Requiem (20 page)

‘Of course.’

The car drew up outside a sparkling neo-classical building behind Covent Garden. Nick got out and, holding the door open for her, led the way inside at his customary pace. As they sped through the main lobby, heading for an open lift, Daisy saw a wall sign and realized they were making for the David Weinberg office.

‘I’ll be about ten minutes,’ Nick explained as the lift started upwards. ‘Just a few calls to make. You don’t mind?’

‘Not at all.’

The doors opened to reveal a stage-lit reception area, all chrome and muted greys and arrays of large glossy photographs and golden discs. The place was surprisingly crowded. Two delivery men in overalls stood by a trolley loaded with cartons, apparently waiting for orders, various people were sitting on low sofas along two sides of the room, looking as if they’d been there for some time, while a party of four smartly dressed women was grouped around the reception desk.

Even as Nick launched himself across the room towards a door on the far side, Daisy could see that he wasn’t going to make it. One of the well-dressed women was nudging her neighbours and, as Nick advanced, the four turned to face him. One was a young girl of about twenty, the other three were quite a bit older.

Seeing Nick, the older women’s faces lit up like awed teenagers. Their ludicrous smiles, their round-eyed stares were both fascinating and rather embarrassing.

One of the older women stepped forward to intercept Nick. She was smiling hard, too hard, although, if you took away the smile, she was good-looking in a slightly overstated way. Her makeup, though well applied, was a little on the heavy side, and her fair hair, which was longish and layered like feathers, had that solid impenetrable look that comes from long hours with a hairdresser and a tall can of hairspray.

‘Nick,’ she sang, standing in his path. ‘Hullo! How
are
you?’

Nick jerked to a halt like a cornered animal. Finding no escape, he produced a polite though unconvincing smile.

‘It’s been such a long time, I can’t believe it,’ the woman persisted, subtly but firmly blocking his way. She gave a nervous laugh, aware of the audience behind her.

Nick was grappling with his memory, and it showed.

‘Twenty years,’ she hurried on, the first hint of panic in her voice. ‘It seems unbelievable!’

Nick blinked rapidly. ‘Yes, of course …’

But it was obvious that he hadn’t placed her and there was an awkward pause, the sort that seems to stretch out for ever. The woman’s smile faltered, then, attempting to carry the thing off, she made a joke of it. ‘Good God, I didn’t think I’d changed that much! At least, most people tell me I haven’t changed at all.’ If she was hoping for some sort of affirmation, she was quickly disappointed.

She laughed again, a sharp discordant sound, then, before the situation deteriorated any further, announced: ‘It’s Suki Armitage. Well, that’s what you’d remember me as. I’m not that any more, of course. My name’s Driscoll. And nowadays people seem to call me Susan. The Suki got lost somewhere along the line …’ She went on for a bit, rather too fast, and after repeating herself a couple of times, trailed off.

A shot of recognition had flickered over Nick’s face. ‘Good Lord,’ he murmured, and shifted his weight, on the point of flight again.

But Susan Driscoll wasn’t about to give up. ‘I was thinking about you only the other day,’ she blundered on in her breathless Knightsbridge accent. ‘I saw Annie and Roger Fenner. You remember them? And all those wonderful parties they used to give?’

The Fenners, as Daisy and everyone else in the world knew, were leading fashion designers. Susan Driscoll, it seemed, was rather practised at dropping names because she managed to squeeze in a few more as she rattled breathlessly through the brilliant people and parties of the good old days.

Daisy could tell that Nick had finally placed Susan Driscoll, though, from his expression, the realization did not seem to have thrilled him nearly as much as Susan Driscoll had hoped it would.

The one-sided conversation lurched on. Susan Driscoll’s voice became shrill at the edges, and Daisy had the feeling she was less than pleased at not having been instantly remembered. Nick was looking increasingly hunted, and Daisy was not surprised when he flicked a glance at her, signalling his intention to escape.

‘Well, it’s good to see you again,’ he muttered to Susan Driscoll.

‘I’m so sorry to hear about your wife,’ she said to his retreating back. ‘I do hope she’ll recover soon.’ Nick gave a brief backward glance of acknowledgement.

‘And we’re so thrilled about the concert. I can’t tell you what it means.’

Nick paused in the doorway. ‘Concert?’ He looked back at her in mystification. ‘Concert?’

A pause, little short of electric. ‘For Save the Children,’ Susan Driscoll said bravely. ‘I’m organizing it.’

He stared at her. ‘What – ’ He shook his head abruptly. ‘There isn’t going to be any concert.’ For an instant he seemed to hover on the point of explanation then, thinking better of it, he turned and was gone.

There was a long moment while no one spoke and no one moved. Mrs Driscoll looked as if she’d got a very nasty taste in her mouth. Her lips were taut, her eyes narrow as a cat’s. Humiliation then anger crossed over her face in quick succession, followed by something altogether more guarded.

Unobtrusively Daisy made for the door through which Nick had vanished. As she reached it, she heard a young voice saying: ‘Oh, Mummy … Perhaps there’s a mistake …’

Daisy looked back. Susan Driscoll was managing a brilliant recovery job. She was shrugging her daughter off, lifting her chin, putting on a smile. Only her eyes, in the instant before they swung round to face her friends, showed a last flash of bitter light.

Daisy escaped into a short corridor. There were several doors leading off it. The first stood open, revealing an empty office. The next was also open, and contained a young woman who seemed to know who Daisy was, and waved her to a seat.

After fifteen minutes Daisy’s stomach started to rumble. After twenty she began to wonder if lunch might possibly have been forgotten.

She passed some of the time thinking about the rest of her week. She and Simon had been planning to go to a new film that evening but he’d cancelled. It was the novel again. The novel had become a fixture, like the lover in a
menage
a
trois,
mysterious, vaguely threatening, but best left alone. Looking at the relationship coolly – and it contained precious little heat even in its warmer moments – it had not developed a great deal. They liked the same things all right: they went to environmental awareness parties and political conferences, they saw art films and exhibitions, they ate in wine bars and went to parties in Islington. But when it came down to it, the only thing that had really changed was that she was now the one feeling beleaguered, while Simon was increasingly relaxed and carefree. Well, who wouldn’t look happier when he had someone to collect his laundry, and cook and wash up twice a week?

Now there was an unworthy thought. She was forgetting how Simon had come and fixed her kitchen door and cooked Sunday lunch two weeks running. She was forgetting the conversations, the evenings out and the occasional smiles. Perhaps that was all you could ever ask or expect.

She thought of Nick Mackenzie and tried to imagine Simon in his place, fighting for her as she lay in some hospital bed, searching the world for some way to cure her, but the picture wouldn’t come alive and she abandoned it.

The time crept on. The secretary unwrapped a sandwich. Daisy began to wonder if Nick Mackenzie wasn’t quite as unspoilt as he seemed and didn’t perhaps make a habit of keeping people waiting.

At last, after what must have been half an hour, there was a murmur of voices, the door opened and Nick Mackenzie finally appeared. Behind him was a dark plump balding man – presumably David Weinberg – who, spotting Daisy, peered at her briefly as if to confirm she was of no great importance, before saying a hasty goodbye to Nick and disappearing into the corridor.

Nick flopped down on the seat beside her.

‘Sorry, but I had to sort out that schemozzle,’ he said companionably. ‘For some reason my manager had decided not to tell that lady that the concert had been cancelled. He seemed to think I would change my mind.’

‘And did you?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t think the lady was too pleased.’

‘I think you’re right.’

Daisy couldn’t resist asking: ‘Did you remember her?’

He shot her a grin which quite transformed his face. ‘To be honest, no, not to begin with. She looked completely different. I mean, like someone
else
. Then … yes, I realized who she was.’ He looked away and shook his head, as if some memory had just come back to him.

‘Come on,’ he said abruptly. ‘Let’s go and eat.’

They got as far as the end of the corridor – Daisy was just allowing herself a vision of a nice restaurant somewhere off the Covent Garden Piazza – when the secretary called Nick back to say his wife was on the phone. A look of surprise and pleasure leapt into his face as he turned to go. Calmly Daisy settled back against the wall and began a thorough inspection of the framed golden discs that decorated the corridor.

This time she didn’t have to wait long; it was only a couple of minutes before he reappeared, emerging so quickly into the corridor that he was almost past her before she had realized.

Something had happened: his face was like thunder. She hesitated, uncertain whether to chase after him.

She caught up with him at the lift. As they both stepped inside, he flung her a fierce but impersonal look.

‘Is there something the matter?’ she asked. ‘Can I do anything?’

He shook his head. ‘No. No …’ His voice was trembling with suppressed rage. ‘No, no,’ he repeated harshly. ‘It’s just that … I’ve got to go and move my wife.’

‘Move her?’

‘They made her swim. Made her swim when she hates it, absolutely hates it! And they’ve given her some drug, something that makes her feel terrible. They didn’t even tell her what it was. Didn’t even
tell
her! I can’t believe it’s possible. I can’t – ’ He broke off and screwed up his mouth, not trusting himself to say any more.

The lift was slowing down. Daisy tried to think of something useful to suggest. ‘What about wheelchairs, ambulances and things? Can I – ’

‘No time for that. I’ll carry her myself.’ He said it as if it was the obvious thing to do, and Daisy thought: Lucky Alusha Mackenzie, having a husband like that.

The lift doors opened and he strode rapidly away, shoulders hunched, head down in that wary walk of his. As he stepped into the street, the sun caught him, illuminating his head with sudden light. It occurred to Daisy, not without an odd little pang, that she would probably never see him again.

After four visits to the Coach and Horses, Colin Hillyard had become quite a regular. It had got to the stage where the landlord, who went by the exotic name of Lionel Meredith-Peacock, greeted him warmly by name – Hillyard was using the name Meynell, a variation on Maynard, which was another favourite of his – and leant an elbow on the bar to exchange comments on the vagaries of the weather as if such things were quite unique to west Berkshire.

It was a Thursday. Hillyard made a point of arriving at more or less the same time every week and staying half an hour or so before leaving in a hurry, lending credence to the idea that he squeezed time out of his busy week to visit an ancient relative living nearby. He’d never elaborated on the elderly aunt or where she lived, nor had he said exactly what he did for a living; he spent too much time expressing quiet, almost languid interest in the local community and listening to the landlord’s repertoire of well-worn anecdotes. Not that he ever pushed the local interest. Apart from establishing right at the outset that the Knowles family, who’d been featured in the local papers over an incident at the Berkshire Show, lived not far away and had been regular users of the pub, he hardly brought up a subject worth mentioning. In fact he’d once listened to the landlord holding forth on the merits of a cruise to Turkey over a package to the Canaries for all of twenty minutes before steering things gently back towards more parochial matters. He made such manoeuvres seem effortless, though he said so himself.

‘People go for Turkey round here, do they?’ he said to Meredith-Peacock, looking ready to be impressed. And then he’d got chapter and verse on the holidays the locals took, and the likely price of them, and how even when farming was meant to be in deep trouble some of them were still off to Kenya and the ‘Sea-shells’ islands, as Meredith-Peacock liked to pronounce them.

Once it came up, Hillyard had pursued the farmers-in-trouble avenue, of course; it was too good to miss. But he went ever so gently, expressing just the right blend of vague commiseration and glaring ignorance befitting a true town-dweller. But though the opening was leading him nicely up to the subject of the Knowles family, which was precisely where he wanted to be, the conversation had had to be aborted. The landlord had gone to serve another customer and when he ambled back along the bar his mind had diverted, by some mysterious progression, onto the subject of rheumatism.

Now it was Thursday again and he was back feeling rather pleased with life, though no thanks to the weather, which was blustery with racing clouds and a sudden sneaky chill which on leaving the car had flipped at the vents of the tweedy sports jacket he had bought specially for the job from a countryman’s outfitters in Hungerford.

It was three and the pub was quiet. There was only one customer at the bar, a ruddy-faced man in heavy boots, work trousers and waxed jacket. Hillyard sat at the next stool, exchanged ritual head-shakes about the gale-force wind with the landlord and ordered a pint of best. The farmer-figure – the landlord called him Bill – waited impatiently to regain the landlord’s attention and resume the conversation that Hillyard had interrupted. He was complaining to the landlord about the sale of some farm, though why it should displease him Hillyard couldn’t make out, since he seemed neither to know nor care about the owners of the property who, it appeared, had been forced to sell at a bad price.