‘I not left. On the other end of the tube map, is all.’
‘Like you worried I got nothing to do these days. Don’t worry, I writin’,’ I said, but this was a lie. I had stopped entirely at this point, believing that the idea of myself as a good writer was laughable.
‘Good. I glad you writin’,’ said Cynth firmly. ‘You know, there a poetry night going at the ICA,’ she went on. ‘Sam’s friend is readin’, and he a real dotish boy compare to you. Him poem be sendin’ me to sleep—-’
‘I not readin’ at some meet--up, Cynthia,’ I said, wrinkling my nose. ‘Make no mistake.’
She sighed. ‘I not. Just that you do better, Odelle. You do better and you know it, and you do nothin’.’
‘Eh heh,’ I said. ‘I busy. I work. You go with your G Plan and stop all this foolishness. What, because I got no husban’ feet to worry me, I better go speakin’ my poetry an’ ting?’
Cynthia looked distraught. ‘Delly! Why you so vex? Me only try to help.’
‘Me not vex.’ I drained my cup of tea. ‘It all right for you,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me how to live.’
Cynth was quiet after that. I should have said sorry then and there, but I didn’t. She left soon after, pinch--faced with tears, and I felt like a monster come out of the sea to grab her legs.
We didn’t meet up the next week, or the one after that, and she didn’t ring. Neither did I, and I felt so embarrassed, such a fool – a real dotish gyal, as Cynth no doubt described me that night to Sam. The longer she was silent, the more impossible it seemed to pick up the telephone.
All I really wanted to say was that I missed us living together. And I was someone who was supposed to be good with words.
VI
Lawrie found me on the fifteenth of August. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and I was doing the early reception shift. Shops were still shut, the buses that moved along Charing Cross Road were less frequent. I walked on to the Mall, and the long thoroughfare, usually busy, was an empty road of greenish light. It had been raining for a week, and the paving stones were wet from a dawn downpour, trees springing in the breeze like fronds beneath the sea.
I’d seen much worse rain than this, so I wasn’t too bothered, tucking the copy of the Express I’d bought for Pamela into my handbag to protect it from any spatters, crossing up Carlton Gardens and over the circular centre of Skelton Square. I passed the plinth of the long--dead statesman adorning the middle point, a blank--eyed fellow whose frock coat was messed by pigeons. In the past, I would have found out who he was – but five years in London had purged my interest in old Victorian men. The statue’s infinite gaze made me feel even more exhausted.
I glanced up towards the Skelton. A young man was standing by the doors, tall and slim, wearing a slightly battered leather jacket. He had a narrow face and very dark brown hair. As I approached, I knew that it was him. I could feel my throat tighten, a little hop in the gut, a thudding swipe to the breast. I approached the steps, fetching the Skelton door key out of my handbag. Lawrie was wearing glasses this time, and their lenses glinted in the subterranean light. He was carrying a parcel under his arm, wrapped in that brown paper butchers used to wrap their slabs of meat.
He grinned at me. ‘Hello,’ he said.
What was it like to see Lawrie smile? I can try: it was as if a healer had placed their hands upon my chest. My kneecaps porridge, jaw tingling, no hope to swallow. I wanted to throw my arms around him and say, ‘It’s you, you came.’
‘Hello,’ I said instead. ‘Can I help?’
His smile faltered. ‘You don’t remember? We met, at the wedding. I came along with Barbara’s gang. You read a poem, and you wouldn’t go dancing with me.’
I frowned. ‘Oh, yes. How do you do?’
‘How do I do? Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?’
‘It’s seven o’clock in the morning, Mr . . . . ?’
‘Scott,’ he said, the joy draining from his face. ‘Lawrie Scott.’
I walked past him and put the key in the lock, fumbling as I did so. What was wrong with me? Despite all my fantasies about how this was going to play out, faced with the reality, I was being just as obstructive as I had been before. I pushed inside and he followed me. ‘Are you here to see somebody?’ I said.
He gave me a hard look. ‘Odelle. I have visited every art gallery, every museum in this bloody city, trying to find you.’
‘To find me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You couldn’t find me in five weeks? You could have just asked Patrick Minamore.’
He laughed. ‘So you were counting.’ I blushed and looked away, busying myself with the post. He held up the brown--paper package, and said, ‘I’ve brought the lion girls.’
I couldn’t conceal the suspicion in my voice. ‘Who are they?’
He grinned. ‘My girls in Mother’s painting. I’ve taken your advice. Do you think someone will have a look at them for me?’
‘I’m sure they will.’
‘I looked up those initials you pointed out, I.R. Didn’t find a single name. So it’s probably not worth anything at all.’
‘Are you planning on selling it?’ I asked, my head still fizzing, my heart thumping uncomfortably as I moved around the other side of the wooden counter. I’d never been so direct with a boy before in my life.
‘Maybe. See what happens.’
‘But I thought it was your mother’s favourite?’
‘I was my mother’s favourite,’ he said, laying the parcel on the counter with a grim smile. ‘Only joking. I don’t want to sell it, but if it’s worth something, it will get me started, you see. Any minute, Gerry the Bastard – excuse my French – could kick me out.’
‘Don’t you work?’
‘Work?’
‘Don’t you have a job?’
‘I’ve had jobs in the past.’
‘The dim and distant?’