The Immaculate (7 page)

The woman smiled. “Okay.” She looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “I thought you'd be taller.”

“Oh dear.”

She ignored the interruption. “I thought you'd be . . . gangly, with short blond hair receding at the front, a thin face, little round glasses. I thought you'd dress more formally than you do. I thought you'd be . . . quietly confident, intellectual, very sensitive, very aloof. I even had a feeling you might be gay.”

“Really?” said Jack, breaking into a grin. “Why?”

She thoughtfully drew back her lips and licked her upper teeth. Jack thought again how gorgeous she was. He could quite happily stay here all afternoon talking to this woman. He was beginning to feel very relaxed, very comfortable, in her presence.

“Because of the sensuality, the sensitivity, in your work. Despite some of the nasty stuff that happens, your good characters are very gentle, very caring. Through your work I imagined you having this shell around you, keeping publicity at arm's length, but inside I thought you'd be like your good characters—very tender, very, very gentle.”

She'd cupped her hands while saying this and brought them up to her chest as though she was holding this inner core of gentleness in the form of a delicate flower. Jack felt strangely moved. He wanted to reach across the table and hug her.

“Sorry to shatter your illusions,” he said, smiling to show he was only half-serious.

She raised her eyes heavenward. “There you go, putting yourself down again. You may not be how I imagined, but that doesn't mean I'm disappointed.”

“Doesn't it?”

“Of course not. You're hunkier looking for a start, and you're much friendlier and more approachable than I thought you'd be.”

Jack gave his soppiest grin. “Shucks, thanks.”

“But don't take that as a chat-up line,” she warned him. “I'm not some fame-hungry groupie, you know.”

Jack laughed and she laughed along with him, causing a few people to turn and look at her. Jack hoped they thought she was his girlfriend or wife. He hoped they were envious.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, “I don't even know your name.”

“Gail,” she said and held out her hand for him to shake. “Gail Reeves.”

Jack took the hand. Her skin was smooth and as warm as it looked. He would have liked to have maintained this contact for a while, but he released the hand almost as soon as he had touched it, as if concerned his desire would somehow translate itself to her.

“Very pleased to meet you,” he said with mock formality. “Would you care to join me in a cup of coffee?”

“Do you think there'll be room for both of us?”

“Oh God, I was hoping you wouldn't say that.”

She laughed and apologised. Over coffee Gail asked Jack more questions about his work. She was intelligent and witty and genuinely interested without being overawed, and he found after a while that he was actually enjoying talking about himself. He asked her about herself, too, and discovered she owned a flat in Tottenham, five minutes walk from Seven Sisters tube station. She was twenty-eight years old, had been a relief teacher for four years, was an avid cinema-goer, loved reading though was so busy she only managed one book a month (though she had read
Song of Flesh
in less than a week!), and ate out more than she could really afford to. Jack wondered if she had a boyfriend; she didn't mention one and the traditional engagement/wedding finger was ringless. He couldn't remember the last time he had hit it off with someone so quickly. Certainly after only an hour in this woman's company he'd established more of a rapport with her than he'd ever managed with Carol. Despite his intention to remain unattached, Jack found himself attempting to pluck up the courage to ask Gail for her address or phone number. He spent an agonizing twenty minutes trying to contrive a situation whereby he could do so before she conveniently provided him with one.

They had returned to the subject of his latest novel,
Consummation,
which had been published in hardback but would not be released in paperback for another six months. Gail had asked Jack to tell her what the book was about. “Whet my appetite,” she'd said, “but don't give anything away.”

“You don't want much, do you?” he said, smiling, and then had launched into a stumbling, long-winded explanation of the themes and ideas behind the book. Usually the question, “What's your book about?” made him want to run in the other direction. Jack thought all plots, especially of the books he wrote, sounded incredibly silly when summarised. It was how they were written that brought them alive, that made the outrageous credible.

“Pretty dumb, huh?” he said ruefully when he had finished.

But Gail's eyes were shining. “No,” she said, “it sounds wonderful. Oh, wow, I can't wait to read it.”

Jack saw the opening he had been waiting for suddenly appear, a great gash of light in his mind's eye, and he went for it before it could close up again. “Tell you what,” he said, hoping his motives would not seem as transparent to Gail as they seemed to him, “as you're so enthusiastic, why don't I send you a copy of the hardback, then you won't have to wait another six months?”

She stared at him, dark eyes wide and breathtakingly appealing, and then slowly her lips spread into a stunning grin. Jack felt that light must be blazing from that grin, brightening the whole restaurant. She said, “Oh, wow, that would be lovely.” Then a small frown appeared. “But I can't ask you to do that. You must think I'm incredibly pushy. I wasn't trying to drop hints, you know.”

Jack shook his head, feeling a little guilty. “I never thought you were. Really, I'd love to send you a book. I've got loads at home. It's not as if you're depriving me of my only copy.”

This wasn't strictly true. Of the dozen complimentary copies that Cormorant had sent him, Jack had only three left. But that's okay, he told himself. He'd be fine with one for people to look at and one to keep on the shelves in pristine condition, and it wasn't as if he couldn't get more if he needed them.

“Okay then,” she said, “if you're sure. You'll need my address, won't you?”

“It would help,” Jack said, “unless you want me to drop the package at some secret location?”

Gail rewarded him with another stunning smile and wrote her address in tiny neat letters in his notepad. Jack zipped the pad into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, and five minutes later he and Gail paid their bills, said their good-byes and went their separate ways.

Jack felt certain he would never see her again. When he arrived home the first thing he did was write a brief note to her that read,
“Dear Gail, Thank you for brightening up my lunchtime. Here's the book I promised you.”
He held his pen poised hesitantly over the page for a moment before signing,
“Love, Jack.”
Trying to make it look casual but as legible as possible, he then printed his address and telephone number in the top right-hand corner of the page. Only then did he listen to his answering machine, which contained a single message from Frank apologising for not turning up.

“That's okay, Frank,” Jack said, looking out of the window at the bright blue sky and feeling very good inside. He took one of his three copies of
Consummation
down from the shelf. “That's very okay indeed.”

He was disappointed, but not entirely surprised, when the following week passed without even an acknowledgement from Gail that she had received his book. Then on Friday evening, at twenty-five past six, the telephone rang. Jack was lying in the bath, snoozing. Beside him was a square wicker basket into which he dumped his dirty washing, and on top of the wicker basket was an empty mug that had contained tea, a half-eaten packet of digestive biscuits, a collection by Robert Aickman called
Powers of Darkness
(which was, in fact, one of the secondhand books that he had bought the previous Friday), and the telephone, the long lead of which snaked out into the hall. Jack came fully awake on the second ring. His arm and hand came out of the bath like a brontosaurus in miniature, water streaming from it. He quickly towelled the hand dry and snatched the phone up. “Hello,” he said.

“Is that Jack Stone?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Hello, Jack. This is Gail here. Gail Reeves. Remember, we met last week in the restaurant?”

As if he would forget! “Gail, hi. Of course I remember. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. You?”

“Oh . . . fine. Listen, Gail, did you get the book?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you so much. I was so thrilled. Actually that's why I'm ringing. I'm sorry I didn't ring earlier, but I wanted to read it before I spoke to you again.”

“Oh, right,” Jack said. He felt a little surge in his heart. So she
had
intended to ring him right from the beginning! It wasn't just guilt or politeness that had prompted this call.

“I thought it was superb,” she said. “I really did. Your best one yet. I actually cried when the little boy died.”

“Great,” said Jack, then laughed. “Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just meant it was great that you felt so emotionally attached to the characters.”

“Oh, I did. The old woman, Florrie, was so lovely. And the wife, too—I liked her a lot. You really know how women think and feel, Jack. It's so refreshing to find a male writer who can write good female characters.”

“Thanks,” he said, flattered by her praise. “I don't really know where that . . . insight, if you want to call it that, comes from, though. I grew up without a mother and I never had any sisters. And I'm not particularly good at relationships.”

He paused, surprised by his own openness; he had already revealed more of himself to Gail in those two sentences than he ever revealed to most people. “Anyway . . . ,” he mumbled to cover his confusion “I . . . er . . . so . . . er . . . what are you up to this weekend?”

“Oh,” she said, “nothing much. I might meet up with some friends for a drink tonight, but then again I might not. I may go see a film tomorrow—I think
Wild at Heart
is on at the NFT. I missed it the first time around.”

“Do you like David Lynch?” Jack asked.

“Well . . . yes. I find his stuff incredibly powerful and compelling, but the intensity is pretty unbearable sometimes. How about you?”

“Oh, yeah, he and Roeg and Cronenberg are my favourite directors. Pretty standard for someone working in my genre, I suppose. Did you see
Blue Velvet
? I think that may be my favourite film of all time.”

“No, I think that's the only one of his I haven't seen.”

“Oh, you must see it. It's excellent.”

“I will,” said Gail.

“In fact, I've got it on DVD. You'll have to come round and watch it sometime.”

“Are you asking me for a date, Jack Stone?” Gail said, and he could almost hear the smile in her voice.

He blushed. “Well, I . . . I mean, if you want to, I . . .”

“It's okay, I know you were just being polite.”

“No, I wasn't! I mean . . . Oh, Christ, look, I would love to see you again. I really would.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

She was silent for a long moment. Jack was beginning to think she had put the phone down, or was about to. “Gail?” he said.

“Okay then,” she said. “Why don't we?”

“What?”

“Why don't we . . . see each other?”

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn't suggest it if I wasn't.”

Jack felt a grin forming on his face. “In that case, why not come round tomorrow night? I could get
Wild at Heart
out as well and we could watch them both. I could get some beers and make some supper . . .” He tailed off, aware that his enthusiasm was running away with him. Clearing his throat, forcing himself to calm down, he said, “Or . . . I don't know, what do you think? Maybe it would be better if we met on neutral ground again first. I mean, you hardly know me, do you? Maybe we—”

“Jack?”

“Er . . . yeah?”

“I'd love to come round to your flat. But are you sure you really want me to? You haven't got anything else planned?”

“No, of course not. It'd be great if you came round. I really do want to see you again.”

“Okay then. What time?”

“Seven-thirty? Eight?”

“I'll be there somewhere in between.”

“Brilliant. I'll see you then.”

“You certainly will. I'll look forward to it.”

“Me too.”

“Bye then, until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, bye.”

The next day Jack tidied and cleaned his flat thoroughly, and then spent a long time striding from room to room, trying to see the place with new, critical eyes. He really wanted Gail to like his flat. It was an extension of his personality and if she liked where he lived, if she felt comfortable here, then Jack felt they would get on well. Over the years he had accumulated a variety of paraphernalia, much of it bizarre, and he spent most of the afternoon wondering whether he should leave it all on show or whether he should hide much of it, let her get used to it in stages. Carol had never felt happy here, and that was something that had constantly set their relationship on edge. In the end, Jack decided to leave everything where it was. If this relationship was going to blossom, then it would be because Gail liked him for exactly who and what he was. He had compromised himself so much with Carol, had found it so disheartening, so soul-destroying, and in the end it still hadn't been enough. However much he wanted Gail to like him, Jack was damned if he was going to stumble into that trap again.

Despite his nerves, the evening was an unmitigated success. Gail did not just like his flat, she loved it; she spent a long time simply walking around exclaiming at things, picking objects up and examining them, asking him where he got this or that. The only time she grimaced was when she saw his bird-eating spider splayed out in its glass case on the wall with a pin through its abdomen. “I'm afraid I don't approve of killing things just to put them on display,” she said.