Exposure Page 19

  'Yes, it was.'

  ' Yes,' she said. She put her key into the lock and he noticed her eyes close tightly for a second. Then she turned back and kissed him on the cheek.' Well. Sleep well, then.'

  'You too, Sylvia,' he told her.

  And so he had passed on, twirling his key on his finger in an imitation of indifference, listening to the sad music of her door clicking shut. His heavy heart had dragged him deep into sleep.

  That had been contemplating infidelity. What exactly was he contemplating now?

  Chapter 9

  Alistair paid the cab driver and walked up the steps of the Ridgeley, past the absurd torches and the cream-jacketed doorman and through the rotating doors. The floor was white marble and the interior walls were made of frosted glass. Ahead there was a reception desk of glass twisted to look like gnarled branches with glass leaves that bounced the light off their rainbow surfaces. Two thin girls in white shift dresses, their hair scraped back, attended to a huge book of reservations. A young Japanese man approached the desk and both girls raised smiling faces.

  To Alistair's left was the entrance to the bar. Sylvia Dolci, he thought, as he went through. They pronounced their Ts a little further forward in their mouths, Italians. He had watched her, anticipating the sight of her tongue against her teeth as she did it. She had shown him a picture of her dark-haired litde girl. 'She's very, very pretty,' he had told her, hoping Sylvia would catch his implication.

  Karen was sitting discreetly in the corner behind the bar. She waved at him as he came in. Her face was a floodlight of youth, a blaring stereo of youth, which he wanted to tell one of his children to turn down immediately. What the hell was he doing?

  'Here we are,' he said calmly, putting down his briefcase. He would have one drink.

  'Whisky and water,' she said, holding out a glass to him. 'That's you done. Me? I still can't decide. They do hundreds of things here. Look.' She held out the clear plastic menu at him.

  It was full of pretentiously conceived drinks that involved improbable verbs: 'muddled' blueberries, 'smashed' limes. Her face was a mixture of confusion, intimidation and excitement. It made him smile. 'Have a Bellini,' he said. 'You can't possibly go wrong with peach juice and champagne.'

  She seemed pleased with this formulation. He had drunk Bellinis with Rosalind on their honeymoon in Rome. But, then, it was not inconceivable that everyone else he knew had drunk Bellinis on their honeymoon in Rome. The waiter stood beside them. 'A Bellini, please,' he said. 'And could we have an ashtray?'

  He lit a match for the cigarette she had been holding uncertainly in the palm of her left hand.

  'Oh, thank you. I've been desperate all day. There's nowhere to smoke any more, is there? Always one of those signs up, spoiling the party.' She scraped her hair off her face.

  This was how she would look leaning back on her elbows in the bath, lifting her wet hair out of the water, he thought. 'Looks nice,' he said, 'your hair back like that.'

  Why on earth did he feel able to speak to this girl so intimately? He checked himself—like a man who has fallen over and wonders if he has torn his coat, scuffed his shoes—and found himself intact. Karen held the cigarette in her teeth and tied back her hair with a band she had on her wrist. He was mystified but increasingly flattered by her desire to please him.

  'Don't you smoke?' she said.

  'Not any more.'

  'Oh, shit, it's gone in my eyes. It only works in black-and-white films, doesn't it—holding it in your mouth like that?'

  'Here.' He held out a napkin for her.

  'I wish you smoked. It makes you feel guilty smoking on your own.'

  She had left a light smudge of mascara under her left eye, which at once made her seem like a child dressing up in her mother's clothes. He wondered if he could draw her attention to it somehow, because it added to a fear that the immaculate young at the other tables were staring at him, appalled or amused.

  'What the hell?' she said, exhaling. 'I can cope with a little guilt.'

  The waiter arrived with the Bellini and a little bowl of what looked to Alistair like broken crackers in self-consciously irregular shapes. He picked one up, wondering what this meant. It sprang from an aesthetic he felt he was too removed from, too old, to appreciate. It tasted like nothing at all.

  'So, d'you like being a brilliant barrister, then?' Karen said. 'You enjoy it all—wearing your wig and cape and all that?'

  'Oh, I went into it for the wig and cape,' he said, smiling.

  'Wigs' she said, rolling her eyes. 'This is so delicious. What's it called again?'

  'A Bellini. I'm surprised Mr Giorgiou didn't introduce you to those.'

  'Mr Giorgiou doesn't take me out much,' she said. 'He spends all his money on gambling anyways. And all the other girls. And you said we shouldn't talk about him.' She lengthened her mouth and put on a mock-pompous voice. 'It's unethical, I'm afraid.'

  It was hard not to like her. She had finished half her drink already—in three gulps—and Alistair watched her push it away. 'Look, I'm rather old and predictable,' he said. 'Why don't you tell me about yourself?'

  'About me?'

  'Yes.'

  She thought for a moment, and then she laughed and picked up the drink again. 'I can't think what to say ... God, I'm nothing special. What can I tell you?' Her mind ran through a series of the actions that apparently constituted her existence—eating toast in the tiny kitchen at home, putting on her makeup in the bathroom mirror, the way she banged drunkenly into the side of the toilet cubicle in a club when she pulled up her knickers and tights. None of it was good enough to tell him. For a moment, she felt despair—the despair that came when she watched her brother stoned unconscious in front of the telly. She felt her feet sweating in the cheap shoes and wondered if there would be dye on her feet.

  Imagine if they made you show your feet, she thought, picturing a surreal humiliation in the hotel lobby, in which wealthy and clean were divided from poor and hopelessly stained. Her heart thudded in anger. I'd kick them in the face, she told herself. Fuck the lot of them.

  'Well, I can tell you what I want to be, if you like,' she said brightly. 'I want to go into fashion—you know, design dresses and stuff. Beautiful dresses and coats and skirts. Maybe I'd do jewellery too. Underwear. Who knows? I'd love that. It's not just bullshit—I've applied for the course and everything.'

  'I didn't doubt it. You seem very determined.'

  She eyed him suspiciously for a second. 'Yes, well, I am. I've had to be, with my family. Not that I do that whole blame-it-all-on-your-parents bullshit American thing, but it does get you down. My parents are just slobs, really. Fat whales on the couch—that type. They drink. My litde brother nicks cars. It's your dream set-up.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'Gives you something to run from, doesn't it? God, don't get me started,' she said, her eyes full of humour, which she abruptly held back. She looked at him, at his suit and tie. She took in the expensive watch, the cufflinks, the good cashmere coat on the seat beside him. He had a handsome face even if he was old. There was friendliness in it, genuine curiosity, which was not how men usually were. Usually they looked at your legs, your tits, over your shoulder until you'd finished talking. They waited to get their sex. And he was nervous, too, which was sweet. He kept glancing at the people at the table near them wondering if they were watching him. She took out another cigarette and he lit a match for her and leant across the table with it. She liked him. Why not tell him about herself? Even though he was posh, he was not like Lexi and his friends, always thinking people hadn't realized who they were and had given them the smaller table or forgotten to comp them the champagne. Alistair looked like he cared more about people than things.

  'So my parents are disgusting,' she said. 'You wouldn't believe it. It's like—as an example—this Christmas my dad wandered off in the middle of our dinner. Mum had done turkey, sprouts, the works. We couldn't believe it because it's usually a row and something out of the fr
eezer, but not this time. This was like your Christmas miracle.

  'But, of course, Dad has to ruin it. Why—who knows? He's just one of those people that spoils things. Like my brother, I guess. Anyway, the exact second it's ready he goes out for a "breath of air" and it all starts to go cold. My sister, Yvonne, she's older than me with three kids and one on the way—I know,' she said, shaking her head at Alistair. 'Birth control? They're always at it, her and Mick. Anyway, Yvonne goes, "Oh, just let him fuck off, Mum, it'll be nicer without him." So we gave his to the dog. Yvonne puts this paper hat on him and sat him on Dad's chair. It was pretty funny. A dog at the head of the table! And it was nicer without Dad—until he didn't come home for a whole week after that.'

  'What on earth had happened?'

  'Drunk.' She swung her head from side to side in time to her words: 'Drunk, drunk, drunk. Bastard got so drunk, when they found him in the doorway of Tesco in the high street he couldn't remember who he was.'

  'My God.'

  'Couldn't remember his own name. He had forgotten his whole life. Can you imagine that?'

  Actually, he could. This evening, he could imagine lying nameless in the doorway of Tesco. 'You need another Bellini,' he said.

  She looked at her empty glass. 'Oh dear. My father's daughter, hey?'

  'Not at all. Please don't if you don't want one. Don't let me—'

  'Oh, no—I'm not being like that. I do want one,' she said. 'But I'm not getting all tipsy on my own, though—you have to as well.'

  He picked up his glass and drained it, returning her smile with his eyes. It was impossible to feel sorry for her, in spite of the depressing family life, which he could imagine only too well. He remembered his mother drinking, laughing in the kitchen with a male guest—the horror of seeing a parent disgraced like that. Why did he not feel sorry for Karen? Perhaps she was simply too young. It was good to be near her. This was doing nobody any harm.

  'Look, shall I order a bottle of champagne?' he said.

  'Oh, a bottle of champagne would be lovely.' She clapped her hands. 'Thank you. That would be lovely.'

  He ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon and some more cigarettes for her—because he had noticed she only had a few in her packet and this felt like the right thing to do. As he ordered, he watched her from the corner of his eye and noticed the way she tempered her excitement, schooling it under her nervous hands, holding it down in her lap. It touched him. He felt moved to nostalgia by the mock-up of knowing sophistication on her face. Must his own face have been like that at one time?

  While they drank the champagne she told him stories about her life, her school, her friends. She spoke well, with a compelling sense of irony that had her rolling her eyes at the ugliness of her family. How superior this was to the tortured secrecy of his own youth, he thought, to the wincing and the clenched fist and the short sharp lessons he had taught himself in the privacy of the loo. He had punished himself viciously for those early catastrophic errors at lunch with Rosalind's family, at dinner with her father at his club. He had left doors open in those days, exposed himself by accident to their scrutiny—

  'But hang on—your parents were married, surely?' his new sister-in-law had asked, silencing the lunch-table. Even the carpet had seemed to hold its breath. And on some other occasion his father-in-law had laughed, sherry in hand, still certain he must have misheard—

  'What? Never been abroad in your whole life?'

  It still made Alistair shudder to remember these incidents. It had never occurred to him to make a joke of his background, as Karen did. But, then, he mustn't forget that times had changed, England had changed. People were 'themselves' now in a way that had not been encouraged when he was young. It had been an unspoken agreement between himself and Rosalind that he should at least appear to be the right sort of young man. How could she have married him otherwise? As it was, her parents had been deeply disappointed by his obvious lack of private wealth.

  'Five of us,' Karen was saying, 'with this fake "Save the Rainforests" tin, dancing to this old Madonna tape. You can't believe people fell for it, really. People actually gave us money.'

  He refilled their glasses and enjoyed the work the champagne was doing on his empty stomach. His face felt flushed—but with exhilaration rather than embarrassment now. The colour had come into her cheeks, too. He thought she was incredibly pretty as she smiled at him, saying, 'God, different worlds, hey?'

  Could sympathy breed desire? He wanted to kiss her panicky mouth, to hold down all the fluttering energy with the weight of his own body. 'No. Not so different,' he said.

  'Oh, come on. You must think I'm awful. Vulgar litde tart.'

  'No. I think you're going to get exactly what you want out of life and that you must be very careful what that is.'

  'Oh, what does that mean? That's one of those Chinese riddles.'

  He laughed. 'Nothing Chinese about it.'

  'You know what I mean. Something that sounds all meaningful but you can't work it out.'

  'Well, I meant it,' he said. 'And it was supposed to be a sort of compliment.'

  She observed him for a moment. 'I've never met a man who said so litde about themselves. I mean, I don't know anything about you. Most guys have found a way to tell you what they earn and what they drive within five minutes. Not you, though.'

  'Maybe I'm too old to show off'

  'You're a man, aren't you?'

  'You don't think we improve with age?'

  'Well, I'll tell you in a bit, shall I? I've only seen you drink.'

  He looked away and tried to rationalize the longing. His mouth was watering and he swallowed. His throat felt swollen. Again he saw her in red stockings, laughing cruelly at his old body.

  She giggled. 'Come on—play fair! You know I've got a no-good thieving brother and a sister at it like a rabbit and two disgusting, drunk parents. I know you've got a grey coat and a briefcase and—what are they? Green? Green eyes. Is that some kind of barrister's trick?'

  'No tricks, no riddles,' he said. 'I think they're green, aren't they? I'm told they're green. My daughter has them.'

  She leant across the table and put her hand on his cheek. He felt her breath on his mouth and his heart jolted.

  'Green,' she said. 'Same age as me, probably—your daughter. What's her name?'

  'Sophie.'

  'Sophie,' she said delicately, trying on the more refined existence like a diamond bracelet.

  She sat back. 'So, what about you, then?'

  'Me?'

  She tilted sideways and glanced under the table. 'You'll have to do. I can't see anyone else.'

  'Goodness, I'm no good at this. Where should I start?'

  He looked so shy, so anxious, she thought. 'Oh, wherever. Just say something.'

  Oddly, it did not occur to him to pick a detail from the past forty years of his life. 'Well, I grew up in Dover,' he said. 'I grew up in grotty seaside Dover in a dingy little boarding-house with my mother. She wasn't married and I don't know who my father was. That was pretty scandalous in those days.'

  A waitress passed with a tray of drinks. He felt his heart racing with a kind of hilarious excitement.

  'My mother always told me they were planning to marry when he got killed in the war, but I suppose it stopped adding up as a story when I reached the age of, oh, about eight. I remember I threw all my toy soldiers into the sea. I can't imagine anyone else believed it at all. Nothing was ever said, though. She was popular in the area—grew up there and so on—and to talk about it would have meant judging her, I suppose. People hid it for her so they could carry on enjoying her company, really. We never discussed it either. I haven't seen her for, God, forty years now—is it forty years?—possibly so as to avoid the conversation.'

  He felt like laughing. Not only had he never told a single person the naked facts of his past, he had never arranged them in this way. Could forty years really have been spent in avoidance of a conversation? Here he was, suddenly able to tell it all to a girl he h
ad never met before.

  Karen was open-mouthed. 'Shit. How come you're so ...' She circled her hand.

  'Educated?'

  'No. So posh-sounding.'

  He laughed hard. Yes, that was the interesting bit. How come he sounded as if he had grown up like his wife, like his own children? 'Oh, it's fake,' he said.

  'What do you mean? What d'you mean its fake?'

  'I mean it's put on. I learnt it at university. I copied my friend Philip's accent.'

  She began to laugh now, uncontrollably, gleefully, and he felt himself tumbling after her, down a grassy hill, landing breathless at the bottom in the sunshine. 'I think that's brilliant,' she said, 'fucking brilliant.' She raised her drink. 'Two old bullshitters?'

  They clinked glasses, but as he drank, she whispered, 'You know what I think?'

  He had no idea what she thought—or what he thought himself. And what did any of it matter? 'No idea,' he said.

  'Let's get a room.'

  His heart almost stopped. He watched her finish her drink and press her lips together with sudden pragmatism. 'It's pricey here, though,' she said.

  'Is it?' he said, not hearing himself speak. He felt rather dizzy after the whisky, which must have been a double, and more than half a bottle of champagne. He had only had a bit of shepherd's pie for lunch.

  'Yeah, it's pricey. But what's money for?' Karen said.

  He stared at her in a kind of blank panic and she stared back. She seemed to want an answer. 'I don't know,' he said quickly. 'I'm not sure.'

  It was true: he didn't know what money was for. He had known when the children were at home, when there were school fees to be paid, family holidays to go on. And he had bought Rosalind a pearl necklace with an emerald and diamond clasp for her fifty-ninth birthday. That was something. Something beautiful in a velvet box: 'the good things in life'. Wasn't that a phrase of his mother's? He remembered how he had loathed the pleasure she took in her 'precious' ornaments. He had run away from her 'good things in life', dreading them physically as if they were radioactive waste.