A Traitor to Memory

Or is the consideration of Libby right now a blind that helps cloud whatever it is that the blue door represents? And how the hell am I to know?

When Libby returned to Chalcot Square, she didn't bang on my door or phone me. Nor did she announce her presence through the means of either the Suzuki's engine gunning explosively outside or pop music blaring from her flat. The only way I knew that she was back at all was from the sudden sound of the old pipes clanging from within the walls of the building. She was having a bath.

I gave her forty minutes' leeway once the pipes were silent. Then I went downstairs, outside, and down the steps to her front door. I hesitated before knocking, almost giving up the idea of trying to mend my fences with her. But at the last moment when I thought, To hell with it, which I realise was my way of turning tail and running off, I found that I didn't want to be at odds with Libby. If nothing else, she'd been such a friend. I missed that friendship, and I wanted to make sure I still had it.

Several knocks were required to get a response from her. Even when she did answer, she asked, “Who is it?” from behind the closed door although she knew very well that I was the only person likely to be calling on her in Chalcot Square. I was patient with this. She's upset with me, I told myself. And, all things considered, that's her right.

When she opened the door, I said the conventional thing to her. “Hullo. I was worried about you. When you disappeared …”





“Don't lie,” was her reply, although she didn't say it unkindly. She'd had time to dress, and she was wearing something other than her usual garb: a colourful skirt that dangled to her calves, a black sweater that reached her hips. Her feet were bare, although she had a gold chain round her ankle. She looked quite nice.

“It's not a lie. When you left, I thought you'd gone to work. When you didn't come back … I didn't know what to think.”





“Another lie,” she said.

I persisted, telling myself, The fault is mine. I'll take the punishment. “May I come in?”





She stepped back from the door in a movement that was not unlike a complete body shrug. I walked into the flat and saw that she'd been assembling a meal for herself. She had it laid out on the coffee table in front of the futon that serves as her sofa, and it was completely unlike her usual fare of take-away Chinese or curry: a grilled chicken breast, broccoli, and a salad of lettuce and tomatoes.

I said, “You're eating. Sorry. Shall I come back later?” and I hated the formality that I heard in my voice.

She said, “No problem as long as you don't mind if I eat in front of you.”





“I don't mind. Do you mind being watched while you eat?”





“I don't mind.”





It was a conversational check and counter-check. There were so many things that she and I could talk about and so many things that we were avoiding.

I said, “I'm sorry about the other day. About what happened. Between us, that is. I'm going through a bad patch just now. Well, obviously, you know that already. But until I see it through, I'm not going to be right for anyone.”





“Were you before, Gideon?”





I was confused. “Was I what?”





“Right for anyone.” She went back to the sofa, tucking her skirt beneath her as she sat, an oddly feminine movement that seemed completely out of character.

“I don't know how to answer that honestly and be honest with myself,” I said. “I'm supposed to say Yes, I was right in the past and I'll be right again. But the truth of the matter is that I might not have been. Right, that is. I might not ever have been right for anyone, and I might never be. And that's all I know just now.”





She was drinking water, I saw, not Coke, as had been her preference since I had known her. She had a glass with a slice of lemon floating amid the ice cubes, and she took this up as I was speaking and she watched me over the rim as she drank. “Fair enough,” she said. “Is that what you've come to tell me?”





“As I said, I was worried about you. We didn't part on good terms. And when you left and didn't return … I suppose I thought you might have … Well, I'm glad you're back. And well. I'm glad you're well.”





“Why?” she asked. “What did you think I might have done? Jumped into the river or something?”





“Of course not.”





“Then?”





I didn't see at the moment that this was the wrong road to be traveling down. Idiotically, I turned into it, assuming it would take us to the destination that I had in mind. I said, “I know your position in London is tenuous, Libby. So I wouldn't blame you for … well, for doing whatever you felt you needed to do to shore it up … Especially since you and I parted badly. But I'm glad you're back. I'm awfully glad. I've missed having you here to talk to.”





“Gotcha,” she said with a wink, although she didn't smile. “I get it, Gid.”





“What?”