16

Pixie’s apartment was in a1930s art deco styled blocked, that overlooked the park. The city was rich with architectural treats, yet these were also bricks and mortar ghosts, observing the great city’s changes; like petrified ancestors forced to exist among us in the “here and now”.

Pitt was surprised that she trusted him enough to invite him back. This was not a light invitation, given the allegations against him and his besmirched reputation.

When they arrived he noticed that her apartment had undergone recent renovation and redecoration. The interior ran along minimalist lines, in a colour scheme varying between gauze white and battleship grey. There were many vases of flowers in French art nouveau vases; camellias, lilies and pots of orchids; yet while the place was chic, it also gave a blank echoing feeling that amplified Pitt’s sense of isolation and unease. There were none of the friendly homely touches he expected.

“Don’t you like the re-design? You can relax because my boyfriend is away, working in Paris.”

“You ditched me three months ago. Then you meet another guy?”

She offered her bubbly pure laugh. “You’re the only man in my life, are you?”

“I’ve lost my wife, my child, our home. Did you understand that?” Pitt wondered, seeking her eyes.

“Are you sure I’m exactly the girl you should be telling?” Pixie suggested, plucking off her shoes and going about the smooth floor in stocking feet.

“You didn’t waste time forgetting all about me,” he remarked.

Pixie gazed at him curiously, to test his seriousness. “Bertie and I have known each other for several years now. Why do I have to justify seeing another man, to you?” she wondered, tossing her lamentably soiled jacket.

“Did you introduce me to him, y’know, when we were..?”

“Yes you were introduced to him...a couple of times. Bertie and I became friends during a skiing holiday. A romance developed soon after that on business in Frankfurt. After all the recent upset, you know, we kind of fell into each other’s arms.”

“Right, but I don’t remember this bloke either!” Pitt objected.

“Why should you?” she told him.

“What does he do for a living then?”

“Bertie’s collaborating with the electronic composers Air... they’re working on a government commissioned project... he’s over in France now at their studio. He’s trying to persuade Bjork to sing over the space opera sections.”

“You live with this bloke?” Clive asked. “When he’s not gone off somewhere?”

“We have a busy schedule, between us,” she admitted.

“Definitely sounds like that,” Clive observed.

“Is that too much of a scandal for you?” she retorted.

She slinked on her soft feet over a hard polished, chequerboard floor, as she covered her considerable living space.

“But I don’t want a threesome,” he objected.

“Are you crazy? No danger of any threesomes. He isn’t returning to London over the winter. Creatively he’s in a different universe. Although he literally calls me every morning and evening, to see how I am...to say that he loves me.”

“Then take your calls, just as normal,” he told her.

There was no use showing lack of trust by trying to restrict her. She had the power to betray him at any moment, he knew that; assuming that he hadn’t betrayed her - consciously or not - by simply getting back in touch.

“Make yourself at home,” she invited. “Why don’t you..? Sit down and relax, okay? You look all done in, to be honest,” she said, looking him up and down again.

She noticed that his eyes were sore and troubled. He kept wiping his face anxiously, and there was a coat of perspiration over his features, like shellac, sticking strands of hair.

Pitt followed her instructions and selected an Art Nouveau armchair.

She moved about the apartment room to room, tidying and rearranging. After this she disappeared into her high-tech kitchen for a while. She brought out a pot of coffee and a plate of chocolate brioche.

“Presumably I’ve been here before,” Clive suggested. “I’ve spent time in your apartment.”

“No, Clive,” she replied. She placed all the objects on her smoked glass table, and settled on a white leather sofa unit. “I moved into here with Bertie, actually. Hard to believe I am the same girl really. No, we - you and I - lived in a small flat in Hampstead. Don’t you remember? Literally above that little antiques shop... don’t you even remember where we lived? We always felt vulnerable there. It caused a lot of tension between us.”

“Certainly sounds unlikely, because I hate antiques as much as the minimalist style,” he confessed, grumpily.

“You prefer a rustic farmer’s cottage, I suppose. The time we had together in Hampstead has vanished from your thoughts? How weird all this is, Clive... whatever has happened to you!” She rubbed the top of her arm, as if freezing in the A/C.

He grimly tore brioche between his teeth. “Not a thing, Pixie. I keep telling you. Not even you,” Clive admitted again.

She took a few moments to pour.

“That’s a really charming thing to say... even if it’s true. You guys know what to say to a girl,” she told him. She elegantly poured him fresh steaming coffee, from a long pot with a curlicue design. She brushed a few crumbs from her lap into the palm of her hand and poured them back on to the plate.

“Did we really have a flat in Hampstead? About a lot of old furniture?” he asked. “Next you’ll be saying I restored an old Morris Minor and rode about town in a tweedy suit.”

“Oh yes, Clive, you definitely lived the role,” she replied, mischievously.

“What did you do to me, eh?” He rubbed a flake of skin from his sunburnt nose.

“You haven’t changed so much,” Pixie said. “Anyhow, you needed somewhere to hide away from Septimus and his associates. They were very keen to talk to you, after you threatened to scupper their landmark agreement.”

“How come they didn’t follow you home?” Clive asked.

“I still shared a place in Camden... we made sure that I moved about... and I would take a cab to you in the evening. Jane and the other girls would cover for me. Even though they had no idea what they were hiding. That was a strange and dangerous period. We always took precautions.”

“You’re still taking a risk, aren’t you?” he concluded, savouring the short strong coffee.

“They didn’t suspect me. They blamed you, even if they did suspect. Septimus regarded me as another of your gullible victims.”

“Well Pix, I’ve definitely lost communication now,” Clive bemoaned. “I’m totally cut off from all sources and contacts.”

“You can have a try with my devices later, if you’d like.”

“Thanks Pix, I appreciate that. I’ll try to set up a VPN.”

“You can get around security,” she encouraged.

“I don’t remember that flat in Hampstead.” He began to rub his features in bemusement again. “How can you tolerate this new place? I like the flowers and contemporary art, but it’s like a doctor’s surgery here.”

“Trust you to think of flowers!” she exclaimed. “As for the art, it cost me a small fortune and...and no matter what you think...this isn’t your home.”

“Why should I particularly mention flowers?” he wondered.

“When we were together,” she explained, “you were buying me flowers all the time. Literally all the time,” she emphasised. She turned away to conceal the rise of colour to her face.

“Was I really? Me? Flowers?” he repeated in amazement.

“Why not, Clive?” She returned her attention with widened eyes.

“I’m not in the habit of buying women flowers, am I? Wasn’t I the ‘love em and leave em’ type?” he rebutted.

“Certainly the leave them type,” she agreed, mysteriously.

“Fair point,” he stated.

“Maybe you don’t understand yourself as well as you think.”

Pixie leant back into a relaxed posture and watched him down her pert nose. “You should believe me, as I was gracious enough to accept your little story.”

“Exactly what kind of bloke was I then... back then... when we knew each other... from your point of view, like?”

She glittered nervously. “To tell the truth you were more in love with me,” she explained. “Yes, Clive, you were quite intense... passionate actually... but sweet too. You definitely enjoyed giving love tokens...yes, buying me flowers. You seemed happy and relaxed with me... when we could be. Although we had a terrible lot on our minds,” she recalled.

“That’s a safe enough proposition.”

“But I can be quite tough too, and I can take pressure. We brought work home with us. Yes, we were afraid they’d follow me...that I’d lead them back to you. We loved each other and we took risks. You were very loyal, strong, until you let us down and ran away.”

“Don’t you believe me, when I say you have nothing to fear?” Clive emphasised. “I wouldn’t hurt you or anyone. Not deliberately.”

“What if I can’t believe your version?”

“Now I’m history. Do you believe that?”

Clive noticed a photograph of her dark handsome Frenchman, in a heavy silver frame on a Noguchi coffee table. Pixie had an entire archive of soundtracks and videos of them together.

“That’s a photograph of Bertrand,” she said, following him.

“So you bought this guy at a spot auction,” he complained.

“Hardly, as you were out of circulation... and on the run from a rape charge.”

“You can’t let me forget.”

How could he be envious? Was he really crazy? He didn’t consciously know this woman. This episode was related back to him. He couldn’t recall being intimate with her, or even drinking coffee with her. Why should he care about her new lover at this stage? In the long term she wasn’t even his type.

“Now you’re going to have to do some talking?”

“How? I’ve been doing my best,” she told him.

“I need your help to fill in some mental blanks,” Clive argued.

“How many do you have?” she said.

“Please, you know, talk as much as you like. Tell me everything you know. Will you? I’ll just pour myself a bit more coffee...sit back for a while and listen. I won’t even interrupt, I promise.”

“All right then, Clive, if you’d like.”