Another Heartbeat in the House (2 page)

‘Dear God. Couldn't you at least forgo those?'

‘A girl needs them on a night like this, Ian.'

‘Not the girls I know. Do you have anything to drink?'

‘There's Noilly Prat.' She moved to the tray upon which she had arranged her paltry selection of liquor. ‘I pilfered it from the staff Christmas party. And there's Cointreau, and some gin.'

Ian made a face. ‘No vodka?'

‘No.'

‘In that case, I'll have to make a gin martini. Where's your cocktail shaker?'

‘I don't have one.'

‘What a little barbarian you are. A jam jar?'

‘Let me see.' Edie hunkered down and started rummaging in the kitchenette cupboard. ‘Marmite, chutney, marmalade …' She fished out a jar from the very back of the shelf. ‘Will this do? It's got some rather elderly pimiento-stuffed olives in.'

‘Excellent. Olives are a bonus.'

Edie watched as Ian took a bowl from the shelf and emptied the olives into it. Then he splashed a hefty measure of gin into the jar, followed by an inch or two of vermouth.

‘Any ice?'

‘No.'

‘It's just as well I have a flair for improvisation.'

He moved to the window and pushed up the sash. Outside, shrieks of laughter rose from the street: New Year's Eve revellers having a snowball fight. Scooping up a handful of snow from the windowsill, he scrunched it into two compact balls and dropped them into the jar. Then he swirled the mixture around, poured it into the glasses Edie had fetched, tossed in a couple of olives, and handed one to her.

‘Cheerio, darling,' he said, chinking his glass against hers. ‘This is what's known as a “dirty” martini.'

‘Why dirty?'

‘It has olive brine in it.'

Edie took an experimental sip. ‘It's surprisingly good,' she said. ‘Cheers.'

‘Don't know why I bothered with the ice,' said Ian. ‘It's freezing in here.'

‘You should know to wear long johns when you come to visit,' said Edie. She hunkered down and turned up the gas fire, while Ian settled himself on the sofa and stretched out his legs.

‘How have you been holding up?' he asked, giving her an appraising look.

Edie shrugged.

‘You can always get another dog, sweetheart.'

She shook her head emphatically.

‘I know you probably think that's a frightfully insensitive thing to say,' continued Ian, ‘but it really could help, and the sooner the better. I know a chap who breeds Jack Russells: they're feisty little buggers; great sense of humour. I could give him a phone call.'

‘No. I couldn't keep a Jack Russell in a flat, and it would cause mayhem in the office. They need open spaces, those dogs. Mac was happy just to be near me. I'm sorry. My voice is going all funny because I'm going to …'

‘Don't cry – please don't cry, Edie.' Ian reached for her hand and pulled her down beside him on the sofa. ‘I can't cope when women cry. I find it awfully unsettling.'

‘You've never seen me cry.'

‘Yes, I have. When your book fell in the sea at Salcombe.'

‘I was only eight. Of course I cried. It was
The Railway Children
, and I hadn't even finished it.' She took a hefty gulp of her martini and made a face. ‘Do many of the women you know cry?'

‘Too many. I've seen them cry over really stupid things. My last inamorata cried because I killed a mouse. I did her a favour: it had been building a nest under her floorboards, and every time she saw it she had a screaming fit, but when I lifted the floorboard and told her that the nest was full of scraps of ribbon and dried flowers she acted as if I'd murdered Mrs Tiggy-Winkle.'

‘Tittlemouse.'

‘What?'

‘Mrs Tiggy-Winkle was a hedgehog. Mrs Tittlemouse was the mouse.'

‘Who was the fox who kidnapped the bunnies?'

‘That was Mr Tod, and he didn't kidnap the bunnies. Mr Brock did. He locked them in the oven.'

‘I liked that one.'

They sat for a while in silence, Edie trying to remember all the Beatrix Potter stories she had read as a child, to stop herself from thinking about Mac.

‘I've had an idea for my book,' said Ian, presently. ‘The villain will be a great fat spider-like mastermind who spends most of his time lolling in an armchair sniffing Benzedrine.'

‘Sounds promising. Have you started it yet?'

‘I don't have time.'

‘That's what everyone says, who hasn't written a book. Do you have a cigarette?'

Ian handed her one of his Turkish blend cigarettes, and lit it for her.

‘Thanks,' said Edie, blowing out smoke. ‘Everyone in London is thinking of writing a novel, and they all think it will be a work of genius. Everywhere I go, once people find out I work at Heinemann they fix me with this intense stare and say: “I have a splendid idea for an adventure story,” or “I'm told my memoirs are riveting,” or “I could tell some corking yarns about my time spent tiger hunting in Poona.”'

‘I could tell some corking yarns about my time spent rally driving in Switzerland.'

‘I've heard all your corking yarns.'

‘That's what you think,' returned Ian, lighting his own cigarette. ‘How many manuscripts do you get a week?'

‘At least a dozen. Some of them weigh as much as newborn babies, and every single person who submits thinks it'll outsell the Bible.'

‘Do you have to read them all?'

‘Yes.'

‘
Do
you read them all?'

‘Yes.'

‘Liar.'

Edie made an apologetic face. ‘I do try to, honestly I do. I plough through the first chapter, or at least the first couple of thousand words. And if it looks as if it's going to be complete tosh, I always make the effort to write back a polite letter.'

‘What do you tell them, in your polite letter?'

‘I usually say that their manuscript has the makings of an interesting radio play, and suggest they pass it on to the BBC.'

‘So some poor bugger in Portland Place is saddled with it?'

‘Yes. Or else it's sent on to some other hapless wretch in Penguin or Macmillan or Dent. What everyone in publishing is looking for is something with enormous commercial appeal, like
Gone with the Wind
. The new Next Big Thing.'

‘What's all the fuss about
Gone with the Wind
?' asked Ian.

‘Haven't you read it?'

He gave her a disparaging look.

‘You're such a snob!'

‘Guilty as charged.' Ian inhaled luxuriously and blew out a series of perfect smoke rings. ‘What's it about?'

‘Love, war, birth, death, hunger, jealousy, hate, greed, joy and loneliness.'

‘Sounds a lot like
The Tale of Mr Tod
.'

He'd made her laugh, at last. But Ian
was
a snob. He subscribed to the
London Mercury
and the
Times Literary Supplement
, and stored his collection of first editions in buckram boxes embossed with the Fleming crest, which Edie thought was risibly pretentious. He also had a collection of arcane French pornography, which he displayed to women he invited up to his bachelor pad in Ebury Street in an attempt to seduce or to shock. Edie knew this – not because he had ever tried it on her: she would have laughed in his face if he had – but because Mary Pakenham, the gossip columnist of the
Evening Standard
, had put it about.

Edie had known Ian since she was a little girl. He was the son of the Flemings, friends of her parents who were fearfully posh and glamorous – unlike the Chadwicks, who were quite posh but whose money had all been lost in the financial crash seven years previously. In the old days, before the Chadwicks had gone broke, the families had used to holiday together in Devon, which was fun for Edie because she was an only child and the Fleming boys were high-spirited rowdies. Michael, the youngest, was closest to her in age, but it was Ian she was fondest of, because he had appointed himself her surrogate big brother.

The gas heater was beginning to sputter. Ian gave it a curious look. ‘What's happened to your fire, Edie? It's going out.'

‘The meter needs feeding.'

‘Allow me.'

Ian put a coin in the meter, then reached for the jam jar and sloshed more martini into her glass. The snow had melted and bits of pimiento were floating in the liquid, making it look as dirty as its soubriquet.

‘Where were you off to, before your date was scuppered?' Edie asked.

‘The Duchess of Wellington is having a soirée.'

‘She made a pass at me once,' said Edie. ‘And so did her son.
And
her husband.'

‘All three at the same time?'

‘No. Although it might have been altogether more entertaining if they had.'

‘I wouldn't write off the marquess. He's quite a catch.'

‘You catch diseases, Ian, not men.'

‘How clever. Did you make that up?'

‘No,' admitted Edie. ‘Dorothy Parker did.'

‘You'd end up a duchess if you married him. Just think – I'd have to take you seriously if you had a title.'

‘I have a title. It's “Miss”.'

Ian gave her a pitying look. ‘Aren't your parents worried that you haven't bagged a husband yet, darling? You've been out for what – three years now?'

‘They're actually relieved I've bagged a job. They can't afford a wedding – I wouldn't even have been presented if Granny hadn't funded it. Besides, Mister Smug, I don't
want
a husband.'

‘You mean you'd rather live in this squalid little flat all by yourself sticking shillings in a meter to keep warm? And sit behind a dusty desk at Heinemann fifty weeks of the year, reading manuscripts you don't even enjoy?'

‘I like my job. And my flat is not squalid. It's cosy.'

‘If you married the marquess you could host Saturday-to-Mondays in that great pile in Hampshire and have Apsley House as your pied-à-terre and conduct affairs all over the place.'

‘That's my idea of hell, Ian.'

‘You'll end up an old maid at this rate. The Mitfords were terribly worried about Nancy. She didn't marry until she was nearly thirty.'

‘Which is the age you'll be soon. Why don't you get married?'

‘Don't be stupid.'

‘Then stop being such a hypocrite, lecturing me about it.'

‘It's different for a man.'

‘Is it?' Edie countered. ‘You're stuck behind a dusty desk too, doing something you don't enjoy, and you're not even good at it. Mary Pakenham told me you're the worst stockbroker in London.'

‘Mary should mind her manners. Anyway, I'm not going to stick it for much longer. I've decided I'd be better off doing intelligence work.' Ian blew out another stream of smoke rings and narrowed his eyes. ‘I have it on good authority that the Z organization is recruiting top businessmen as secret agents.'

‘Well, it's not such a secret, now you've told me.'

Ian ignored her. ‘And when I've had enough of espionage, I shall write my novel celebrating the great experiences of life. Love, war, greed, death, hate, and all those other things you mentioned.' Ian drained his ersatz martini. ‘God, this stuff really is filthy. I need a proper drink. Maybe I'll drop by Bryan and Elisabeth's do in Buckingham Street. Do you want to come? I'm sure they wouldn't mind. The Gargoyle'll be full of maudlin writers and drunken artists.'

‘Lots of talented people go there. Dylan Thomas is reciting his poetry tonight.'

‘I rest my case. There'll be lots of eligible chaps at Bryan's.'

‘Oh, shut up about eligible chaps, Ian.'

‘Is your friend going to the Gargoyle? What's her name – the one with the sweet face and the eyes like chocolate drops.'

‘You mean Hilly. I don't know if she'll be there. We fell out.'

‘Again? You fell out a year ago.'

‘We haven't spoken since.'

‘Oh, God. Girls and their silly rows. I expect it was over some chap, was it?'

‘No, it wasn't.'

‘I like Hilly. She's funny and sweet. She reminds me of Betty Boop with brains.'

Girls and their silly rows
… As she took a thoughtful sip of her drink, Edie felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her, for her old friendship, and what it had meant to her. She remembered the first time she and Hilly had met, at boarding school, when they were both twelve, and the talks they used to have long into the night after lights out; and the first disastrous double date they had gone on together to the Odeon in Leicester Square, and how they had absconded at the intermission, leaving their escorts to enjoy
King Kong
without them; and the joy when they had both landed jobs within a week of each other in the same profession; and suddenly she realized how very much she missed Hilly, and how stupid they'd both been.

Crossing to the bureau, she checked to see if the little drawer was still locked. It was. Hilly's photograph was stuck in there, and she had no idea where the key was.

‘Ian, you're clever at this sort of thing,' said Edie. ‘Is there any way of opening this drawer without a key? I've lost it.'

Ian strolled over and took a look at the lock. ‘I could force it.'

‘No – don't do that. I just wanted to test you. If you're contemplating a career in the secret service, you're going to need to hone your burgling skills.'

‘Have you a screwdriver?'

‘No, don't worry, it can wait.'

But Ian was clearly determined to prove that he was as adroit as Raffles, for he had started prodding about with a paper clip. What on earth would she say if he opened the drawer and found nothing inside but a torn photograph with Hilly's face on it?

‘Honestly, it'll do in the morning, Ian. Off you go now, to Bryan and Elisabeth's. I'll have a good look for the key tomorrow.'