‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘I don’t really know what I want you to say, or not say, Lawrie,’ I admitted. ‘I just know that when I heard you were miserable, that made me sad. And I realized I’d been miserable too. And I was wondering whether it might be a bit easier – if we were miserable together.’
Quiet on the line again. ‘Are you – asking me on a date, Odelle?’
I didn’t – couldn’t – say anything. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything,’ Lawrie went on. ‘Thank you. Let me just check my diary – oh, no need. I’m free.’
A pleasurable warmth spread through my stomach and I couldn’t hide the smile in my voice. ‘Convenient,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Now, where would you like to meet?’
XIII
We met early the next morning, as early as we could, in the middle of Skelton Square, before I started work and Lawrie went in to see Reede. He was clutching a bottle of champagne. ‘For your first published story,’ he said, handing it over. ‘That’s vintage, you know. Sorry about the dust. Nicked it from the house.’
‘Gosh, thank you.’
‘Actually . . . I knew about the London Review.’
‘What?’
‘We do take modern periodicals in Surrey, you know. I read it.’ He looked down at his shoes. ‘It was just brilliant.’
‘Shut up.’ I took the bottle, my head about to explode with pleasure. I read the label: Veuve Clicquot. ‘Lawrie, can we start again?’ I said.
He sighed. ‘I don’t know if that’s possible.’
I sat down on the bench, trying to bat away my despondence. I was so sure he’d say yes. He was here, wasn’t he? ‘I suppose not,’ I said, looking up at him.
‘You could hit me over the head with that champagne bottle,’ he suggested.
‘What?’
‘Knock the memories out of me. But then I’d lose the first time I saw you, reading that poem. Or the first time I spoke to you; those yellow rubber gloves. Or the way you pretended to like the Bond film, your nose all wrinkled up. Or when you out--danced me at the Flamingo and the manager offered you a job, or when you told me about that idiot in the shoe shop. Or when we had that shepherd’s pie, and I messed everything up. It’s all part of it, Odelle. It’s not going to be perfect. Personally, I don’t want it to be. I’d go through that horrible drive up the A3 again, just for the sweetness of hearing your voice after so long. I wouldn’t change any of it. I don’t want to start again, because that would make me lose memories of you.’
I couldn’t say anything for a moment. Lawrie sat down next to me and I felt the warm solidity of his body. I took a deep breath. ‘I – get scared,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how else to explain it. I get feelings that I’m lost, that I’m no good, that if someone likes me there must be something wrong with them.’
‘But why?’
‘Well, if I knew that, Lawrie . . . and when I met you, I told you things I’d never told anyone. Then you swept in with your declaration that you loved me, and – well – it felt that like you were filling out a form, obeying some pattern.’
‘A pattern?’
‘Of what -people do, what they think they’re supposed to say.’
‘No one tells me what to say.’
‘But I also realized I didn’t want you not to say it. I just wanted you to say it – when I wanted to hear it.’
He laughed. ‘You really are a writer, aren’t you? All right. How about, whenever I feel that I might be about to say I’ve fallen in love with you, or that I love you, or that you’re wonderful, we agree on a sign that such a declaration is coming – and you recognize the sign, and give me the go ahead or not as to whether I can say it.’
‘You make me sound mad.’
‘I’m joking. I’m sorry. Whatever you need. I just want to see you, Odelle. Is that OK?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I hesitated. ‘More than OK.’
‘Good. Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and hear what the venerable Mr Reede has to say.’
?
‘Good morning, Odelle,’ Quick said, stopping smoothly at my door. Lawrie had been with Reede for about thirty minutes. Quick looked tired, a little apprehensive. Her appearance was a world away from my first week, when she had breezed up to my typewriter and suggested a light lunch – in order to pick my brains – for what exactly, I still wasn’t sure.
‘Good morning, Quick.’
She froze, her eyes on the champagne bottle standing on the desk. ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked.
I swallowed, intimidated by the look on her face. ‘Lawrie gave it to me.’
She turned her gaze to me. ‘Friends again?’
‘Yes. He’s here. He’s talking to Reede,’ I said. ‘I think they’re discussing the exhibition.’
‘I know they are. I scheduled the meeting.’ Quick came in, closing the door. To my surprise, she walked over and sat down opposite me, taking the bottle in her lap. ‘Lawrie gave this to you?’
‘To say well done for getting “The Toeless Woman” published. Is there something wrong with it?’
She ran her thumb across the neck, leaving a clean smear through the dust. ‘It’s vintage,’ she said.
‘I know that. Quick—-’
‘Odelle, what happened on Friday night—-’
I sat up straighter. ‘Yes?’
‘It shouldn’t have happened. I broke a professional barrier when I told you about my illness. I’ve compromised you. I’ve compromised myself. I don’t want the attention.’
‘You’ve done rather a good job of getting mine, though.’
She looked at me, sharply, but I refused to shrink away. ‘I want you to know – that whatever happens – your job is completely safe.’
‘Safe?’
Quick seemed to suffer a spasm of pain, and the bottle sagged heavily in her lap. ‘They’ve got me on rather strong painkillers,’ she said. ‘No choice but to take them now. I’m hallucinating. I can’t sleep.’