thirty

The white heat of noon was scorching as we walked down the outside steps of the London Library. After the dark interior the bright light almost blinded me. However, Justine had the immunity of stone.

She crossed the road into the inner gardens of St. James’s Square, through the black railings of the gate. The formal gardens were shaped in the form of a cross. A rose garden had been planted at its centre. Pink, gold, cream petals filled the sky, as we sat down on a stone bench within the circle of flowers. Surrounded by thorns, Justine, I imagined, could be my Sleeping Beauty. All I had to do was bend over her and wake her up with a kiss.

‘He can’t reach us here,’ she said. I still didn’t believe in the gravity of her voice. I felt as if I were just listening to her from under water.

‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Who can’t reach us here?’

Justine began to tell me her story.

‘My first novel Death is a Woman has been published recently to huge critical acclaim. The heroine, who also narrates the story, conforms to the male stereotype of the ideal woman. The trouble is I’ve made her too ideal: a male fan of my writing has become utterly obsessed by her. Ironically, he has got the narrator (the heroine) muddled up with the author (me). He thinks she is me. A typical case of literary mistaken identity.

‘I can hardly get touchy about a bad reading. The only problem is that he’s dangerous. He has written letters to me via my publisher and agent. They are obscene. But it’s even worse than that – he has started to watch me, follow me around. I never catch sight of him. The only reason I know he’s doing this is by the calling card he keeps on leaving me. A white ribbon. I’ve found them attached to trees in my garden, to the handle of my car, even my front door. What I don’t understand is how he has found out where I live. I have told everyone who knows me not to let out my address to anyone.’

Her story was sounding to me more and more plausible. Regarding the fact that he had found out where she lived, my immediate conclusion was that Juliette had informed this madman of her sister’s address. One way of avenging herself on Justine would be to make sure she was kidnapped by a dangerous lunatic. I would not put her hatred past anything. I was probably Plan B.

‘Why don’t you move? Change your identity?’ I asked.

A bee landed on her dress, thinking she was a flower, and she brushed it away.

‘Believe it or not, I’ve already tried that once. It hasn’t worked. He somehow found out my new address. I’m fed up with those kinds of games. Even I am beginning to wonder who I am. I’ve also tried the police – but unless he actually causes me bodily harm they are legally unable to act. No, there has to be another way. That’s where you come in.’

The seriousness of her position was finally getting through to me. I was lost in admiration for her self-possession.

‘I don’t want any violence, you understand. But it has to be a stranger. I mean you have to be. He has been following me for months and he would immediately recognize any of my friends if they tried to tail him.’

I stared into her invulnerable eyes. I knew that coming to her rescue would be the only worthwhile act of my life. Even in the full glare of the sunlight, her skin remained pale. Even the sun was unable to touch her. Whoever this man was, whatever kind of monster, I would track him down.

‘We will have to set a trap for him,’ I said.

She nodded, ‘I will ring you tomorrow.’

We said goodbye in the rose garden. She kissed me on the cheek, but lingeringly and I realized that this was symptomatic of her appeal – she managed to convey distance and intimacy at the same time.

I watched her walk out of sight behind the roses. Sweat was now pouring down my body. I walked slowly through the garden to the northern exit. It was only as I was passing through the gate that I noticed that a white ribbon had been tied to one of the black metal bars, hanging straight down in the still air, as if someone had drawn a white line, with chalk, across the summer’s day.