home there, although it’s pretty damn expensive. Still, it’ll be very handy for me. For the City.”

“Yes,” said Laura. “I like Balham.”

Marcus nodded at her, looking pleased, “Plus, it’s a nice area for kids on the weekends.”

“Right,” said Laura, then realized she didn’t understand. “Why?”

“Well, there’s shops and cafés, and the park nearby, and of course you can drive to Richmond—”

“No,” Laura interrupted. “Why do you need a family home?”

“For the family,” Marcus said, looking irritated again.

“You’re—not—” Laura instinctively grabbed her bag in case she needed to make a hasty exit. “You’re not
married
, are you?”

Marcus looked amazed, and for a split second Laura thought, Oh, God! How could I have got this so wrong? Again?

But Marcus said abruptly, “Of course I’m not. Do you think I’d ask you out if I were married? What kind of man—no, of course I’m not.”

“Good, good,” said Laura, surreptitiously putting her bag back down on the seat. “Sorry. It’s just I thought—you were talking about family homes and everything, the cafés and stuff. I assumed you might—er.”

“I’m merely expressing—trying to say that—it’s of no importance,” Marcus said.

“Sorry,” said Laura quietly, looking at the table. She felt sad again. “I didn’t get it.”

“I was just thinking aloud,” said Marcus after a pause. “You know. If one were married. Where would one live. Have to think about that kind of thing these days.”

“Even if you’re not going out with someone?” Laura said, then regretted it.

But her companion said, after another pause, “Well, yes.” He smiled, for the first time that evening. “Bit tragic, isn’t it.”

“What?”

“Planning where I’d live if I were married. With children.” He cleared his throat with a long, drawn-out sound like rounds on a firing range. Laura looked at him, smiling self-consciously. She saw his large fingers mechanically clutching his cuff links, his large, normally expressionless face now wearing a rather anxious mask. His beautifully pressed dinner jacket, the studs of his shirt perfectly done up except for one missing, just visible if you looked, hidden by the jacket. Her heart contracted with sadness as she looked at him. He needed a wife; he needed someone to love him and look after him, a nice girl to move to Balham or wherever with him, who would think he was absolutely marvelous. In his way, he was a hopeless romantic, too.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Marcus said, as if he were talking about the weather. He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, rather heavily and clumsily, almost defiantly, and sat back again. “Thank you,” he said formally.

“Hey! Ah,” said Laura, rather flustered, feeling she should thank him, too, or write him a formal letter.

Now that he had staked his claim, as it were, Marcus seemed to relax visibly. He stood up and offered Laura his arm. “We should be on our way, if that’s okay,” he said, and picked up her cape and put it round her shoulders.

“What kind of people are going to be there?” asked Laura, as he opened the door for her. He took her arm.

“Oh, all sorts,” said Marcus, smiling rather indulgently at her, as if she’d asked an adorable question.

They were opposite the Royal Courts, and Laura could see black ties and evening dresses trickling in through the elaborate stone gates, up the steps. She said, “No, I mean—tell me a bit about it. Are the guests your company’s clients or the bank’s?”

“Sure. They’re our clients. The sponsor is a fairly big German bank—they have investors of their own there, too. They have a lot of very rich private clients, so it’s a formal affair and there are often some pretty important people there. But, yeah, they’re all good guys. Should be fun.”

He took her arm as they crossed the road. “Right,” said Laura, thinking that sounded like anything
but
fun, and already so confused by the progress of the date so far, her role therein, and the evening ahead of her that any action on her part would be pointless. She squeezed his arm. “God, Marcus—who’s that?”

A tall, blond man, maybe in his late fifties, had got out of a car that had pulled up in front of the building. He was opening the other passenger door, from which emerged a woman so overly made-up, so wholly encrusted with jewelry and sparkle, that she looked like a blow-up doll. She took her companion’s arm and looked around impassively, disdain writ large on whatever part of her face still held expression.

“My God,” said Marcus, grinding to a halt.

“I know,” said Laura. “She looks ridiculous.”

“No,” said Marcus. “I didn’t think they’d come. That’s—Lars Thorson.”

“Who?” said Laura.

“Lars Thorson. Don’t you know who he is? He’s—well, he’s the richest man in Sweden. Invested in tech stock when it was still geek territory. That’s his wife, Tania. Right old slapper,” said Marcus with relish, pulling away from Laura to get a better look.

Thorson. She knew that name. She knew that name. Laura looked at Marcus in panic, trying to reassure the inner voice of warning in her head. “Good God, look at her,” Marcus continued, his eyes lighting up. He stared openly at the couple in front of them as Tania Thorson rearranged her shawl, then turned to Laura. “God, can’t believe it. Tania Thorson. She used to be a bit of all right. Look at her. She looks like a—”

“Right, right,” Laura said, steering him toward the revolving doors. “Right. And,” she said, not wanting to ask the question, but knowing she was going to, “don’t they have a daughter?”

“Yep, they do. Cecilia. Very fit. Used to come to presentations with her daddio. Funny, that,” said Marcus, squeezing into the door behind her and practically propelling her round, his hand on her back. “Just remembered.”