A Hopeless Romantic (45 page)

“What?” said Laura as they emerged on the other side, feeling slightly dizzy.

“She’s going out with Nick now, you remember old Nick? Ranelagh. Yeah. She’s called Cecilia. Mate told me he was giving her one these days. Hope she doesn’t take after her moth—Hey! Hey! There he is!”

“There who—” Laura said, her brain spinning, as the doors behind them kept spinning, spilling out people who pushed past her, swarmed around her. She couldn’t see Marcus, he had vanished; she could hear his voice, but where was he?

“Nick! I say!”

The sea of people cleared, the way parted, and there was a newly invigorated Marcus, patting someone on the back, someone who turned to face her as Marcus was saying, “Good one! Good one! Let me introduce you, old chap, this is my gorgeous date for this evening, Laura. Hey, Laura. This is the Marquis of Ranelagh, my dear. You’ve visited his place, you know. You told me.”

“Yes,” said Laura, mechanically holding out her hand, looking up into Nick’s face. “Hello.”

“Hello,” said Nick, meeting her gaze. His short dark hair was combed and neat, his evening dress immaculate, his expression remote. His other hand was in his pocket, and he squeezed her hand, then dropped it, looked from one to the other of them. Laura’s arm felt numb, as if it were something sewn onto her body. It fell by her side, a deadweight, as she watched him, not knowing what to say.

“Nice to see you, Laura. Marcus—great to catch up. Maybe later. Excuse me. I should say hello to the Thorsons, they’ve just arrived.”

“Course you had, mate!” Marcus winked at him, hugely gratified at being present for this. He put his arm proprietorially around Laura, as if to say, We’re all in the same boat, aren’t we? Laura rocked against him, feeling like a deadweight, realizing that, for Marcus, this was shaping up to be a great evening, whereas for her, it was probably one of the all-time lows, down there with her other grandmother, Deidre’s, funeral and the time Simon was sick over her brand-new Levi’s 501s just before her first date with Sean Phillips when she was fifteen.

“See you later,” Nick said politely. He smiled briefly at both of them. “Have a good evening. Good to see you both.”

He walked off toward Tania Thorson, who was walking stiffly toward the hall, and Laura watched him put his arm round her fondly, kiss her, make some joke. He hugged Lars and shook hands with a couple of other people who’d arrived, all serious, slick, wealthy-looking. Marcus gazed at them almost hungrily. Laura gazed at them, back at him. Her hand stole up to the necklace, and she stroked it gently.

chapter forty-two

T
he next two hours were two of the loneliest of Laura’s life. The rain began soon after they arrived, and all evening it thudded on the roof of the hall. All through the drinks at the front of the hall, she stood mutely by Marcus’s side as he roared with laughter and slapped backs with a succession of identical-looking, identically dressed men. He was happiest, she soon realized, in the company of other men. The blokes, the guys, the chaps he worked with, who moved vast amounts of money from A to B and then made it into C.

She hung back as he networked, tried to do her bit as The Date, a polite smile plastered to her face, tried not to scan the crowd, until they were ushered farther back along the huge, echoing, vaulted hall for supper. The moment they were seated and had each been presented with a laminated cardboard folder describing the achievements of the German bank over the last year and going forward, Marcus turned away from her to the man on his right, with whom he proceeded to have a similarly raucous conversation. He would turn to her occasionally and ask her if she was okay, and then almost immediately turn back with enthusiasm to a long discussion about the rise of the hedge fund.

“Sure you’re okay?” he said to her on his third swivel round.

“I’m absolutely fine,” Laura said, lying through her teeth. Marcus smiled at her. “Marcus,” she began determinedly, “I wondered, by the way—about the donation we discussed—”

“What’s that?” said Marcus.

“The sponsorship program,” Laura said, putting one finger on his arm.

“Oh, absolutely,” said Marcus. “Absolutely.”

“Can we—should we talk about it at some point? Firm up the details?”

Suddenly, Marcus’s hand shot out and clamped itself around her leg. All at once Laura felt totally like a prostitute touting for business, or some kind of dodgy honeytrap, as Marcus’s fingers clumsily patted her skin and he turned toward her, gulping his wine greedily.

“Have you…” she faltered, and looked down at his hand, high up on her thigh. He squeezed her leg, and smiled at her amicably.

“Great,” said Marcus. “Remind me about it later. Just got to ask this chap—” And he turned away again.

Laura sank back in her chair, dispirited. Apart from the hand on her leg, she might as well have been invisible, she thought wretchedly, and outside the wind whistled along the glass, rattling it as the rain beat down.

Periodically Marcus would squeeze her thigh; and it reminded Laura of when she and Simon were small, on the sofa in the lounge at Heathcote Road watching TV after school, and Simon would suddenly poke her viciously in the ribs. She would poke him back. They would sit there in huge tension, not knowing who would dare to poke next, and when it came each would scream with the recognized shock of it. So Laura felt as she gazed around her table, around the room, trying not to look bored, waiting for Marcus’s next hard, crablike squeeze on her thigh. It did not make for a particularly relaxed dining experience.

The man on her left was a kind, polite German banker who tried his best to engage her in conversation; but the rest of the table was fairly loud, his English was not great, Laura’s German was nonexistent, and the noise in the rest of the hall grew ever louder, with guffaws and shouts echoing out, a bit like the last day of term at a particularly muscular boarding school, and so it was a little hard to hear what he was saying. Besides which, Laura’s knowledge of German banks was not all it might have been; and what with Marcus’s hand periodically making her jump, and the nice German man—whose name she had, of course, instantly forgotten—trying his very best but failing to sustain conversation, the first two courses inched by in what seemed to be an eternity, during which the hands on the huge iron clock high up in the vaulted ceiling barely seemed to move, the noise seemed to grow louder, and the food—especially the watercress mousse—felt like slimy slabs of sponge in her mouth.

Was it that Nick was there, over there, past the next table, just visible if she tilted her head very slightly? Was it that? Was it true that she could really look over and see him anytime she liked, after more than two months, remember all those things about him that she’d forgotten, the cast of his jaw, his shoulders, his expression when he smiled? Or was it that she had finally realized she didn’t know him, would never know him; that this was the world he lived in, not the one he had pretended to show her over the summer?

She stared at him through the sea of black-jacketed shoulders, and just once allowed herself to wallow a little. To remember dreamily how unreal, how fantastical that time at Chartley had been. Like a favorite film or a childhood holiday that takes on the golden-hued appearance of a fairy tale, every day long and sunny, every event magical. Here he was again, and she could see him out of the corner of her eye, whenever she wanted. She realized now that, during the past two months, she had got so used to
thinking
she saw him everywhere—on the street, in the pub, on the Tube—that she was always turning her head to see if that tall, dark man in the corner was, in fact, Nick, come to find her. And now, that tall, dark man in the corner was, in fact, Nick. But he was with someone else, and she—

As Lars Thorson leaned forward to say something quietly to Nick, and he looked blankly into space as he listened, nodding, she remembered with a stabbing agony the last time she’d seen him, how the holiday had come to an end. She took a deep breath. Could Nick really be enjoying this totally dire evening? Was he really the person who could get satisfaction from smarming up to some rich industrialist and his blow-up doll of a wife? And their thin, bloodless, humorless daughter?

For Cecilia Thorson was there, very much there, sitting up straight next to him; and that was really the only interesting thing about this evening, except Laura wished she could stop staring at the two of them, so poised, so glamorous, so—
grown-up
–looking. They reminded Laura of effigies from medieval tombs she had seen on a school trip to France years ago—side by side, she with straight hair, straight nose, long thin face, elegant pursed lips; he taller, prouder, statesmanlike. Not someone she knew or remembered at all. Laura shook her head.

“Okay there?” came Marcus’s voice suddenly, close to her ear. His rather large nose brushed unexpectedly across Laura’s neck. She jumped, realizing she was staring at Nick, and she saw him turn instinctively, his gaze meeting hers across the room. She swiveled round to Marcus, who was making a kind of guzzling, gurgling sound in her ear, which surprised her until he said with an effort, “You do look—gorgeous, you know, L-Laura.”

“Thanks,” said Laura, who was never sure how to respond to compliments like that. “Yes, I know. No, I don’t, what are you talking about?”

“I—I just want to…grrr.” Marcus shook his head, and made a sound like a small bear.

Oh, dear, thought Laura. Please, let this be an upset stomach, rather than a prelude to sex. Because, Marcus, if you seriously think you’re getting some tonight, you are Wrong Wrong Wrong.

“Having a good time?” his voice murmured heavily in her ear, sounding rather like an unskilled Barry White impersonator. Laura had to fight back the urge to reply in kind: “I sure am, baby, how you doin’?” She bit her lip, and Marcus, taking this for an encouraging sign, squeezed her thigh again.

“Oh, Marcus—” said Laura feebly. “Don’t—don’t do that. It’s…you know.”

“Oh,” said Marcus, sitting back in his chair suddenly. “Sorry.” He looked mortified, his hair flopping sadly on each side of his head like a bunny’s ears.

Laura felt mean. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just—anyway. Are you having a good time?”

“Yep, absolutely,” said Marcus. “Really interesting bloke next to me, used to run the Singapore arm of this startup we invested in couple years ago.”

“Oh. Hey. That’s so…cool. Cool!” said Laura, unsure of the correct response. She was even more aware of the conversational gap between them. “So you—”

“Anyway, how about you?” said Marcus enthusiastically. Laura realized he was a little drunk. His mouth was slacker, his eyes duller. “You having a good time?” He leaned forward again. “Sorry haven’t had time to talk,” he said. “Very glad you came. But must talk to people. You sit there.” He patted her thigh again, as if she were a tiny leprechaun who might hop off her seat and run wildly among the guests throwing gravy around and causing havoc.

“Right,” said Laura, picking up her fork to push an uneaten pile of chocolate mousse across her plate. She wanted to hate Marcus, be furiously cross with him, blame him for Nick being there, for how crap a time she was having. Yorky had gone for drinks with Hilary tonight after work in Shepherd Market; she could be there, too, dressed normally, sitting there having a laugh, instead of here, feeling this awful; and she wanted to blame Mareus for it, but she couldn’t. No, she had to go through with it.

This was a sort of watershed evening for her, she realized. Perhaps the presence of Nick was a sign from the gods, a symbol of how strong she had to be, of what she had to pull off. She was on a date, and she was going to get Marcus to give the schools sponsorship program a big donation or die trying. She could still do it. She had to. Wasn’t this what she’d been at work early trying to sort out during the endless weeks since she’d come back from Norfolk? Building up contacts again, putting together information, cajoling, flattering, skirting around the issue like a gavotte—and nothing, nothing from any of the other companies so far, and Rachel was depending on her. More than that—she
had
to pull it off, or else her job was in jeopardy again. And even more than that, perhaps, she had to do it for herself.

Laura took a deep breath, set her face in a stern expression, and said firmly, “Marcus. Can I get you a coffee? And then can we talk about the sponsorship program, before we have too much to drink and forget?”

“George! Hi! Good to see you, mate. Listen, about the liability claim,” said Marcus suddenly, turning his back on her to address a man standing behind him. His left hand shot out and clamped down on her leg again.

Laura snarled to herself, and realized she had to calm down. Time to while away five minutes in the loo, I think, she told herself. She took her bag and made to stand up, but just as she gingerly put her hand on Marcus’s to remove it, she noticed Cecilia Thorson standing up with her bag and heading across the room. Laura shrank back in her seat. No, thanks, she thought. I don’t want to be loo buddies with her. Cecilia sailed gracefully past, her expression proud, unruffled. Laura watched her from under her eyelashes, her hand clutching Marcus’s in a frenzied grip. Damn it.

She looked up at the clock and then around the room. It was nearly ten o’clock; she’d been there for two hours. The rain was still pounding relentlessly on the glass roof. The tables were breaking up; coffee was being served, but people were moving around, men and women nonchalantly leaning against chairs chatting to each other. The polite German man next to her had disappeared. It was getting late. She had to rescue this situation—but how? Perhaps she should just go, she thought hopelessly. Face Rachel’s hopeful face on Monday and admit failure.

As if answering her thoughts, she turned to find Marcus’s hazy stare fixed on her. He half licked his lips, a tiny, unconscious movement. Laura realized he had passed from being a bit intoxicated to properly drunk.

“Laura,” he said. “Witchu. Wouldchu like—what are we doing later?”