A couple of days passed. Kitty came and went, came and went. Not her usual pattern, of vanishing all day and turning up in the evenings trailing bags from Harrods or Selfridge’s, scrounging change off Troy to pay the taxi. She’d appear in the morning or the middle of the afternoon and showed no inclination to stay the night – Troy thought that perhaps she was simply picking up on his wants and wishes – until the third night, when she came in so late, the intention, to be there by ‘accident’, was obvious.
‘I haven’t seen him since, you know.’
Troy had nothing to say to this, so said nothing.
‘It’s over. It had to end some time, after all.’
To say anything to this was to invite a discussion along the lines of ‘And you and me? Are we over?’ Troy wanted no such discussion. He had made up his mind days ago.
‘Get me a drink, will you, Troy? A vodka. A large vodka. I really need a drink right now.’
He was rummaging under the sink when the telephone rang and Goldblatt’s voice said, ‘Mr Troy? Dick Goldblatt. I’m at Claridge’s. There should be a black cab at the end of your street by now. I have Mrs Cormack’s cases packed. The man in the cab will escort her straight to Heathrow.’
Troy went out into the court, looked over his shoulder and called to Kitty. ‘Kitty, a moment, if you would.’
‘What? Can’t it wait until I’ve had a drink? What’s so . . . ?’
Troy walked off towards the end of the alley. Kitty followed, high heels clacking on the paving stones, saying, ‘What are you up to? Troy, what’s going on?’
There was a black cab, the driver standing by the luggage space where the passenger door should have been. When he saw Troy approach he opened the back door and stood by it uncomfortable, unsure of his pose, neither cabbie nor footman.
‘Troy?’
‘Eh?’
‘Get in the cab.’
Kitty stared at the cab, stared at Troy, and said a simple ‘Bollocks!’
She turned and took a step back into Goodwin’s Court. Troy seized her hand intending merely to stop her rather than pull her back, but it was she who pulled. One swift jerk on his hand and they had swapped places – Troy with his back to the court, Kitty with her back to the cab; the streetlamp, perched on its iron bracket high on the corner wall, cast a dim yellow light upon her.
Another swift tug and she had him by the shoulders, another and her hands held his head, straining against the light to see his expression.
‘What? What do you want?’
He knew she could not see the look in his eyes. He could see hers clearly. Big green emeralds fit to burn holes in his skull. Betrayal.
‘What? What do you want from me, Troy?’
And a voice within the cab spoke. ‘Kate.’
Kitty’s head jerked as though she’d been stung – just a fraction, a movement almost electrical, as though resisting looking over her shoulder – then her head bowed, her forehead touching his. Her hands retraced their ascent, slid to his shoulders, from his shoulders to his arms, gripping tightly as though she was about to shake him as Alice shook the Red Queen. The final onset of reality.
A long, long sigh.
‘Oh, God, Troy what have you done? What have you done?’
She wrapped her arms round him. He could not but reciprocate. She whispered in his ear, voice cracking, ‘You silly sod; what have you done?’
She kissed him on the ear. It really was a kitten after all.
He could not have prised her off, but the strength left her. She left him. Turned her back on him and walked to the cab. Stood stooping, staring into the black interior.
‘Kate. Get in. We’re going home.’
Troy looked over the curve of her back. Calvin Cormack sat on the edge of the seat, one arm outstretched to Kitty. Troy had not set eyes on Cormack since the war. He’d lost all his hair now, gained a few pounds in weight – and the sadness in his eyes matched the sadness Troy had found in Kitty’s the day she had turned up on him in London all those weeks ago.
‘Kate. Please get in.’
She took his hand. Delicately, none of the ferocity with which she had held on to Troy – fingertips barely touching. It was like ballet: he pulled on the invisible thread, she flowed in beside him. There was no embrace. She took her seat next to him, looked once at Troy then turned her head away. Cormack, too, looked at Troy, the sadness overwhelming now, smiled once, seemed about to speak but didn’t. Then the cabman closed the door, muttered, ‘Evenin’, guv’ner’, and in seconds the cab rolled away down St Martin’s Lane. Troy watched it as far as Trafalgar Square. As it passed the Duke of York’s theatre half a dozen bulbs burst in the illuminated sign, showering the cab in a fine rain of broken glass.
Troy went home. Put the vodka back under the sink. Lifted the piano lid and played through Brubeck’s ‘Blue Rondo A La Turk’. Noteperfect. For the first time. Note-perfect. But what was note-perfect in jazz? Lifeless. No brilliant corners. It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got. . . He recalled his wife’s definition of jazz – ‘Bum notes that work’ – and closed the lid.