Untold Story (26 page)

“You boys playing nicely?” said Mrs. Jackson. “You wouldn’t believe how far I had to go to get the clotted cream!” She was wearing her knotted strand of pearls. She’d had her hair freshly set. Her voice was perpetually addressed to the back of the auditorium but it lifted with extra verve and vibrato today.

“You carry on,” she said, and gestured as if waving away all offers of help. “I’ll get the tray ready.”

Grabowski moved his bishop from king four to queen five. He practiced again with the mirror. He turned his head to the door and back again, making a mental map of how clearly she would see him. She would see him all right. And she wouldn’t realize that he could see her.

“Oh, Mr. Grabowski!” Mrs. Jackson was calling him from the kitchen. Grabowski checked his watch. One minute past five. She could arrive anytime.

“Oh, Mr. Grabowski!”

“Hello there.”

Mrs. Jackson’s voice was so animated she was practically singing. “Would you mind awfully giving me a hand?”

Yes, he would mind awfully. He would mind awfully if she cocked this whole thing up for him. He had to stay in his seat in case Lydia arrived.

Mr. Jackson attempted a wink. His eyebrow didn’t exactly spring back in place. He helped it along with a finger. “Play it safe,” he said.

“I’m coming,” Grabowski called out, and nearly tipped the chessboard over. He had to get back to his seat as soon as possible.

At twenty past five she had still not arrived. Grabowski was losing the game. Mr. Jackson had all but cornered his king with a castle and two pawns. Mrs. Jackson was on sentry duty at the window. Grabowski’s shoulders were beginning to ache from hunching over the board.

Mr. Jackson was due to make the next move. It was like waiting for a tectonic plate shift. But the last thing Grabber wanted was for the game to be over before Lydia arrived. He wouldn’t be hurrying his opponent along.

“Here she is,” trilled Mrs. Jackson. Grabowski tracked the sound of her heels across the floor. The muscle of his right shoulder went into spasm. He needed to stretch it out but he didn’t dare move.

He was in the exact right position, his view as clear as it was covert.

“Now, boys,” said Mrs. Jackson as she and Lydia entered the room. “Sorry to interrupt the tournament but there are introductions to be made.”

Grabowski waited a few beats as if lost in thought, before turning toward them, rolling his shoulder. “Beginning to seize up there, Mrs. Jackson. And your husband seems to have me on the run.”

“Lydia Snaresbrook, John Grabowski,” said Mrs. Jackson, flourishing her arm at each in turn.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Grabber. He stood up to shake hands.

She returned the line with perfect equanimity and he looked directly into her eyes. “I’d say please do finish,” she continued, “but I think you may have lost your opponent rather than the game.”

Grabowski looked at Mr. Jackson, who had indeed fallen asleep. Lydia laughed her crystalline laugh, and Mrs. Jackson trumpeted hers, before ushering them to sit down.

“Would you care for another scone?” said Mrs. Jackson. “They don’t keep long. Lydia, will you take a few home? Oh, Otis, please get down from there.” She went to rescue Otis, who had jumped from tapestry stool to rosewood side table, and from there to the top of a vacant black-lacquered plinth that rocked on its base as he tried to maneuver himself into position to scramble down.

“So what do you write about?” said Lydia.

“He’s a photographer too,” called Mrs. Jackson. “I’m going to take these dogs in the backyard. Come along, Rufus. Yes, and you, Otis.”

He had rehearsed this over and over all morning, how this conversation would go. He’d practiced some of his answers out loud. Before she had swum into view in the mirror he had been rigid with nerves. Now that the distance between his feet and hers was no greater than the length of a telescopic lens, he was supremely calm. In his mind he composed a frame of the two of them together, as if snapped from the other side of the room. Him with his arm resting carelessly across the back of the sofa; her on the Queen Anne chair with ankles neatly crossed.

“Oh, and a photographer,” said Lydia. “What kind of pictures do you take?”

She betrayed not a single sign of discomposure. They had been chatting for some time and she had answered all his questions with self-deprecating humor and charm. Of course she would be good at this. He had been practicing a single morning. She for ten years by now.

“I’m working on a project about small towns over here and back at home. Street life, local color, local characters. But basically I’m a photojournalist. I’ve taken photographs of a lot of famous people over the years.”

“Celebrities?” said Lydia. “That must be fascinating.”

Even before this new life, lying was part of her daily routine. He guessed it had to be. All the things she’d get up to, the way she’d try to cover her tracks. Spinning stories to favored columnists, smuggling men into her apartment, denying their existence. She had a reputation for slyness. You couldn’t blame her, but it was well deserved.

“You name them,” he said, “actors, musicians, royalty, television presenters, the lot.”

Lydia poured out the tea that was left in the pot. “Gosh, that does sound glamorous. What made you decide to switch from that?”

He was careful not to look at her too hard as she played out her moves.

“I’ll switch back,” he said. “This project won’t pay many bills.” Maybe he would actually do this mythical project. If he got rich enough (and he might) that’s what he would do. “But I kind of slid into this, to be honest, started taking the photographs, then the whole thing kind of grew.”

“Peace and quiet,” said Mrs. Jackson, bustling back, “now that the children are playing outside.” She blew her nose. “Oh dear, these allergies. I need to take an antihistamine. I thought you two would get along. Not just the British connection. I do have a knack for predicting how well people will mix. We used to do a lot of entertaining, and though I say it myself, my soirees were quite famous, because I knew exactly who to put with whom. Excuse me another moment. I’ll be right back.”

Lydia smiled at Grabowski. He smiled at her and for a moment they were genuine conspirators, allies in their amusement.

“The whole thing just grew,” said Lydia. She was, perhaps, more handsome than beautiful in her jeans and gray T-shirt. Although her blue eyes were luminous.

She had a reputation for slyness. He wouldn’t dispute it. She had a reputation for being dim. Grabowski wouldn’t go along with that. Not as clever as she thought herself, but far from stupid. She’d work her little tricks. When he first started photographing her, before the engagement was announced, he’d been hanging around outside her apartment block when she’d come down carrying a suitcase and two bags.

“If you give me a hand to the car,” she’d said, “I’ll let you take my picture.”

She offered to carry his camera in return. She kept him talking while they walked to her mini and he stuffed the bags in the back. Before he knew it she’d jumped into the driver’s seat and wound the window down. “You’re a poppet,” she said, and drove off with his camera. He got it delivered to the office a week later.

“I must be getting old,” he said. “You know you’re getting old when you start wondering if you’ve done enough with your life. Guess the attraction had gone a bit, you know, out of the celebrity thing. All that’s pretty ephemeral.”

“And you’re writing about the towns too?” She kept the conversation flowing easily. Perhaps, thought Grabber, a shade too easily. A few conversational bumps in the road between strangers would be more realistic.

“I’m working on a text to go with the photographs. Writing’s not my strong point, but I’m getting along.”

His cell phone rang. “Sorry,” he said, and pulled it out of his pocket. “Gareth, mate, I’ll call you back.”

“Don’t hang up,” said Gareth. “You’re sitting on a fucking time bomb and you don’t know it. I need to talk to you right now.”

“I’ve got to take this,” said Grabowski, “if you don’t mind.”

He walked upstairs to his room, passing Mrs. Jackson on her way down. “Bring your camera with you, Mr. Grabowski, when you’re through. If you’d like to take a picture of Lydia and me for your art project, I’m sure we’d both oblige. Don’t be shy.”

“This better be important,” said Grabowski. His agent had a sixth sense. He knew all the wrong times to call.

“It’s not a matter of life and death,” said Gareth.

“Great.”

“It’s more important than that. It’s a matter of money. I talked to your publisher today and they are not going to extend your deadline. It’s already pushed to the wire. You’ve got to shit or get off the pot.”

“You have such a way with words.”

“I sweat blood for you,” said Gareth. “Don’t let me down.”

“Gareth,” said Grabowski, “fuck off.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay a little longer, Lydia?” said Mrs. Jackson, when Grabowski walked back into the sitting room.

Lydia stood up. “I’m taking Maya out to the movies,” she said. “I’ll just collect Rufus and then I’m afraid I do have to go. I’d love to take a couple of those scones with me, they’re so delicious.”

“Isn’t she splendid?” said Mrs. Jackson, as Lydia went out to get her dog. “Didn’t you bring your camera down?”

Grabowski ran the permutations. If the old lady was still going on about it when Lydia said good-bye, how would it look if he refused? How would it look if he said yes? What about if he agreed reluctantly? He could think of ways in which any of those options could seem suspicious. He’d like to strangle his landlady with her pearls. When he thought what care he had taken, how well it was going, and then she comes along with her innocent, preening sabotage.

“Do you know what?” he said, lowering his voice. He looked earnestly into her eyes. “Do you know what, I’d love you to be in my book, Mrs. Jackson, but let’s do it tomorrow when the light’s better. Just you and me.”

“Oh, the light,” she said, fluttering her sparse lashes, “that is
so
important. When I was directing stage plays, it was only the local amateur dramatics society, but we were quite the professional outfit and I always . . . Ah, Lydia, are you off ?”

“Thank you so much,” said Lydia. “I do have to go, yes. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Grabowski. Good luck with everything.”

“I had a dog when I was a boy,” he said, looking at Rufus. “Highland terrier. He ran into the road, got hit by a car. I was completely devastated.”

“You poor thing.” She touched his arm.

They accompanied her to the front door. “One thing I wanted to ask you,” she said, turning, “what was it that brought you to Kensington in particular? There are a lot of small towns to choose from, aren’t there?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I worked a lot in Kensington, the one in London, covering the royals. When I saw it on the map, I thought, well, I’ve got to check that out. What about you?”

“I was actually looking in some of the other towns in the county. But I couldn’t find the right house, then I found it, in Kensington. I do love it here.” She waved back at them as she ran down the steps, carefree and girlish, her long dark hair lifting off her shoulders, and for an instant it was hard to believe that she wasn’t just what she seemed to be.

Grabowski took his laptop and his camera bag and got in the Pontiac and drove. He couldn’t stand to be shut in his room right now, he needed to drive and think. If he decided to review what he’d got in his laptop, well, he was used to working in a car. He didn’t want Mrs. Jackson coming in to ask questions about what she no doubt thought of as tomorrow’s “photo shoot.” Bless her, though. Bless Mrs. Jackson. She’d been very useful. It had been easy to avoid Lydia. ( Why had the name stuck? Was that a sign that he wanted to let her go, didn’t have the guts to see this through?) Even in a town this size it had been easy to avoid Lydia seeing him, because if you’re the one doing the following you know where the target is. The problem doesn’t arise. But meeting her without blowing it, that would have been difficult, without dear old Mrs. Jackson on his side.

Lydia had hardly put a foot wrong. It almost seemed a shame that wasn’t enough. But that was just life. She’d played a good game. He’d give her that.

One slipup she’d made—she wouldn’t realize it—when he’d said that he photographed celebrities she didn’t ask for names. Who? she should have said. Everyone wanted names, except her because she already knew.

He couldn’t fault her really, though. That would only have given him more material with which to speculate and what he had needed was to prove it to himself before he took the next irreversible steps.

He should go and celebrate. But he wouldn’t go back to that bar. He didn’t feel like being around anyone right now, not that failed artist for sure. He pulled over at a liquor store and bought a bottle of Woodstone Creek, and swigged it from the brown paper bag.

“Here’s to you too, Mr. Jackson, partner,” he said, raising the bag aloft. “I’ll remember you in my prayers.”

He’d had a clear view of Lydia in the mirror and she hadn’t seen him looking. By the time he’d shaken himself out of his chess-induced reverie she’d composed her face. But there was no mistaking the shock of recognition that had initially flooded it. He was the last person she’d expected to see there. Hats off to her for recovering so well. He lifted the brown paper bag again.