The Debutante (19 page)

Cate pushed open the office door. ‘Hello? Rachel?’

The office was empty, the back door open. Where was she?

‘Rachel?’

A soft breeze rustled the papers on the desk and the computer was still on.

She couldn’t be far.

Sinking into one of the leather club chairs, Cate pressed her eyes closed. She was so tired. It must be jet lag. She relaxed back into the cool leather, wrapping round her like an embrace. She needed to rest. Just for a minute. Just until Rachel returned.

When Jack came back in, she was asleep, head lolled to one side, hands folded on top of her chest, making small sighing noises.

‘Cate?’

He said her name quietly, too quietly. The truth was he didn’t want to wake her.

‘Cate,’ he said again, half-heartedly. She looked as if someone had pulled the plug, switched her off.

Jack stood back, hands in pockets. He had wanted her to come. Now she was here. Was that the way the universe worked?

If only.

He rubbed his eyes. He should get back to work. Or wake her up and take her home. That was the logical thing to do.

Instead he sat down in the chair opposite.

Was there anything more vulnerable than sleep?

There was a time when he was first married that he used to watch his wife sleeping. He used to wake up in the middle of the night and marvel at the beauty of her face; her long dark hair spilling out across the pillow, her mouth, pursed into a delicate pout, and hands pressed like a child’s against her chest.

Then, gradually, as the years passed, he forgot to watch her sleep. Often she would go to bed before him. ‘I’m shattered,’ she’d say, with that tone in her voice that was at once warning and blaming. ‘So don’t try to touch me,’ was the unspoken ending to that sentence.
He learned to let her go without resistance; spent time on the computer or watching TV. It was easier than taking offence. When he came in, she was already asleep, with her back turned towards him, claiming her side of the bed. All the vulnerability and openness had vanished.

Cate shifted, nestling deeper into the old chair.

What was this? He sat forward. A small faint scar, white, like the ghost of a crescent, near her right temple.

After a while, Jack made himself a cup of tea, turned on the desk lamp. It cast a soft circle of light in the darkening room. Cate slept so deeply that she hardly stirred.

Time passed, thirty minutes, an hour. The light drained from the sky. The area changed after hours. No longer bustling with droves of upmarket office workers, it took on a desolate, lonely quality. The council estates and pubs came to life; noisy customers spilling out into the high street. But Jockey’s Fields was deserted, Dickensian in the eerie glow of its old gas street lamps.

Jack put his teacup down on the floor next to him and settled back.

She was here. He had wanted her to come and she was here.

Cate flicked her eyes open and sat up, blinking. ‘What are you doing here? Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ he laughed, ‘I’m OK. But you fell asleep.’

‘God, how embarrassing! Did I drool?’

‘Apart from the snoring you were fine.’

Yawning, she sank back into the chair again. ‘I’m in complete denial about any snoring. Though occasionally I do sigh rather loudly through my nose.’

‘That’ll be snoring.’

‘No, that’s breathing — with emphasis.’

‘Or snoring.’

She smiled at him, her features soft, bathed in the warm glow of the single lamp. ‘You aren’t very romantic, Mr Coates.’

‘Since when is lying romantic?’

‘It’s the very foundation of romance.’

He leaned his chin on his palm. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘More than anything. I’m longing to be lied to.’

‘You’re a cynic.’

‘That’s what happens to romantics gone bad. We never fully recover.’

‘So, educate me. What is it that romantics want? Besides lies of course.’

‘I suppose,’ she sighed, stretching lazily, ‘underneath it all, we want to believe in some sort of beautiful rightness to the world, a grand, heroic, emotional symmetry to love.’

‘And snoring doesn’t fit into this vision.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘Which is a shame. Because I found your emphatic breathing rather charming.’

‘Did you?’

‘Well,’ he considered, ‘I always knew where you were in the room.’

‘See! That is not romantic!’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘But it’s true. Have you no appetite for reality?’

‘None. Reality is too loud and noisy!

He smiled. ‘Like a brass band?’

‘Exactly. What time is it, anyway?’

‘After nine.’

‘Really? Where’s Rachel?’

‘She left hours ago. I don’t think she knew you were coming.’

‘Well, I didn’t know I was coming, so I guess it serves me right.’

‘I’ll drive you home,’ he offered standing. There was a crick in his neck. He gave it a rub.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘No, no of course not.’ He gathered his papers together, saving his work and turning off the computer. ‘What have you been up to all day?’ he tried to sound nonchalant.

‘Nothing much.’

‘Shopping?’

‘Actually, I went to the National Portrait Gallery. I was doing some research.’

‘Research? On what?’

‘The Blythe sisters. There are some really wonderful photographs there.’

‘Are you planning something — a painting?’

‘No I’m just curious, especially after seeing Endsleigh. Don’t you find them fascinating?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not really.’

‘But they had such style, such beauty.’

‘Maybe, but they didn’t do anything. Being beautiful is in itself not an occupation.’

‘Stop trying to be reasonable. It’s really very tedious. Besides, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. It’s a girl thing.’

‘Thank God.’

She wandered over to the window. ‘I’m famished.’

He stacked his papers into his briefcase, closed and bolted the back door. ‘Yes? Well, we could always stop on the way home. I haven’t eaten either.

‘OK.’

‘Great.’ His mind raced. Where to go? Not too fancy, not too cheap …

‘Jack?’

Picking up his briefcase, he turned off the desk lamp. The darkness was thick around them. ‘Yeah?’

Cate was standing in the pale blue halo of light from a street lamp outside, looking out of the window. ‘Why didn’t you just wake me up?’

‘I didn’t want to.’

She turned to look at him. ‘Why not?’

He considered his reply. Because I’m obsessed with you? Because I wanted to stare at you for as long as I could without interruption?

‘You seemed tired,’ he said at last.

He opened the door. They stepped out into the street and Jack locked it behind them.

He held his arm out and she took it.

She looked up at him. ‘I have a craving for ice cream.’

Was it his imagination, or was she leaning towards him?

‘What about real food?’

‘And what exactly do you mean by real food?’

They rounded the corner. His car was parked across the street.

‘You know, meat, potatoes, veg. Real food,’ he insisted.

‘If you want real food, we’ll have real food too.’

He unlocked the door, holding it open for her. But she stopped before climbing in, her eyes fixing on his. ‘That was kind of you — to let me sleep. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure. Any time you feel the least bit drowsy, you know where to find me.’

‘Yes.’ She smiled again, tilting her head. ‘Yes, I do.’

They drove into Primrose Hill, to a little Greek restaurant. They were seated outside, side by side at a square wooden table facing the street. Cate ordered rice and chicken and Jack the lamb and roast potatoes.

‘How do you know about this place?’ she asked, picking at an olive.

‘I used to drive by and see people having dinner here on the pavement in the summer. The place was always crowded. I figured it must be good.’

‘But you’ve never been here before?’

‘No.’

She seemed to relax a little into her chair.

‘Why? Did you think this was an old haunt?’

She looked out at the gentle curving crescent of Regent’s Park Road. ‘Every place in London seems to be an old haunt.’

‘I’ve never been here before,’ he assured her, taking a bit of warm bread and dipping it in olive oil. ‘This is uncharted territory.’

‘Good.’

Her possessiveness pleased him; she wanted somewhere exclusive to them.

‘So,’ he smiled, ‘you were talking in your sleep.’

‘No! Really?’

‘Well, not talking so much as murmuring.’

‘I had a dream.’

‘What was it?’

She blushed. ‘I’m not telling you!’

‘Go on! How bad can it be?’

‘Pretty bad!’

‘Well —’ he rubbed his hands together — ‘now I have to hear it!’

‘Oh … all right.’ She smiled shyly. ‘I was walking with someone … a man, across an open space, like a common or a park or something, and …’ she was surprised by how difficult it was to say, ‘and he was holding my hand.’

He waited for her to continue.

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes, well, it was one of those dreams where when I woke up, the feeling lingered on; that kind of lovely warm
feeling of being close to someone.’ She stopped, suddenly self-conscious. ‘It was … nice.’

‘Nice?’

‘Yeah, nice.’

‘I was hoping for something more than nice.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know … perhaps something involving a circus pony, a pair of nubile twins and a large tub of whipping cream.’

‘You’re exposing yourself, Mr Coates.’

‘Now that’s just wishful thinking, Ms Albion.’

‘Besides —’ she rolled her eyes — ‘whipping cream is so passé.’

‘I’m an old-fashioned guy.’

‘Yes. Quite the conservative.’

They sat a while.

‘Of course,’ Jack admitted, ‘it has been a long time since I held anyone’s hand.’

‘And this is surprising?’

Whistling a snatch of Mozart, he stretched his arms out, fingers brushing lightly against hers.

‘Oh no!’ she warned. ‘Don’t even think about it, buster!’

‘Buster? Wow. You really know how to hurt a guy.’

‘And that’s the last time I confide in you, pal!’

‘Pal! Stop. I can’t take any more.’ He grabbed her hand, plopped it on the table.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to hold your hand,’ he announced. ‘Stop pulling it away.’

‘Stop taking the piss!’ she squirmed.

‘I’m not! I’m offering you a moment of … of… Jesus! Would you sit still?’

‘You’re taking the piss!’

‘I am, in all seriousness, Cate, desirous of holding your hand.’

‘Katie.’

‘Pardon?’

‘My real name is Katie.’

‘I suppose I should be relieved it’s not Frank. Is there anything else you want to tell me?’

‘Not at this time.’

‘Now, down to business.’ He turned his palm over.

‘Stop it!’ she laughed, giving him a swat.

‘Why not?’ he asked, offering his hand in earnest. ‘After all, it doesn’t mean anything, does it?’

She didn’t answer. Instead she let him lace his warm fingers through her cool ones, pressing them close.

‘See, that’s not so bad, Katie.’

‘It’s dreadful.’

Still, they sat looking out at the street for some time; letting go only on the arrival of their supper.

Afterwards they walked over to Marine Ices where he bought her a pistachio ice cream and a chocolate for himself. They strolled, in the warm night air, along Primrose Hill, sitting on a bench at the top, overlooking London.

‘It’s late.’

‘Yes.’

‘Shall we go?’

‘If you like.’

They didn’t move.

After a while, Cate pointed to the dim shadow in the far distance. ‘What do you think that is?’

‘Some structure of great architectural and cultural importance.’

‘Hmm.’

He indicated a guidepost a few feet away from them. ‘We can look on the map over there.’

‘Yes …’

They sat, gazing up at the few stars that blinked in the filmy night sky.

‘You have a scar on your forehead.’

‘Yeah. I don’t remember getting it. I fell or something when I was a baby.’

A gust of wind tossed the branches of the trees. London glimmered in the distance, like a faraway fairground, all the attractions, music and noise packed up, put away for the night.

‘Do you miss New York?’

She turned. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. There’s no need to be cagey — it’s a harmless question.

‘I’m not cagey.’

He smirked.

‘Stop smirking.’

‘Fine, smirk-free, do you miss New York?’

‘Sometimes.’

He stretched his long legs out in front of him. ‘And what about, you know, your … relationship?’

‘Why? Why do you want to know?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ ‘I’m conducting a survey or maybe I work for MI5 or perhaps I’m just asking a normal question. You decide.’

She sighed heavily.

‘Is it that bad?’

‘The thing was …’ She stopped, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

‘What?’

‘It wasn’t straightforward.’

‘Few things are nowadays.’