فصل 14

14

These are the places it is not a good idea to drink alone if youre female.

Bazookas this used to be the White Horse, a quiet pub on the corner opposite the coffee shop, stuffed with sagging plush velvet benches and the occasional horse brass, its sign half obscured by age-related paint loss. Now it is a neon-clad titty bar, where businessmen go late, and taut-faced girls with too much makeup leave in platform shoes some time in the small hours, smoking furiously and moaning about their tips.

Dinos the local wine bar, packed throughout the nineties, has reinvented itself as a spit-and-sawdust eatery for yummy mummies in the daylight hours. After eight oclock in the evening it now runs occasional speed-dating sessions. The rest of the time, apart from Fridays, its floor-to-ceiling windows reveal it to be conspicuously and painfully empty. Any of the older pubs in the backstreets beyond the river, which draw small groups of resentful locals, men who smoke roll-ups with dead-eyed pit bulls and who will stare at a woman alone in a pub as a mullah would at a woman taking a stroll in a bikini. Any of the new cheerfully packed drinking places near the river that are packed with people younger than you, mostly groups of laughing friends with Apple Mac satchels and thick black glasses, all of whom will make you feel more lonely than if you had just sat indoors.

Liv toys with the idea of buying a bottle of wine and taking it home. But every time she pictures sitting in that empty white space alone, she is filled with an unusual dread. She doesnt want to find herself standing in front of The Girl You Left Behind, recalling the day they had bought it together, seeing in that womans expression the love and fulfilment she used to feel. She doesnt want to find herself digging out the photographs of her and David together, knowing with weary certainty that she will never love anybody like that again, and that while she can recall the exact way his eyes crinkled, or his fingers held a mug, she can no longer bring to mind how these elements fitted together.

She does not want to feel even the faintest temptation to call his mobile number, as she had done obsessively for the first year after his death so she could hear his voice on the answering service. Most days now his loss is a part of her, an awkward weight she carries around, invisible to everyone else, subtly altering the way she moves through the day. But today, the anniversary of the day he died, is a day when all bets are off.

And then she remembers something one of the women had said at dinner the previous night. When my sister wants to go out without being hassled, she heads for a gay bar. So funny. There is a gay bar not ten minutes walk from here. She has passed it a hundred times without ever wondering what lies behind the protective wire grilles on the windows. Nobody will hassle her in a gay bar. Liv reaches for her jacket, bag and keys.

Well, thats awkward.

It was once. Months ago. But I get the feeling shes never quite forgotten it.

Because you are SO GOOD. Greg wipes another pint glass, grinning, and puts it on the shelf.

No … Well, okay, obviously, Paul says. Seriously, Greg, I just feel guilty whenever she looks at me. Like … like I promised something I cant deliver.

Whats the golden rule, bro? Never shit on your own doorstep.

I was drunk. It was the night Leonie told me she and Jake were moving in with Mitch. I was …

You let your defences down. Greg does his daytime-television voice. Your boss got you when you were vulnerable. Plied you with drink. And now you just feel used. Hang on … He disappears to serve a customer. The bar is busy for a Thursday night, all the tables taken, a steady stream of people at the bar, a low hum of cheerful conversation rising above the music. He had meant to go home after he finished at the office, but he rarely gets a chance to catch up with his brother, and its good to get a few drinks in now and then. Even if you do have to spend your time avoiding eye contact with 70 per cent of the customers.

Greg rings up some money and arrives back in front of Paul.

Look, I know how it sounds. But shes a nice woman. And its just horrible having to fend her off all the time.

Sucks to be you.

Like youd understand.

Greg puts another glass on the shelf. Look, why dont you just sit her down, tell her that shes a really lovely person, yada yada yada, but youre not interested in her that way?

Because its awkward. Us working so closely together and all.

And this isnt? The whole Oh, well, if you ever fancy a quickie when youve finished this case, Paul thing. Gregs attention shifts to the other end of the bar. Uh-oh. I think weve got a live one.

Paul has been dimly aware of the girl all evening. She had arrived looking perfectly composed and he had assumed she was waiting for someone. Now she is trying to climb back on to her bar stool. She makes two attempts, the second sending her stumbling clumsily backwards. She pushes her hair out of her eyes and peers at the bar as if its the summit of Everest. She propels herself upwards. When she lands on the stool she reaches out both hands to steady herself and blinks hard, as if it takes her a couple of seconds to believe she has actually made it. She lifts her face towards Greg. Excuse me? Can I have another wine? She holds up an empty glass.

Gregs gaze, amused and weary, travels to Paul and away. Were closing in ten minutes, he says, flicking his tea-towel over his shoulder. Hes good with drunks. Paul has never seen Greg lose his cool. They were, their mother would remark, chalk and cheese like that.

So that leaves me ten minutes to drink it? she says, her smile wavering slightly.

Sweetheart, I mean this in the nicest way, but if you have another drink Ill worry about you. And I really, really hate ending my shift worrying about customers.

A small one, she says. Her smile is heartbreaking. I dont even usually drink.

Yeah. Youre the ones I worry about.

This … Her eyes are strained. This is a difficult day. A really difficult day. Please can I just have one more drink? And then you can call me a nice respectable taxi from a nice respectable firm and Ill go home and pass out and you can go home without worrying about me.

He looks back at Paul and sighs. See what I have to put up with? A small one, he says. A very small one.

Her smile falls away, her eyes half close, and she reaches down to her feet, swaying, for her bag. Paul turns back to the bar, checking his phone for messages. It is his turn to have Jake tomorrow night, and although the thing with him and Leonie is now amicable, some part of him still worries that she will find a reason to cancel.

My bag!

He glances up.

My bags gone! The woman has slid from the stool and is gazing around at the floor, one hand clutching the bar. When she looks up, her face is leached of colour.

Did you take it to the Ladies? Greg leans across the bar.

No, she says, her gaze darting around the bar. It was tucked under my stool.

You left your bag under the stool? Greg tuts. Didnt you read the signs?

There are signs all over the bar. Do not leave your bag unattended pickpockets operate in this area. Paul can count three of them just from where he sits.

She has not read them.

Im really sorry. But its not good around here. The womans gaze flickers between them and, drunk as she is, he can see that she guesses what theyre thinking. Silly drunk girl.

Paul reaches for his phone. Ill call the cops.

And tell them I was stupid enough to leave my bag under a stool? She puts her face into her hands. Oh, God. Id just withdrawn two hundred pounds for the council tax. I dont believe it. Two. Hundred. Pounds.

Weve had two already this week, says Greg. Were waiting for CCTV to be installed. But its an epidemic. Im really sorry.

She looks up and wipes her face. She lets out a long, unsteady breath. She is plainly trying not to burst into tears. The glass of wine sits untouched on the bar. Im really sorry. But I dont think Im going to be able to pay for that.

Dont give it a thought, says Greg. Here, Paul, you call the cops. Ill go get her a coffee. Right. Time, ladies and gentlemen, please …

The police around here do not come out for vanished handbags. They give the woman, whose name is Liv, a crime number and promise a letter about victim support, and tell her theyll be in touch if they find anything. Its clear to everyone that they do not expect to be in touch.

By the time shes off the phone the bar is long empty. Greg unlocks the door to let them out, and Liv reaches for her jacket. Ive a guest staying. Shes got a spare key.

You want to call her? Paul proffers his phone.

She looks blankly at him. I dont know her number. But I know where she works.

Paul waits.

Its a restaurant about ten minutes walk from here. Towards Blackfriars.

Its midnight. Paul gazes at the clock. He is tired and his son is being dropped off at seven thirty tomorrow morning. But he cannot leave a drunk woman, who has plainly spent the best part of an hour trying not to cry, to walk the backstreets of the South Bank at midnight.

Ill walk with you, he says.

He catches her look of wariness, the way she prepares to decline. Greg touches her arm. Youre okay, sweetheart. Hes an ex-cop.

Paul feels himself being reassessed. The womans makeup has smudged beneath one eye and he has to fight the urge to wipe it.

I can vouch for his good character. Hes genetically wired to do this, kind of like a St Bernard in human form.

Yeah. Thanks, Greg.

She puts on her jacket. If youre sure you dont mind, that would be really kind of you.

Ill call you tomorrow, Paul. And good luck, Miss Liv. Hope it all gets sorted. Greg waits until they are some way down the road, then closes and locks the door.

They walk briskly, their feet echoing in the empty cobbled streets, the sound bouncing off the silent buildings around them. It has begun to rain, and Paul rams his hands deep into his pockets, his neck hunched into his collar. They pass two young men in hoodies and he is conscious of her moving slightly closer to him.

Did you cancel your cards? he says.

Oh. No. The fresh air is hitting her hard. She looks despondent, and every now and then she stumbles a little. He would offer his arm but he doesnt think she would take it. I didnt think of that.

Can you remember what you have?

One Mastercard, one Barclays.

Hold on. I know someone who can help. He dials a number. Sherrie? … Hi. Its McCafferty … Yeah, fine, thanks. All good. You? He waits. Listen – could you do me a favour? Text me the numbers for stolen bank cards? Mastercard and a Barclays. Friends just had her bag nicked … Yeah. Thanks, Sherrie. Say hi to the guys for me. And, yeah, see you soon.

He dials the texted numbers, hands her the phone. Cops, he says. Small world. And then walks silently as she explains the situation to the operator.

Thank you, she says, handing the phone back.

No problem.

Id be surprised if they manage to get any money out on them anyway. Liv smiles ruefully.

They are at the restaurant, a Spanish place. The lights are off and the doors locked. He ducks into the doorway and she peers in through the window, as if willing it to show some distant sign of life.

Paul consults his watch. Its a quarter past twelve. Theyre probably done for the night.

Liv stands and bites her lip. She turns back to him. Perhaps shes at mine. Please can I borrow your phone again? He hands it over, and she holds it up in the sodium light better to see the screen. He watches as she taps a number, then turns away, one hand rifling unconsciously through her hair. She glances behind her and gives him a brief, uncertain smile, then turns back. She types in another number, and a third.

Anyone else you can call?

My dad. I just tried him. Nobodys answering there either. Although its entirely possible hes asleep. He sleeps like the dead. She looks completely lost.

Look – why dont I book you a room in a hotel? You can pay me back when you get your cards.

She stands there, biting her lip. Two hundred pounds. He remembers the way she had said it, despairing. This was not someone who could afford a central London hotel room.

The rain is falling more heavily now, splashing up their legs, water gurgling along the gutters in front of them. He speaks almost before he thinks You know what? Its getting late. I live about twenty minutes walk away. You want to think about it and decide when we get to mine? We can sort it all out from there if you like.

She hands him his phone. He watches some brief, internal struggle take place. Then she smiles, a little warily, and steps forward beside him. Thank you. And sorry. I – I really didnt set out to mess up someone elses night too.

Liv grows progressively quieter as they approach his flat, and he guesses that she is sobering up some sensible part of her is wondering what she has just agreed to. He wonders if there is some girlfriend waiting for her somewhere. Shes pretty, but in the way that women are when they dont want to draw male attention to themselves free of makeup, hair scraped back into a ponytail. Is this a gay thing? Her skin is too good for her to be a regular drinker. She has taut legs and a long stride that speak of regular exercise. But she walks defensively, with her arms crossed over her chest.

They reach his flat, a second-floor maisonette above a café on the outskirts of Theatreland, and he stands well back from her as he opens the door.

Paul switches on the lights and goes straight to the coffee-table. He sweeps up the newspapers and that mornings mug, seeing the flat through a strangers eyes too small, overstuffed with reference books, photographs and furniture. Luckily, no stray socks or washing. He walks into the kitchen area and puts the kettle on, fetches her a towel to dry her hair, and watches as she walks tentatively around the room, apparently reassured by the packed bookshelves, the photographs on the sideboard him in uniform, him and Jake grinning, their arms around each other. Is this your son?

Yup.

He looks like you. She picks up a photograph of him, Jake and Leonie, taken when Jake was four. Her other arm is still wrapped around her stomach. He would offer her a T-shirt, but he doesnt want her to think hes trying to get her to remove her clothes.

Is this his mother?

Yes.

Youre … not gay, then?

Paul is briefly lost for words, then says, No! Oh. No, thats my brothers bar.

Oh.

He gestures towards the photograph of him in uniform. Thats not, like, me doing a Village People routine. I really was a cop.

She starts to laugh, the kind of laughter that comes when the only alternative is tears. Then she wipes her eyes and flashes him an embarrassed smile. Im sorry. Its a bad day today. And that was before my bag got stolen.

Shes really pretty, he thinks suddenly. She has an air of vulnerability, like someones stripped her of a layer of skin. She turns to face him and he looks away abruptly. Paul, have you got a drink? As in not coffee. I know you probably think Im a complete soak but I could really, really do with one right now.

He flicks the kettle off, pours them both a glass of wine and comes into the living area. She is sitting on the edge of the sofa, her elbows thrust between her knees.

You want to talk about it? Ex-cops have generally heard a lot of stuff. He hands her the glass of wine. Much worse stuff than yours. Id put money on it.

Not really. She takes an audible gulp of her wine. Then, abruptly, she turns to him. Actually, yes. My husband died four years ago today. He died. Most people couldnt even say the word when he did, and now they keep telling me I should have moved on. I have no idea how to move on. Theres a Goth living in my house and I cant even remember her surname. I owe money to everyone. And I went to a gay bar tonight because I couldnt face being in my house alone, and my bag got nicked with the two hundred pounds Id borrowed from my credit card to pay my council tax. And when you asked if there was anyone else I could call, the only person I could think of who might offer me a bed was Fran, the woman who lives in cardboard boxes at the bottom of my block.

He is so busy digesting the word husband that he barely hears the rest. Well, I can offer you a bed.

That wary glance again.

My sons bed. Its not the worlds most comfortable. I mean, my brother slept in it on and off when he broke up with his last boyfriend, and he says hes had to see an osteopath ever since, but its a bed.

He pauses. Its probably better than cardboard boxes.

She looks sideways at him.

Okay. Marginally better.

She smiles wryly into her glass. I couldnt ask Fran anyway. She never bloody invites me in.

Well, thats just rude. I wouldnt want to go to her house anyway. Stay there. Ill sort you out a toothbrush.

Sometimes, Liv thinks, it is possible to fall into a parallel universe. It is all, on the surface, a disaster the stolen bag, the lost cash, the dead husband, the life gone awry. And then youre sitting in the tiny flat of an American with bright blue eyes and hair like a grizzled pelt, and its almost three oclock in the morning and hes making you laugh, properly laugh, as if you have nothing to worry about in the whole world.

She has drunk a lot. There have been at least three glasses since she got here, and there were many more back at the bar. But she has reached that rare, pleasant state of alcoholic equilibrium. She is not drunk enough to feel sick or woozy. She is just merry enough to be suspended, floating in this pleasurable moment, with the man and the laughter, and the crowded little flat that carries no memories. They have talked and talked and talked, their voices getting louder and more insistent. And she has told him everything, liberated by shock and alcohol, and the fact that he is a stranger and she will probably never see him again. He has told her of the horrors of divorce, the politics of policing and why he was unsuited to them, and why he misses New York but cannot return until his son is grown-up. She has told him of her grief and her anger, and how she looks at other couples and simply cannot see the point in trying again. Because none of them seem really, properly, happy. Not one.

Okay. Devils advocate here. Paul puts down his glass. And this comes from one who totally fucked up his own relationship. But you were married four years, right?

Right.

I dont want to sound cynical or anything, but dont you think that one of the reasons its all perfect in your head is that he died? Things are always more perfect if theyre cut short. An industry of dead movie icons proves that.

So youre saying that if he had lived we would have got as grumpy and fed up with each other as everyone else?

Not necessarily. But familiarity and having kids, work and the stresses of everyday life can take the edge off romance, for sure.

The voice of experience.

Yeah. Probably.

Well, it didnt. She shakes her head emphatically. The room spins a little.

Oh, come on, you must have had times when you got a bit fed up with him. Everyone does. You know – when he moaned about you spending money or farted in bed or left the toothbrush cap off …

Liv shakes her head again. Why does everyone do this? Why is everyone so determined to diminish what we had? You know what? We were just happy. We didnt fight. Not about toothpaste or farting or anything. We just liked each other. We really liked each other. We were … happy. She is biting back tears and turns her head towards the window, forcing them away. She will not cry tonight. She will not.

There is a long silence. Bugger, she thinks.

Then you were one of the lucky ones, says the voice behind her.

She turns and Paul McCafferty is offering the last of the bottle.

Lucky?

Not many people get that. Even four years of it. You should be grateful.

Grateful. It makes perfect sense when he says it like that. Yes, she says, after a moment. Yes, I should.

Actually, stories like yours give me hope.

She smiles. Thats a lovely thing to say.

Well, its true. To … Whats his name? Paul holds up a glass.

David.

To David. One of the good guys.

She is smiling – wide and unexpected. She notes his vague look of surprise. Yes, she says. To David.

Paul takes a sip of his drink. You know, this is the first time Ive invited a girl back to my place and ended up toasting her husband.

And there it is again laughter, bubbling up inside her, an unexpected visitor.

He turns to her. You know, Ive been wanting to do this all night. He leans forward and, before she has time to freeze, he reaches out a thumb and wipes gently under her left eye. Your makeup, he says, holding his thumb aloft. I wasnt sure you knew.

Liv stares at him, and something unexpected and electric jolts through her. She looks at his strong, freckled hands, the way his collar meets his neck, and her mind becomes blank. She puts down her glass, leans forward and, before he can say anything, she does the only thing she can think of and places her lips against his. There is the brief shock of physical contact, then she feels his breath on her skin, a hand rising to meet her waist and he is kissing her back, his lips soft and warm and tasting faintly of tannin. She lets herself melt into him, her breath quickening, floating up on alcohol and sensation and the sweetness of simply being held. Oh, God, but this man. Her eyes are closed, her head spinning, his kisses soft and delicious.

And then he pulls back. It takes her a second to realize. She pulls back too, just a few inches, her breath stalled in her chest. Who are you?

He looks straight into her eyes. Blinks. You know … I think youre absolutely lovely. But I have rules about this sort of thing.

Her lips feel swollen. Are you … with someone?

No. I just … He runs a hand over his hair. Clenches his jaw. Liv, you dont seem …

Im drunk.

Yes, yes, you are.

She sighs. I used to have great drunk sex.

You need to stop talking now. Im trying to be really, really good here.

She throws herself back against the sofa cushions. Really. Some women are rubbish when theyre drunk. I wasnt.

Liv –

And you are … delicious.

His chin is stubbled, as if already alerting them to the fact that morning is approaching. She wants to run her fingers along those tiny bristles, to feel them rough against her skin. She reaches out a hand and he shifts away from her.

Aaand Im gone. Okay, yup, Im gone. He stands, takes a breath. He does not look at her. Uh, thats my sons bedroom there. If you need a drink of water or anything, theres a tap. It, uh, it does water.

He picks up a magazine and puts it down again. And then does the same with a second. And there are magazines. If you want something to read. Lots of …

It cannot stop here. She wants him so badly its as if her whole body radiates it. She could actually beg, right now. She can still feel the heat of his hand on her waist, the taste of his lips. They stare at each other for a moment. Cant you feel this? Dont walk away, she wills him silently. Please dont walk away from me.

Good night, Liv, he says.

He gazes at her for a moment longer, then pads down the corridor and closes his bedroom door silently behind him.

Four hours later Liv wakes in a box room with an Arsenal duvet cover and a head that thumps so hard she has to reach up a hand to check she isnt being assaulted. She blinks, stares blearily at the little Japanese cartoon creatures on the wall opposite and lets her mind slowly bring together the pieces of information from the previous night.

Stolen bag. She closes her eyes. Oh, no.

Strange bed. She has no keys. Oh, God, she has no keys. And no money. She attempts to move, and pain slices through her head so that she almost yelps.

And then she remembers the man. Pete? Paul? She sees herself walking through deserted streets in the early hours. And then she sees herself lurching forward to kiss him, his own polite retreat. You are … delicious. Oh, no, she says softly, then puts her hands over her eyes. Oh, I didnt …

She sits up and moves to the side of the bed, noticing a small yellow plastic car near her right foot. Then, when she hears the sound of a door opening, the shower starting up next door, Liv grabs her shoes and her jacket and lets herself out of the flat into the cacophonous daylight.