‘There are only two or three human stories, and they go on
repeating themselves as fiercely as if they have never happened
before, like larks that have been singing the same five notes for
thousands of years.’
I had scribbled this down in a notebook after reading it in a novel
the night before I was due to meet Michael and was looking forward
to slipping it into our conversation at dinner, despite knowing his
likely reaction (negative, dismissive – he was always sceptical about
anything that could even vaguely be termed ‘romantic’). He was a
lecturer in European literature, on which he took an uncompromising
post-structuralist stance, as if books were just meat for the
butcher’s block, mere muscle and tendon, bone and cartilage, which
required flensing and separating and scrutiny. For his part, Michael
found my thinking on the subject of fiction both emotional and
unrigorous; this meant that at the start of our relationship we had
the most furious arguments, which hurt me so personally that I
was brought to the edge of tears; but now, seven years in, we were
able to bait one another cheerfully. Anyway, it made a change from
discussing, or avoiding, the subject of Anna, or the future.
To begin with it had been hard to live like this, on snatched
moments, the future always in abeyance, but I had got used to it
little by little, so that now my life had a recognizable pattern to it.
It was a bit pared down and lacking in what others might consider
crucial areas, but it suited me. Or so I told myself, time and time
again.
I dressed with particular care for dinner: a devore´ silk blouse, a
tailored black skirt that skimmed the knees, stockings (Michael was
predictably male in his preferences), a pair of suede ankle-strap
shoes in which I could just about manage the half-mile to the
restaurant and back. And my favourite hand-embroidered shawl:
bursts of bright pansies worked on a ground of fine black cashmere.
I’ve always said you have to be an optimist to be a good embroiderer.
A large piece (like the shawl) can take six months to a
year of inspired and dedicated work. Determination too: a dogged
spirit like that of a mountaineer, taking one measured step at a time
rather than panicking at the thought of the whole immense task,
the crevasse field and the headwall of ice. You may think I exaggerate
the difficulties: a bit of cloth, a needle and thread – how hard
can it be? But once you’ve laid out a small fortune on cashmere
and another on the silks, or you’re under a tight deadline for some
nervous girl’s wedding, or an exhibition, and you must not only
design and plan but also complete a million stitches, I can tell you
the pressure is palpable.
We were meeting at Enoteca Turi, near the southern end of
Putney Bridge, a smart Tuscan restaurant which we usually reserved
for celebrations. There were no birthdays looming, no publications
or promotions, that I knew of. The last would, in any case, have
been hard for me to achieve, since I ran my own business and even
the word ‘business’ was something of a stretch for my one-woman
enterprise: a tiny craft shop in the Seven Dials. This was more of
an indulgence than a money-making concern. An aunt had died
five years ago, leaving me a decent legacy; my mother had followed
two years later, and I was the only child. The lease on the shop had
fallen into my lap; it had less than a year to run, and I hadn’t decided
what to do with it at the end of that time. I made more money
from commissions than from the so-called business, and even those
were more of a way of passing time, stitching away the minutes
while awaiting my next tryst with Michael.
I arrived early. They do say relationships are usually weighted in
favour of one party, and I reckoned I was carrying seventy per cent
of ours. This was partly due to circumstances, partly to temperament,
both mine and Michael’s. He reserved himself from the world
most of the time; I was the emotional profligate.
I took my seat with my back to the wall, gazing out at the other
diners like a spectator at a zoo. Mostly couples in their thirties, as
we were: well off, well dressed, well spoken, if a bit loud. Snippets
of conversation drifted to me:
‘What is fagioli occhiata di Colfiorito, do you know?’
‘So sad about Justin and Alice . . . lovely couple . . . what will
they do with the house?’
‘What do you think of Marrakech next month, or would you
prefer Florence again?’
Nice, normal, happy people with sensible jobs, plenty of money
and solid marriages; with ordered, comfortable, conforming lives.
Rather unlike mine. I looked at them all embalmed in the golden
light and wondered what they would make of me, sitting here in
my best underwear, new stockings and high heels, waiting for my
one-time best friend’s husband to arrive.
Probably be as envious as hell, suggested a wicked voice in my
head.
Probably not.
Where was Michael? It was twenty past eight, and he’d have to
be home by eleven, as he was always at pains to point out. A quick
dinner, a swift fuck: it was the most I could hope for; and maybe
not even that. Feeling the precious moments ticking away, I began
to get anxious. I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell on the special
reason he had suggested Enoteca. It was an expensive place, not
somewhere you would choose on a whim; not on the salary of a
part-time lecturer, supplemented by desultory, amateurish bookdealing,
not if you were – like Michael – careful with your money.
I took my mind off this conundrum by ordering a bottle of Rocca
Rubia from the sommelier and sat there with my hands clasped
around the vast bowl of the glass as if holding the Grail itself, waiting
for my deeply flawed Sir Lancelot to arrive. In the candlelight, the
contents sparkled like fresh blood.
At last he burst through the revolving door with his hair in
disarray and his cheeks pink as if he’d run all the way from Putney
Station. He shrugged his coat off impatiently, transferring briefcase
and black carrier bag from hand to hand as he wrestled his way out
of the sleeves, and at last bounded over, grinning manically, though
not quite meeting my eye, kissed me swiftly on the cheek and sat
down into the chair the waiter pushed forward for him.
‘Sorry I’m late. Let’s order, shall we? I have to be home . . .’
‘. . . by eleven, yes, I know.’ I suppressed a sigh. ‘Tough day?’
It would be nice to know why we were here, to get to the nub
of the evening, but Michael was focused on the menu now, intently
considering the specials and which one was most likely to offer
value for money.
‘Not especially,’ he said at last. ‘Usual idiot students, sitting
there like empty-headed sheep waiting for me to fill them up with
knowledge – except the usual know-it-all big mouth showing
off to the girls by picking a fight with the tutor. Soon sorted that
one out.’
I could imagine Michael fixing some uppity twenty-year-old
with a gimlet stare before cutting him mercilessly down to size in
a manner guaranteed to get a laugh from the female students.
Women loved Michael. We couldn’t help ourselves. Whether it
was his saturnine features (and habits, to boot), the louche manner
or the look in those glittering black eyes, the cruelly carved mouth
or the restless hands, I didn’t know. I had lost perspective on such
matters long ago.
The waiter took our order, and we were left without further
excuse for equivocation. Michael reached across the table and rested
his hand on mine, imprisoning it against the white linen. At once
the familiar burst of sexual electricity charged up my arm, sending
shockwaves through me. His gaze was solemn: so solemn that I
wanted to laugh. He looked like an impish Puck about to confess
to some heinous crime.
‘I think’, he said carefully, his gaze resting on a point about two
inches to the left of me, ‘we should stop seeing each other. For a
while, at least.’
So much for discussing larks. The laugh that had been building
up burst out of me, discordant and crazy-sounding. I was aware of
people staring.
‘What?’
‘You’re still young,’ he said. ‘If we stop this now, you can find
someone else. Settle down. Have a family.’
Michael hated the very idea of children: that he would wish them
on me was confirmation of the distance he wanted to put between
us.