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  She said, ‘Yes, I promise.’

  ‘Double promise?’

  ‘Double promise,’ she said.

  He waved cheerily, got in his car and drove away giving her a toot on the horn as he pulled out of the car park. She was aware of other shoppers looking across at the noise, then at her. She suddenly felt extremely vulnerable and shut herself away inside her car.

  She looked at the scribbled number, her excitement rising. He was so handsome, she thought, whilst she felt so plain, so ugly…

  She lifted the piece of paper to her nose. The faint, manly smell of him lingered on its surface. Had she really been invited out to dinner? With a nicely spoken, handsome man? Really? Was all this happening to her?

  No, she couldn’t go, she thought. It was madly impetuous, like he said, and she was never impetuous, not since…

  She shook the horrible thoughts away. It couldn’t hurt to have one little meal out. Just the once. She hadn’t been out for years and years and years. It was all so nerve jangling, so utterly terrifying. And yet so deliciously beautiful, she thought. Yes, I will go!

  No, I can’t! Damn you, Mr Casper Younge…

  Even the name was warm and inviting and rolled off her tongue as if it had been there forever.

  She gunned the engine and drove home; hardly realizing she’d been driving till she pulled up outside Devereux Towers. She placed the paper bearing his number on the coffee table and made herself a calming drink of tea and sat down with it, staring hard at the paper as if awaiting some kind of response from it. Two hours went by.

  She tentatively picked up the telephone receiver, her finger hovering uncertainly over the dial. With a huge inward breath she dialled the number. Casper answered. He sounded over the moon to hear her voice.

  ‘Seven o’clock, Devereux Towers,’ she said.

  ‘The old folly?’ he said. ‘I know where that is. I’ll be there at seven prompt. I’ve already booked us a table. Actually, I booked it as soon as I left you. I’m so glad you didn’t change your mind.’

  Laura let the receiver drop down onto the hook a little too heavily and she put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God,’ she said under her breath, ‘what have I done?’ She thought about calling him back straight away to cancel things, even lifted the receiver with that intention, but then decided it was too difficult a thing to do. She could turn out the lights, lock all the doors and pretend that she was out, but he’d come knocking and knocking, and what could she do about that?

  In the end she ran a very hot bath and tried to stem her escalating agitation. Afterwards, still wrapped in her bathrobe, she ran her hand across the few dresses she possessed hanging limply in her wardrobe, and she shook her head in dismay. She didn’t have a thing to wear. Not a single thing. She hadn’t been out in years and here was the evidence of her isolation. She was going to look drab, awful, simply awful whilst he would look so dashing. He was going to be hugely disappointed.

  She wept into her palms, sitting on the edge of the bed and rocking back and forth. Her red-eyed, tousled haired reflection stared accusingly at her from her dressing-table mirror. How horrible you are, she thought; how miserable, fat, frumpy, worthless and ordinary,

  Thoroughly dejected she settled on the black dress she wore for her father’s funeral, no longer fashionable, in fact it was a little tighter around the midriff than it had been when she’d bought it. She put it on, smoothed it down and pinned on one of her mother’s brooches to brighten it up. Her shoes were plain also, flat and uninteresting. When she looked at herself in the full-length mirror she felt a fresh wave of depression swamp her. She hardly bothered to fix her hair. It defied fixing at the best of times.

  Oh well, she thought, he will get what he gets and if he decides to walk away then all good and well. It’s what she deserves after all. That’s what her father had told her: people always get what they deserve in the end, especially bad people.

  There was a knock at the front door. She swallowed hard, opened it slowly, disconsolately.

  ‘Ms Leach!’ said Casper Younge, looking dapper in a smart suit and tie. He handed her a large bunch of flowers. ‘You look positively beautiful!’

  * * * *

  7

  Funny-Peculiar

  They sat at a table tucked away into a quiet corner of the restaurant. The waiter handed out menus. Laura shrank in on herself, holding the menu card like a shield to hide behind, glancing skittishly at other diners. Casper hooked an index finger over the top of her menu and teased it down a little.

  ‘Peek-a-boo!’ he said. ‘Are you trying to hide from me?’ His blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

  She put the card down. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You look uncomfortable. Are you alright?’

  She gave a jittery smile. ‘I’m not used to going out,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel as if I belong here.’

  He frowned. ‘You most certainly do.’

  ‘I feel people are staring.’

  He looked around. ‘They are far too busy concentrating on themselves,’ he said. ‘Most people generally are. If you don’t like it here we can leave.’

  ‘No, that would be terrible of me after all the trouble you have gone to, Mr Younge!’

  ‘Now then, isn’t it time you stopped calling me Mr Younge? I sound like a teacher or something. Call me Casper.’

  She smiled. ‘Like the friendly ghost,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, that’s it, a jolly old spook! Never been called that before, but it’s got spirit!’ He laughed and she laughed with him. ‘There you are, not such a bad old place after all. You must smile more often. Your face lights up when you do.’

  She lowered her head to hide her embarrassment. The waiter came to the table, asking if they’d like drinks. Laura looked across at Casper, panic widening her eyes. ‘I really don’t know…’ she said.

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll order for both of us, shall I?’

  ‘I don’t drink,’ she said quickly. ‘Water, please.’

  ‘Then I’ll have water too,’ he said. ‘A bottle of your best mountain spring water!’ he said to the waiter. ‘Are you ready to order yet, Ms Leach?’

  ‘I’ll have whatever you are having,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You may not like what I’m having,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not fussy, honest.’

  ‘I might like fish tonight,’ he said, looking up from his menu at her. She nodded. ‘Trout, salmon or sea bass; which might I choose?’

  ‘Possibly the trout,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I do rather fancy trout tonight. For both of us, please,’ he said to the waiter.

  The waiter loped off. Vivaldi scratched the air. There was a gentle murmur of voices, the sharp clink of metal against ceramic.

  ‘It is a nice place,’ she said, looking about her, almost as if trying to convince herself. ‘And please call me Laura. Ms Leach sounds like a headmistress.’

  ‘Laura. You know, whenever I say that it sounds like someone breathing. It’s a nice name.’

  ‘You certainly didn’t have to go to all this trouble,’ she said. The waiter brought the water. Casper poured some out into her glass and she lifted it to her dry lips.

  ‘This is as far from trouble as I can imagine,’ he said. ‘It is my pleasure.’

  ‘Are you always such a gentleman?’ she asked. ‘Manners are fast becoming old fashioned these days.’

  ‘Only in the presence of a lady,’ he said, giving a mock bow. ‘Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps I am old fashioned. It’s just the way I was brought up, I reckon. I had a rather privileged background. Educated privately, boarding school, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Me too,’ she admitted. ‘I hated it.’

  ‘They’re not all Billy Bunter or Mallory Towers, are they?’ he said.

  She noticed a young couple walk in. The woman was terribly slim, hair flicked neatly back, blue eye-shadow and heavy lashes. She sat down very elegantly, floating down like a feather to her seat. It made Laura
feel uncomfortable all over again.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked concernedly.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing is wrong. Why do you ask?’

  He waved his fingers briefly in front of his face. ‘I can tell by your expression.’

  She began to colour. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘To me it is,’ he said.

  ‘She’s so pretty,’ she said, nodding in the direction of the young woman.

  ‘I’m sure she is, to her boyfriend. But beauty takes many forms. Not everyone likes butterflies, you know. You are beautiful.’

  ‘I am not!’ she said, shocked. ‘You are just saying that to be polite. I was not fishing for compliments.’ Her features hardened and she felt herself going tense.

  ‘Please forgive me, Laura. There I go again with my big mouth. I speak what I think without thinking before speaking.’ He frowned. ‘Does that actually make sense?’ he smiled and she smiled back. ‘Am I forgiven?’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive. What happened to your wife?’ she blurted, and immediately regretted having said it. ‘Oh, now you must forgive me. That was very insensitive of me to have brought that up.’

  ‘That’s fine. She died of cancer. A long illness. We had only been married six years. We were very close.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said.

  ‘And has there ever been a Mr Leach?’

  Laura shook her head. ‘Only my father.’

  ‘So you live all alone?’

  ‘All alone, yes.’

  ‘That’s not good, to live all by yourself. I should know.’

  ‘I am used to it,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not,’ he sighed. ‘I loathe being by myself.’ He raised a glass. ‘But tonight I am not alone. Tonight I am sitting here with Laura and we are about to eat trout together.’ Their glasses clinked merrily against each other. ‘Though I admit I have never eaten trout before.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never. Not a fan of fish.’

  ‘How do you know you will like it?’

  ‘I don’t, but I am willing to try anything once. I mean, what’s the point of life if we can’t stick our turtlenecks out from our shells every now and again, eh? Bring on the trout, I say!’

  She gave a squeak of a chuckle. ‘You are funny!’

  ‘Funny ha-ha, I hope, and not funny-peculiar!’

  ‘A bit of both, perhaps.’ She put her glass down on the table. Studied it hard. ‘Why have you brought me here, Casper?’ she asked.

  ‘Why, I told you, to repay – ‘

  ‘You could have come here with any woman you liked. Someone like her,’ she said, indicating the pretty one that came in. ‘Instead you brought me.’

  His eyes grew sober. ‘Yes, I am here with you, aren’t I? Do you think me so shallow that I can be turned simply by a flash of red lipstick?’ he appeared faintly hurt. ‘Not all men are the same, Laura. Do you really want to know why I invited you out to dinner? The real reason?’ She nodded dumbly. ‘Because I like you. It’s nothing more complicated than that. Do you know how much parking money I shelled out waiting for you to come along in that blasted car park? It’s not a fun spot, you know.’ He smiled warmly. ‘The man that checked the parking tickets gave me more than one suspicious glance, I can tell you!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m spoiling your evening.’

  ‘Not at all! Far from it. And we both really need to stop saying sorry all the time. I shall demand a forfeit every time one of us says it from here on in! Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘All settled, then.’

  Afterwards he drove her back home, walked her to the front door. She looked at him nervously but he made no attempt to kiss her like she feared, not even a friendly peck on the cheek.

  ‘Well, Laura, it has been a wonderful evening, but remind me to steer clear of the trout next time.’ He put his hands behind his back, studied his shoes for a second or two. ‘I don’t suppose…’

  ‘You don’t suppose what?’

  He gave a shrug. ‘Would you mind if I see you again?’

  ‘I think the damage to my car is more than paid for, Casper,’ she said. ‘That was very expensive and you should have let me pay my half.’

  ‘Perhaps if I crash into your car again that would give me another excuse…’

  ‘An excuse?’

  ‘It would be nice to see you again.’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘You’re right. That was too forward of me. You have my number if you decide…Well you have my number.’

  He went back to his car. She said something to him but he couldn’t catch it and wound the window down. ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘I had a lovely time,’ she said hurriedly and went inside and closed the door.

  * * * *

  8

  Quiet at the Back

  The summer months wore on, the heat relentless, as if there were some kind of heavenly furnace being stoked up to bursting point. The atmosphere inside the Empire became decidedly oppressive, but it wasn’t only the heat that affected Vince Moody.

  When he was called to Martin Caldwell’s office he was surprised to see that another desk had somehow been squeezed into the cramped space and Monica the cleaner was sat at it like she owned the place. An Adler typewriter sat unused in front of her. She had a cigarette perched between her pursed lips and she exhaled a large blue cloud of smoke towards him, her mouth twisting into a barely disguised contemptuous leer.

  ‘Monica is my new secretary,’ Caldwell felt he had to explain. ‘Someone to answer my phone, do things for me.’

  ‘Mrs Kimble…’ Vince began.

  ‘She’s no longer with us,’ said Caldwell. ‘She’d worked beyond retirement age anyway.’

  Vince thought he looked troubled, like the last thing he needed was another body cluttering up his office, but he guessed Monica had other ideas. She sat like a smug cuckoo waiting to be fed.

  ‘I can make sure you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing now,’ she said. ‘Keep a close eye on things for Mr Caldwell.’

  Vince met young Edith as he left Caldwell’s office; or rather she met him.

  ‘There you are, Vince,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Have you been avoiding me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of your big mouth, that’s why,’ he said, but of course he immediately felt he had been too harsh and began to beat himself up over it.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry,’ she said, her head bowing. She appeared genuinely upset. ‘It sort of slipped out, about you and the witch.’

  ‘She’s not a witch!’ he defended. ‘Did you have to let it out to Monica, of all people?’

  ‘It seemed harmless at the time. A bit of a laugh,’ she said sullenly.

  ‘Monica is far from harmless,’ he said, leaving her standing there in the corridor. This was not going to be a good day, he could tell. He would be glad to shut himself away in his projection booth.

  ‘Can we still be friends, Vince?’ she asked plaintively. ‘I promise to keep my big mouth shut in future.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Friends only bring trouble.’

  She tottered down the corridor after him. ‘I promise I won’t be trouble ever again. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘Don’t promise that, stupid,’ he said, turning back to her. She came up short in front of him, nearly colliding. ‘You’ll make it happen.’

  ‘So we can still be friends?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said in the best non-committal tone he could dredge up, and left her to go out into the yard. He had to deposit a few cans of film in the store ready for collection and was carrying the first lot out, fumbling for keys to the padlock, when someone came to his side.

  ‘Is Martin Caldwell in?’

  He was a tall, handsome man who carried himself like he knew he was good looking. Neat blonde hair, smart clothes. A refined voice, not from around these parts
, he thought. Vince had been told by Caldwell never to say he was in until he was clear who was asking to see him.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Vince. ‘I can find out for you. If he is, who shall I say wants to see him?’

  ‘Tell him it’s a friend from way back when. Tell him Katherine sends her love. He’ll know who it is. I need to speak to him.’

  Vince did as he was told. He knocked loudly at Caldwell’s door, wary of bursting in on anything he shouldn’t. Monica was sitting at her desk thumbing through a copy of Film Review. She glanced up and eyed Vince like a cat watches a bird at a feeding table.

  ‘Mr Caldwell, there’s a man in the yard asking to see you. He says he’s a friend from way back when and Katherine sends her love. Said you’d know who he was.’

  At this, Caldwell jumped up, almost knocking over his lunchtime flask of oxtail soup. He went round to Vince, grabbed him by the arm and took him outside into the corridor, closing the door on Monica. He whispered into Vince’s ear. ‘Did he tell you his name?’

  ‘No, Mr Caldwell.’

  ‘Describe him to me.’ His face went ashen as Vince related the details. ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘Waiting in the yard still, by the door.’

  ‘I’m not here,’ he said. ‘You go down and tell him I’m away somewhere.’

  ‘Where somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t know, Vince! Use your initiative. Tell him I’m doing some kind of staff training. In Birmingham, somewhere far away.’

  ‘What sort of staff training?’

  ‘Vince!’ he said, putting a hand to his forehead. ‘What does it fucking matter? Just tell him. Tell him I’ll be gone for a few days.’

  ‘Your car’s in the yard.’

  ‘Bugger!’ he said, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘Well he doesn’t know I drive an MG.’ He gave Vince the car keys. ‘Here, tell him what I said and then go sit in my car, pretend it’s yours.’