thirty-seven

I didn’t improve until mid-afternoon on Sunday. Stomach cramps and watery diarrhoea replaced sickness. If I stood up quickly I felt woozy and my capacity for sleep was gargantuan. Monica had made up a bed in the spare room and, apart from one trip back to her flat to collect fresh clothes, remained a reassuring presence. A whirlwind of activity, she cleaned stuff that had never been cleaned, scrubbed, washed, pressed and ironed laundry that had lain inert in the bottom of the basket since I’d moved in. Her mood rose as mine plunged, possibly because I’d not been able to swallow my daily dose of antidepressants. Whether it was all in my mind or there was a genuine physical chain reaction, I felt as if I were going cold turkey. The more morose I became, the more convinced I was that foul play had played a part in my misfortune. Life events had changed my thinking. I’d gone from believing everyone was lovely to thinking everyone was out to get me.

And then I received a call I never expected.

“Otto,” I said, forcing the chill out of my voice.

“This is rather awkward,” he began. I stayed quiet. “We’ve had an outbreak of food poisoning at the restaurant. Don’t worry,” he rushed on quickly, “we’re carrying out a full deep clean, but I wondered if you’re all right.”

“I’m not, actually.”

He let out a low moan. “I’m so, so sorry. I would have called before, but it’s been a bloody nightmare. We were deluged with complaints from customers and then, unsurprisingly, we received a visit from Food Standards, who closed us down.”

“So I wasn’t the only one?”

“God, no.” He paused. I could almost hear him catching on to the way my mind was working. “You didn’t think …” He briefly stalled. “You didn’t think I’d done it, did you?”

“Done what exactly?”

“Well, put something in your food deliberately, I suppose,” he said, clearly unhappy with the notion. The anxiety in his voice was acute. Perversely, it pleased me.

“Why on earth would I think that?”

“Jesus, Kim, you know very well why.”

“Never gave it a thought.”

His abrupt silence indicated I wasn’t believed. Not that I much cared.

“How long will you be closed?”

He let out a weary sigh. “Until we satisfy the powers that be. We’ll bleed finance, which is bad enough. My main concern is the damage to our reputation. That could take a lot longer to restore.”

“Something with which you’re familiar, I’d imagine.”

“Must you always be so acerbic?”

I guess I was knocking him hard when he was already down. There were plenty of other restaurants in town to take Otto’s crown. Rebuilding its credibility would be one long hard slog.

“I don’t suppose I could have your address?” he said when I failed to reply.

Suspicious, I asked why.

“So that I can send you flowers.”

“There really is no need.”

“There is every need. Please, I’d like to.”

“Send them to my office.” I hung up as Monica sailed into the room bearing a bowl of soup on a tray. “Who was that?”

“No one important.”

She gave me a wise look, placed the tray on the bedside table, and plumped up my pillows. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Be my guest.” I reached across for my first attempt at anything approaching food in forty-eight hours.

“I received a call from the police an hour ago, Kim.”

“Right,” I said, picking up the spoon. Shit.

“They want me back again.”

“Did they say why?”

“No.”

“Have you called Gavin?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s going to reschedule his diary so that he can visit sooner rather than later. He promised to call me back. Is he a reliable sort?”

“Very.” I focused on the soup, which was homemade lentil, and the steady rhythm of the spoon, the heat and taste, anything to escape Monica’s fractiousness. Her face grim, she twisted the throw in her fingers, a reflection of a deep internal struggle.

“Are you worried about it?”

“A bit.” She continued to look wretched.

“Why exactly?”

“I did something silly.”

I put down the soupspoon.

“Some time ago,” she said, glancing up, making plain that her silliness, as she put it, did not refer to a recent event. Was this what she’d already alluded to, the incident for which I would hate her? “In London,” she said. “It got me into a heap of trouble.”

“We all do foolish things.” I silently cursed. Why oh why had I spoken? Maybe, subconsciously, I didn’t want to know, but by opening my mouth, I’d ruined her flow, broken the magic spell.

She got up and smiled. “You’re right.” Crossing the room, her gaze transferred to the painting, Stannard’s gift. “What an arresting piece.”

“An Imperfect Past,” I said.

She tipped her head, appeared to come to a decision, and then just as quickly changed her mind. “Yes, of course, I see that now.” Her voice sounded faraway and disjointed. And then she slipped out of the room and went downstairs.