‘When first you start to tease and flirt
Nobody tells you it’s going to hurt,
Nobody warns you ’cause nobody cares
You’ll get yours the way they got theirs’
—Stella Carlyle, ‘Nobody Tells You’
Stella 1996
Stella was surrounded by flowers – a wash of colour all around her feet. Yellow, red, blue and white, so many she couldn’t count or identify them, too many to gather up. Short-sightedly amid the dazzle and the din she stooped and picked one up, a fluffy yellow carnation. Having done so she wasn’t sure what to do with it, this was a new sensation for her. She turned and looked at Derek who sat at the piano, facing the audience, his big hands on his knees, his face wreathed in smiles. She held out her hand to him and he stepped forward amid a fresh surge of noise, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Mouthed: ‘Brava, baby!’
The curtain swished shut, and he put his arms round her in a swamping hug that almost lifted her off her feet. They were both furnace-hot, sweating as though they’d been in a fight or having wild sex.
‘Yes!’ Derek found another gear on the hug, clamping her against his big drum of a stomach. ‘What a lady, what a night!’
He released her and executed a mini haka of his own devising, hips swaying, fists punching up and down like valves on a trumpet. Over his shoulder she could just make out the crew in the wings, their clapping hands like fluttering birds in the dark. From the other side of the curtain came the thunder of stamping feet and a shouted cascade of ‘Encore!’
She peered at the wings stage left; she could identify Miles, their producer, by his first-night affectation of a white tux. He lifted his arms and made ‘More, more’ gestures. There was no let-up in the audience’s enthusiasm.
She turned back to Derek. ‘So what shall we do?’
‘Make ’em laugh, make ’em cry – make ’em wait.’ His face was one enormous grin. ‘You’re the boss.’
‘All right. Only one, though.’
‘Suits me, we’ve all got drinks to go to.’
‘ “Are You There”?’
He jerked his head in acknowledgement. ‘That was where I came in.’
‘Start and finish on my own.’
‘You got it, darling.’
He went back to the piano, she nodded to the wings, the tabs opened and the applause rolled over them. She was still holding the carnation, and now she tucked it in the front of her dress between the little cloth-covered buttons, knowing they’d love it out there because at this moment she could do no wrong.
Make ’em wait ...
She stood stock still, feet a little apart, hands at her sides, creating her own pocket of concentrated stillness that spread like water under a door until it reached the audience and they became silent.
Make ’em wait ...
She allowed the silence to extend to where they could hardly bear it, and then let the first words drift, on a sigh, into the hush.
‘Darling, you were wonderful!’
That was where the luvvies had got it from, thought Stella, they got it from their mothers. There was no approval so warm, so adoring, so steeped in unqualified admiration as that which you got from your mother.
‘Well done, dear girl, magnificent show . . .’
She embraced both her parents, then George and Brian, the latter looking – perhaps intentionally – a little out of place in the green room in his blazer and regimental tie.
George said: ‘I want you to introduce me to Derek Jackman, who is quite the sexiest thing I’ve seen in ages, present company excepted.’ She slapped her husband’s midriff. ‘I like men about me who are fat.’
‘That’s not awfully kind,’ said Brian without rancour. ‘Go on, you painted Jezebel, go and get introduced.’
The moment they were out of earshot, George grabbed Stella by the arm. ‘Quick, I need to know – are you sleeping with him?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Jackman. Are you and he . . .?’
‘Good grief, no!’
‘Don’t say it like that, he’s adorable!’
‘Adorable, and married.’
George pulled a face. ‘I want it minuted that I forbore . . .’ Stella wished her sister would get the message that she no longer found this funny.
‘Is she here?’ asked George.
Stella shook her head. ‘They’re not as married as all that. Derek – excuse me – this is my extremely shortsighted sister George, who thinks you’re adorable. Treat her nicely and you’re on a promise.’
‘Charmed, and I mean that very sincerely . . .’
She left them to it. Besides herself, her family and Derek, there were only about a dozen people drinking the management’s competitively priced champagne, but even that was a dozen too many. She didn’t want to see any of them. Not Miles, not the bright-eyed and youthful stage crew, the handful of theatrical friends and the clutch of couples. She wished them no ill, but she didn’t want them here. The cheerful clamour of celebration echoed with the absence of the one person who wasn’t here – who hadn’t rung, or sent a card, or flowers, or even a message. Who hadn’t fucking showed.
She went back to her parents who had been joined by Brian. Her mother had sat down, and the two men, flanking her like punka-wallahs, presented an interesting contrast to one another. Brian, in spite of the blazer and the tie, wore his wavy hair slightly more than regulation length at the back, in the manner of more doggy Army officers, and was also managing to flash navy braces decorated with pigs and a glint of red sock ‘twixt twill and brothel creeper. The tout ensemble simply screamed, in a well-brought up way: Wolf.
On the other hand, retirement had done nothing to make Andrew Carlyle more clothes conscious. For the first night of his daughter’s show he wore a suit that looked new, but which he had as usual bought hastily and cheaply, so that the trousers were a shade too long with a hint of concertina at the ankle. He had also indulged his preference for double-breasted jackets, to produce an overall effect like one of the comic gangsters in an amateur production of Kiss Me Kate.
‘We were just talking,’ he announced, putting his arm about her shoulders, ‘about the charms of reflected glory. All the adulation and none of the sweat.’
‘And excuse the expression but you were sweating like a pig out there!’ said Brian. ‘It was frightfully sexy.’
‘Ah—’ Andrew raised a finger ‘—horses sweat, men perspire, but ladies merely glow.’
‘Who said anything about ladies?’ Brian gave his snarfing, lecherous laugh.
‘Just a minute . . .’ Mary got to her feet. ‘I think it’s high time I took some part in this conversation.’
‘Mary dearest, please,’ said Brian, ‘you’re surely not going to pull rank at this late stage in our association?’
‘It’s never too late.’ She tapped her son-in-law’s lapel with her finger before turning to Stella. ‘But, darling, such hard work, and all that new material – how long is the run for?’
‘A month. We’re sold out for three weeks, and with a bit of luck this should do it.’
‘Won’t you be exhausted?’
‘It’s her job, for goodness’ sake!’ exclaimed Brian quite tetchily. It irritated him to hear showbusiness characterised as tough. ‘It’s meat and drink to her, the roar of the greasepaint. I mean, I’m not saying it’s not hard work, and I couldn’t do it if anyone were mad enough to ask me, but I’m sure even Stella wouldn’t put it up there with germ warfare, would you? You’re simply making a bloody good job of entertaining a bunch of people who’ve come out with the express intention of enjoying themselves.’
‘Precisely.’ Stella had long since given up rising to this particular bait. ‘Money for old rope ready.’
Andrew looked around at the room, his brow furrowing. ‘Have we been here before?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said his wife thoughtfully. ‘Or is this where we came to see that musical about Al Jolson?’
‘No,’ said Stella, ‘that was the Palladium.’
‘It looks familiar,’ insisted Andrew. ‘Maybe I came here on my own.’
Brian gave the laugh both barrels. ‘Talk about a dark horse! How many other performers are you on backstage drinking terms with?’
‘You just meant the place generally, didn’t you?’ said Mary. ‘I can never distinguish one theatre from another once I’m inside.’
Andrew turned to Stella. ‘Where are the girls, are they here?’
‘Which girls?’
‘The ones you do your show with.’
‘No, darling, they’re not here.’ Mary handed her glass to Brian. ‘Would you be a dear and find some orange juice to put in that?’ She watched him go before adding: ‘I don’t suppose Stella invites them now she doesn’t work with them any more.’
Andrew looked quizzical. His manner was as lively as ever, that was what hurt. ‘You don’t? You’re on your own then?’
‘No,’ said Stella, ‘Derek plays the piano.’ She bit off the word ‘remember.’ ‘He’s over there.’
Andrew looked. ‘Ah, yes, of course, got it. He’s rather a find, isn’t he? You can tell he’s done it before.’
‘So how do you feel about the rest of the evening?’ asked Stella, addressing both of them, desperate to break the circle of misunderstanding. ‘Do you think you’ll come to the restaurant?’
‘Try and stop me!’ Her mother’s brightness could have shattered glass. ‘The feet may be weak but the spirit’s ready for anything. This is our big night out, and anyway I’m absolutely ravenous.’
‘We’ll have to hang on here for at least another half an hour, but if you want to go on I’ll give you the name of the place.’ Go, she thought, go. Please go.
Mary had always been able to read her mind. ‘Perhaps that would be best. Why don’t we do that. Drew? Hop in a cab and go to the restaurant, then Stella won’t feel she has to fuss over us instead of circulating.’
‘Whatever suits. Come on then but be gentle with me.’ Andrew placed his hands on Stella’s shoulders and leaned in for a kiss. ‘Bye-bye, old thing, come and see us again soon.’
Far from circulating she was still standing there when Brian returned with the orange juice. ‘Where did they beetle off to?’
‘They’ve gone on to keep the table warm.’
‘Fair enough. Want this? I never touch the filthy stuff myself.’
‘Hand it over, it’s time I diluted.’
‘The old man’s enjoying himself,’ observed Brian. ‘All this has done him no end of good. He’s a bit vague these days, but the life and soul this evening. He needs to get out more.’
Stella thought: life and soul? Maybe – but where did mind fit in?
In the Ladies at the restaurant, side by side at the mirror, George said, ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘You know me, I lead a very sheltered life so I get pissed at parties. Derek’s a nice man.’
‘He is.’
‘And I bet he has a nice wife.’
‘I wouldn’t know, we haven’t met as yet.’
‘I see.’ George peered at her own reflection and sighed gustily. ‘God in heaven, I can do no more! Anyway, you and he are a hot ticket. I was all aglow with pride out front today, we both were.’
‘Thanks.’
There was a silence while Stella scrunched and tweaked at her hair, and George watched. She thought: Don’t. Please don’t ask, or sympathise, or show how well you understand me . . . or say anything at all. But she could feel the question coming like the flurry of air that heralds an approaching train in the underground.
‘Still seeing Robert?’
‘I have been from time to time. Okay.’ She turned from the mirror. ‘Shall we?’
George didn’t move. ‘How is it with him?’
‘The same. Look, George, I know—’
‘Still married?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘Come on.’
‘Yes.’
‘So it’s been, what, seven years? Nearly a decade—’
‘Six years actually.’
‘Okay, but too long. Too long for a drop-dead wonderful person like you to be hanging about on the end of a phone waiting for a call from some clichéd married creep who wants to have his cake and shag it.’
‘Cut it out, George.’ Stella’s head began to hurt. ‘It isn’t like that.’
‘It’s always like that.’
‘Really?’ She smiled sourly, and opened the door as another woman walked in. ‘And I should know, hmm?’
On the way up the stairs George tried to apologise discreetly, in a deafening hiss. ‘Stella, I’m sorry. Again already. But I care about you.’
‘Good!’ She walked back into the restaurant with a big smile. ‘Let’s hope we never meet when you don’t give a shit.’
She got through dinner on auto-pilot. Made a short, self-deprecating speech. Said she hoped they’d all tell their friends. Told them she and Derek were available for barmitzvahs, eighteenths and silver weddings. Said success wouldn’t change her, she’d stay tight-fisted as ever. Asked if they liked the frock and said just as well because at that price she wouldn’t be getting another. Thanked Derek, Miles, God and her parents. Did her Stella Carlyle number, in fact, then and for three solid hours thereafter. Drank twice as much as anyone else at the table and failed to get even half as drunk. Wanted only to put her head down amid the crumbs, the ashtrays and the wine stains and weep with rage and loneliness.
Towards the end George pushed over her programme, a menu and a biro.
‘Beg pardon but I’m entitled to do naff things, I’m your sister. Sign those, there’s a pet. One and a spare.’
‘For the kids?’
Brian hee-hawed. ‘Stuff that, we’re the ones who need the social cachet.’
On the menu George had written in eyeliner: ‘Are you in love with the bastard? Please advise, X for yes, XX for no.’
She signed it ‘Stella Carlyle, with love’ and the programme ‘To two top people, George and Brian, with lots of love, Stella’, adding no kisses to either of them.
‘Spoilsport,’ said George. ‘I shall take that as a no.’
Stella had ordered a cab for her parents to take them to their hotel, and when the waiter came to tell them it had arrived she went out with them on to the pavement. Her mother kissed her and held her face for a moment, brushing her cheeks gently with her thumbs as if wiping away tears.
‘It was a triumph, darling. Well done.’
‘Thanks, I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ She sounded stiff but couldn’t help it. ‘And thanks for the flowers.’
Mary laughed. ‘Coals to Newcastle as it turned out!’
‘They meant a lot to me, I shall take them home. ‘Bye, Dad.’
‘ ’Bye, old thing, take care of yourself. Love to the girls.’ Stella avoided her mother’s eye as Andrew turned to the taxi driver. ‘Paddington, and don’t spare the horses.’
‘The Royal Lancaster, Drew.’ Mary smiled at her daughter. ‘You can tell how seldom we stay in town.’
Andrew shrugged extravagantly, hands lifted, eyes to the heavens. ‘Royal Lancaster then, woman, it’s all the same to me.’
‘That’s right, you do what she says, mate, best policy in my experience.’ The driver chuckled matily as they got in, but only Andrew joined in.
When all the others had gone Stella and Derek had a chaser courtesy of the management. Single malt for him. Jack Daniel’s for her.
‘Satisfied?’ he asked. ‘You should be.’
‘We haven’t seen the crits. And we’ve got the whole run ahead of us yet.’
‘Bloody hell!’ he said cheerfully.‘If ever I heard a glass-half-empty remark that’s got to be it.’ He sang, waggling his hands like a riverboat minstrel,‘ “Live, love, laugh and be happy!” Suit yourself.’
‘I’m pleased, I’m pleased, okay?’ She fiddled about, lighting a cigarette. ‘Derek . . .’
‘Spit it out.’
‘Would a shag be out of the question?’
‘O-oh, no! You don’t get to use me as a stand-in. Or a lay-down.’
‘You wouldn’t be.’
‘Give me some credit, girl,’ he said gently,‘your fella didn’t show.’
‘No.’
He put his hand over hers, a huge hand that covered it completely.
‘He couldn’t make it, but he will another time. He’s a doctor, right? They have funny lives, I’ve seen it on the telly.’
She shot him a wry, bitter look. ‘Any moment now you’ll be telling me to trust him.’
‘It’s none of my business, darling.’
‘That’s true. No –’ she shook her head ‘—I didn’t mean that. As a matter of fact I appreciate your taking his side. It leaves me free to say what a stinking, cheating, worthless fucking lowlife he is.’
‘Go, Carlyle!’ said Derek. ‘Ain’t love a bitch?’
When she’d left the flat at five she had been winding up for the performance. She was so wired that she could scarcely remember what she’d been doing, only anticipate what was ahead. But returning in the small hours the evidence of her preparations was all there. The clean white sheets and the drawn blinds, the extra towel and the Crabtree & Evelyn soap, the Courtney Pine CD in place, the chilled fizz and the fresh jar of Marmite . . . The church candles, God help her, on the mantelpiece.
The candles were an invitation to do something she’d always wanted to do, and sweep her arm the length of the mantelpiece, carrying them with it. The action was satisfying, the result less so, because though the candles split into chunks they were held together by their wicks and she found herself drunkenly trying to reassemble them. You sad, sad cow, she thought, you can’t even break something properly any more.
There was no message on the machine, no e-mail, no hand-delivered note. Just a big nothing and the broken candles standing like uneven towers of children’s bricks on the floor. She hated him. Swore to herself that if she hadn’t always been too proud to ask for his number, this was when she’d have rung him and blown his poxy life apart before getting the hell out. She even got as far as picking up the telephone directory, but he wasn’t in her area, and she didn’t even have his home address to offer to directory enquiries. Humiliated by her desperation and her ignorance, she hurled the directory across the room.
She went to bed but couldn’t sleep. This was it, she told herself enough. George had been right, it was always like this. She’d slept with enough married men to know that they were the most chickenshit people on earth, which was why she didn’t care how she treated them. Derek was right too. About love, she supposed. Maybe. Every-fucking-body was right! She was right, for Christ’s sake, she wasn’t stupid, she knew the score, she’d been round the block so many times she could have done the trip with her eyes shut.
It wasn’t even as if she had cleaved exclusively unto Robert Vitelio. Now that would be sad. She’d taken a nip from what was available now and again, here and there, to remind herself that she was a free agent and it could still be done. But the high, the sense of power that the casual encounters used to give her, simply wasn’t there any more. She was heading towards forty, it was beginning to feel wrong, as though she were trying (and failing) to prove something. With the exception of this evening’s lapse with Derek, which in any case she had known he would turn down, she had kept herself to herself for the best part of a year now. To herself and him.
It was as if a great heavy cog wheel were grinding round inside her, heaving painfully into another gear.The resistance was powerful, but the wheel would get to where it needed to be eventually. And then she would have to accept that she was in love with this man, and decide what, if anything, was to be done about it. The lack of Xs on George’s menu was a cop-out, but like a cheating alcoholic she wasn’t yet ready to stand up and be counted.
There had been perhaps a dozen occasions over the past few years when they’d had a few days together – never more than a long weekend – and Stella had nervously discovered what it might be like to be a couple: begun to find out where they fitted and where they rubbed, not just in bed but in the real world of supermarkets, roadmaps, bathrooms, cinemas and domestic gadgets; which foods each of them couldn’t stand, who could cook what, who bathed and who showered and at what time of day, who preferred tea and who coffee, which papers they read, how quickly and when, how their respective body clocks were set. How (she could no longer avoid the word) to compromise.
Most of these weekends were spent in Britain, a few in Italy and France, one or two at her flat. She never, on principle, asked him how he managed the time for them, what lies he’d told, what risks he ran. She knew that if she once started making his problems her own she’d have handed over her precious independence on a plate. It was difficult enough spending even that limited time on her own with him – she had never shared such large chunks of her life with any man, it increased a thousandfold her baffled and grudging respect for those who voluntarily took on marriage. They didn’t get much sleep when they were together, and he was an habitual early riser unused to napping during the day. The unsocial hours of her work meant that she habitually slept late. Consequently there was often only a window of a few hours in the middle of the day when their moods and energy levels meshed. She lost count of the number of films whose ending she had to supply for him, and mornings when he shook her awake impatiently at eleven o’clock, unable to put the day off any longer.
Their relationship, she often felt, was like a fruit machine, nearly always arbitrarily mismatching their moods and behaviour patterns but just occasionally, when all the strawberries were in a row, showering them with an emotional jackpot. And those glimpses of what they were capable of kept them going through the long-drawn-out attrition of deceit and impatience and competitiveness and remorse. And passion – she must never forget the passion, through which they could always communicate when words and gestures faded.
There had been a twenty-four-hour escape in a northern city where Stella and Derek were on tour and Robert was attending a conference. Such a coincidence, providing them with an unlooked-for opportunity to be together without lies, was in itself rare enough, but for some reason (perhaps the lack of lies was itself the reason) they were at their best. They’d met on the Sunday morning and driven out into the high, austere countryside and walked for miles in a thumping rainwashed wind and fitful sunshine. The openness, the sense of being allowed to be together, made them relax. Each had spent the previous days in their own element and was now ready to unwind, to listen and make space for the other. They had lunch in a pub, and then retraced their steps to the car in the cool gathering dark of the afternoon.
Back in the city they’d checked into a hotel, made love and slept. In the early evening, looking for somewhere to have dinner, they’d found themselves near the cathedral close and gone in to stand at the back of choral evensong. Susceptible unbelievers that they both were, they were moved by the soaring music, the immutable grandeur of the building, the rolling cadences of the spoken words.
‘Does it mean anything?’ she’d asked as they walked out into the wet-black night.
‘Does it have to?’
‘It would be handy if it did.’
They were walking close together, strides matched but not touching, hands in pockets. He never held her hand or put his arm round her in public, it wasn’t his style. Far from resenting this outward coolness she found it almost unbearably sexy. Before they emerged from the dim secrecy of the close into the prosaic brightness of the street, Robert stopped and looked up at the sky.
‘That depends,’ he said, ‘whether you’re godless or God-free.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Same as children. Plenty of people don’t have them, but some want them and some don’t.’
‘And which are you?’
‘About God? Less, not free. I’m like you, I wouldn’t half like there to be one. But that said—’ he began walking again ‘—I’ll need a hell of a lot of persuading.’
Apart from this one brief exchange Stella could not remember what they’d talked about that evening. That was because for once they were so in tune, so receptive to one another, that she could scarcely tell where he began and she ended. For a moment as they sat over the second bottle and the wavering candle, she caught herself thinking: This must be happiness, and was shaken by the impertinence of the thought. The night that followed was different from other nights, too – a dreamlike, timeless slipping in and out of love, a profound sensual mutuality. The next morning there was none of that sense of angry torn edges and unfinished business that so often accompanied their partings. They were calmer, more sure, than they had ever been.
Holding open the car door for her, he’d lifted her hand and pressed the palm over his mouth, not so much kissing it as breathing it in.
Eyes closed, he whispered: ‘I’m scared to say anything.’
‘Me too. So let’s not.’
‘We’re such cowards.’
‘I don’t care if you don’t.’
He’d returned her hand to her, placing it over her heart, and walked away.
For days she had lived in the afterglow of that weekend, its seamless harmony and deep delight.
* * * * *
But it was to prove the exception. Everything was against them, or so she told herself. She tried to manage him as she’d managed other men, by remaining separate and asking no questions, but then she had never had a relationship of this length. Sooner or later you had to know more about the other person than was available through sex and observation and shared activity. So in time she found out that he was a consultant ophthalmologist at a London teaching hospital, that he had been married for twenty years (at the time, that would be twenty-three now) and that his wife was a GP. They had no children, but he had represented this without regret as an incidental circumstance, not the result of a decision. He was the son of second-generation Scottish Italians who used to run a café and sandwich bar in Glasgow, but his mother had died some years ago and his father had sold the business and now lived in sheltered accommodation, ‘wowing the old ladies’ as Robert put it.
He had been christened Roberto, and had three elder brothers whose names were Guido, Seppi, and Ricardo. Only Seppi was still called that, the other two had opted like him for anglicisation – Guy and Richard. Seppi was the one most like their father, a tough, careful grafter: he and his wife had a grown-up married daughter and grandchildren, and ran a successful baby-clothes shop in Edinburgh. Richard – smooth, smart and opportunistic – had married the scion of a fabulously rich furniture designer from Milan and returned to Italy where he’d since taken over the business. Guy was a twice-divorced professional musician, gifted but shambolic, a clarinettist with the Northern Symphony Orchestra.
It was these brothers, more than anything, that brought home to Stella the anomalies of her position in Robert’s life. It wasn’t too much to say that he adored them, it was the one area of his life where he seemed more Italian than Scot. She envied them their tribal closeness, their easy, undeserving claim on his love, and bitterly resented the fact that as far as they were concerned she herself did not exist. She was a whole part of their beloved brother’s life, and his nature, of which they were kept in ignorance. She was sure they admired his success, which would of course include his sound marriage to an estimable wife, but what of her, his passion, his addiction, the person he said he could not live without? The performer in her felt starved of the attention she deserved.
Seppi was the only one Robert saw with any regularity, and that not often. Richard was in flight from his background and rarely made contact. As for Guy, Robert seemed to find him droll, especially his disorganised emotional life, an attitude which under the circumstances she found patronising.
It was this that prompted her to say, in bed late one night: ‘I don’t see why he’s such a big disaster.’
‘I never said he was a disaster, he just can’t cut the mustard, romantically speaking.’
‘And what exactly constitutes cutting the mustard?’
Her head was on his shoulder and she felt him look down at her before replying: ‘Forming a relationship. I know what you’re going to say.’
‘We’re hardly in a position to criticise.’
‘You mean that I’m not.’
‘It takes two . . .’
‘If you only knew,’ he said thinly, pulling his arm from under her and reaching for his cigarettes, ‘how unconvincing you sound.’
‘All right.’ She sat up. ‘All right. Your brother’s been divorced twice, which you see as some sort of failure. And yet –’ she looked at him ‘—you’re here with me. How do you rationalise that?’
He blew smoke over his shoulder.‘You want me to get divorced?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Ha!’
She hung on to her temper. ‘It’s not. But if everything was perfect you wouldn’t be here. Guy at least recognised the imperfections and got out. Both times.’
‘He ran away. Couldn’t cope.’
‘And you do, is that it? This is what you call coping, is it? Managing the marriage and the mistress, keeping all the plates spinning?’
He seemed to think about this, before saying flatly: ‘I suppose it must be.’
Now she couldn’t conceal her anger. ‘Listen to yourself! You make it sound as though it all just happens to you, as if free will hadn’t been invented.’
‘I was having a stab at truthfulness,’ he said. ‘Obviously, I’m out of practice—’
‘Don’t be so bloody condescending.’
‘—whereas you, I know, are never less than transparently honest, and have been living the life of a nun.’
It wasn’t the words themselves that hurt, it was the intention to wound. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Very well. Your flat, your call.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘But let me ask you something, Stella. If tomorrow say, I were by some divine intervention to be suddenly free, no baggage, no guilt, no debts financial or emotional – what difference would it make to us?’
‘If you have to ask, I’m not going to tell you.’
‘Girlie answer.’
Nettled, she snapped: ‘A big difference.’
‘Ah,’ he raised a finger, ‘but would it? Would we spend more time together? Live together? Have babies together?’ Suddenly he put up a hand and caught her by the chin, twisting her head round hard to look at him. ‘Will you marry me, Stella?’
To buy time she prised his fingers away. ‘Don’t do that!’
He gave a pinched, sarcastic smile. ‘Exactly.’
He’d left then. The clock had showed two in the morning, he was good at these dog-hour departures, the car (a BMW these days) zooming away into dark, empty streets, every rising gear change telling her to put that in her sodding pipe and smoke it. She hadn’t had time to make her cutting, perceptive points about the precise difference that his freedom would make: that it would enable them to look at each other properly for the first time, unshadowed by the drama of his infidelity; to assess what each had to gain, and to lose; to decide, in all probability, that they’d be poison for one another, and to get out before it was too late.
And tonight was the same. Yet again she’d been robbed of the opportunity to tell him how greatly she despised him, how pathetic he was, and how little she cared whether he lived or died.
Stella was on the edge of sleep – had just had that abrupt sensation of fading that went with the body’s finally giving up and giving in – when Victoria Mansions’ fire alarm went off. The red numbers on the clock said 3:37. She wasn’t prepared to believe it, and rolled over, but in less than a minute there were voices outside, and some community-minded person banged on the door of the flat and shouted, ‘Fire alarm! Everybody out!’
She could only remember it happening twice before and on both occasions it had only been a practice, tactfully signalled a week or two in advance. But there was no doubt now that there were people in the hallway, and the alarm blared on and on until finally she lurched out of bed, pulled on a coat and boots and obeyed the summons.
Out in the street the Mansions’ residents numbered about forty, including at least half a dozen elderly people she’d never seen before in her life, two families with toddlers and a crying baby, and an Indian couple with three teenagers. The teenagers were fully dressed in outsize trousers, baggy parkas and big shoes, having clearly not been to bed at all. A police car was parked at the kerb with its blue light flashing.
The chairman of the Residents’ Association was all urbane efficiency, moving among his flock in a Burberry and Wellingtons, disseminating information.
‘Stella!’ he said as though they had bumped into one another over the food counter at Harrods.‘We were starting to worry about you.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘Where’s the fire?’
‘No, not a fire, a bomb scare.’ He held up his hand to stem the anticipated wave of panic. ‘The Asian lads noticed a flight bag in the back hallway which they said had been there since they went out. The boys in blue are investigating as we speak, but they assure me that nine out of ten of these things turn out to be false alarms.’
‘When will we know?’
He shrugged, loving it. ‘Lap of the gods. If they haven’t sorted things out to their satisfaction in a quarter of an hour or so they’ll find us some accommodation elsewhere for the night.’
‘It’s a quarter to four. There won’t be any night left.’
‘Perhaps not. Got a show on at the moment?’
‘The run started last night.’
‘Ooh, dear . . .’ He was a mite reproving, this was an emergency after all. ‘Still, can’t be helped. Maybe tonight’s the night for your understudy.’
He had no idea, she didn’t even pretend to laugh. She was absolutely twitching with tiredness, she could have lain down on the pavement and slept. The last thing she wanted was to be spoken to, but there was evidence among her fellow residents of bonding in adversity, of the spirit of the Blitz coming into play, little stories about their quixotic rescuing of rings and bears and cookery books . . . the men saying you had to take this sort of thing seriously, the women joking about eyeliner and clean underpants. She perched on the edge of the grubby brick wall, aloof and grubby. There were only two things she wished she’d brought with her and one was her car keys. The other (and here she had some sympathy with the story-tellers) was ‘Only Sleeping’. It would be a crime if the handsome soldier and his horse were to be wiped out completely after all this time, their uplifting message of comfort blown to smithereens by the IRA.
The BMW slid between her and her thoughts. ‘I know it’s not an original line,’ said Robert, leaning across to talk through the passenger window, ‘but can I interest you in the fuck of a lifetime?’
Her line was scarcely original either. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Cruising for women, stupid. Get in.’
‘I can’t just disappear, we’re in the middle of a bomb scare.’
‘What were you planning to do, give them your rendition of “We’ll Meet Again”?’
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, I haven’t got my keys – what am I saying? The whole place could blow up!’
‘They haven’t cordoned you off – look, will you get in or the rozzers will be after both of us.’ He pushed the door open.
‘Don’t drive off.’
‘I won’t. I was planning to be invited up for coffee. Get. In.’
She climbed in. The warmth of the car, the softness of the seats, the smell of cigars and peppermint, the plaintive blandishments of Miles Davis, were like an embrace. It was hard to remember how much she hated him.
‘I’ve got to say . . .’ he barked with laughter, and continued to laugh as he pulled her head towards his ‘. . . you look like absolute hell.’
She fell asleep in the car. An hour later the chairman tapped on the window to say they were allowed back in. The flight bag had turned out to be full of what he called ‘dirty mags’, which seemed to indicate that it might have been a hoax. No one would have dreamed of pointing the finger at the teenagers who had reported it, but they all had their suspicions. The caretaker went round with his skeleton key opening people’s doors for them.
Robert came in with Stella, and then it all came back to her. The broken candles, the telephone directory slewed against the wall . . . She faced him, still wrapped in her big coat, arms folded
‘Look, I’m not sure I want you here.’
‘I can’t say I blame you.’
‘So where were you?’
‘Seppi called, his daughter’s not well.’
‘Your niece.’ She didn’t quite know what point she was making, something about pecking orders and priorities. She sounded sour and crabby, even to herself.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Natalie. She’d be about your age, has to have a radical mastectomy.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered ungraciously, on fire with humiliation. But also thinking, The bitch – the bitch to make me seem such a bitch.
‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the prognosis is statistically pretty fair. But Seppi was understandably exercised about it, how everyone was going to cope while she was in hospital, all that sort of thing – a way of not focusing on the worst-case scenario. I couldn’t get away.’
‘I can see that.’ Something occurred to her, an unworthy impulse to catch him out. ‘So how did you manage to get over here at this ungodly hour?’
‘Sian’s away. Women’s health conference ironically. And yes, I did initially forget about your opening night but when the penny dropped I would have tracked you down hours ago if Seppi hadn’t called so late.’
‘Forget it, it doesn’t matter.’ She couldn’t stand much more of this torrent of rational explanation. ‘You can stay if you want to.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘I fear the hoaxers have put paid to that. You must sleep and I must work.’
‘Don’t you need to sleep too? What about the patients?’
‘I’ll catch twenty winks or so when I get there. My competence will not be compromised and my interpersonal skills bottomed out years ago. As you know.’
He moved to kiss her but she could not unbend. She kept her arms folded and her lips closed. Refusing to accept her rebuff, he put his arms round her and said gently, into her hair: ‘How did it go?’
‘Fine.’ Come on, Stella. ‘No, it went well.’
‘That’s tremendous. I’m going to come and see it, very soon.’ His hand slid up and down her back, his voice became ragged. ‘When I said you looked like hell . . . I didn’t mean it.’
‘You did and you were right. I was entitled to look hellish, it was four in the morning in the middle of a bomb scare.’
She felt him pulse with suppressed laughter before he released her. ‘True.’ This time he succeeded in snatching a quick kiss on the lips. ‘Gotcha.’
He peered at himself in the mirror, mumbled ‘Christ’ and scrubbed his hands furiously over his face and hair. Next to the mirror was the Victorian photograph, and he flicked it with his finger. ‘It’s a mystery to me why you like this thing.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s peaceful.’
‘It’s pseudo-religious, meretricious, sentimental crap, my angel,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’ll call before the end of the week. Sleep tight.’
And on this characteristically acerbic note, Robert Vitelio left.
But not for the last time that morning, as she discovered when she struggled out of bed. There was a note from the porter among the post on her mat, indicating that a package had been left outside her door. It was a bundle of newspapers in a plastic carrier bag with the name of an off-licence chain. With the papers was a greetings card with a picture of a cuddly hedgehog in a straw hat and dungarees and the legend: ‘You are my sunshine’. Inside, Robert had written: ‘Sorry about the execrable tat, best your 24-hour shop could do. Thought you might like to see these – congratulations. Stella by name, stellar by nature. XRX’
The reviews ranged from good to ecstatic, with nothing whatever to raise the blood pressure, and rich pickings for the show’s publicist. There were several morning messages on the machine, and she listened to them as she brunched on black coffee and a bacon sandwich.
The first was from Miles saying that the booking line had been red hot and there was every chance they should consider extending the run. The second was from George, overhung but jubilant: ‘. . . reckon I could flog those autographs for a tidy sum on the strength of your reviews, you old son of a gun. I am so, so sorry by the way if I put foot in mouth last night. By the time we got to the restaurant I was honestly too motherless to know what I was doing. Your affairs are none of my affair! Brian sends his best and a big sloppy kiss – you can imagine how sloppy after what he put away . . . Give us a buzz when you’ve got a moment. ‘Byee.’
The third was Derek, characteristically chipper. ‘Looks like we did it, doll, but it’s no surprise to me. I’m off to Porchester Baths for a Turkish and a cold plunge before tonight, and who knows – I might get lucky. See you later.’
Last of all was her mother. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen the Telegraph, so I’m going to read you what it calls you . . . here we are . . . “Stella Carlyle”, blah blah, “looks like a street urchin, sings like a siren”, blah, this is the bit, “exudes an extraordinary sex appeal full of power and pathos. Carlyle—” I wish they wouldn’t do that, but anyway “—is one of the few performers around today who can make you laugh and cry at almost the same moment”. And so it goes on, isn’t it wonderful? I expect you’re having a lie-in but do call if you feel like it. Your father’s not top-hole today, it’s probably anti-climax, I’m sure he’d love to hear your voice.’
Not wanting to think about it for too long, she rang there and then.
‘It’s me.’
‘Stella, darling, we are such proud parents. Look, your father’s right here, I’ll put him on . . .’ She heard her mother say quietly but clearly, ‘Drew, it’s Stella – Stella for you. Remember we went to the show last night?’ And then, to her again, ‘Here he is.’
‘Stella?’
‘Hallo, Dad, how are you today?’
‘Pretty good. How was the show?’
Her heart sank. ‘It went very well.’
‘And the girls?’
‘They’re fine.’
‘We’re frightfully dull and quiet down here, when are you coming to see us?’
‘I might manage next Sunday, but I’ll ring and let you know.’
He said, ‘She’s coming next Sunday,’ and then: ‘My brain’s going more than somewhat, old thing, I mislay my marbles from time to time, you’ll have to excuse me.’
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ she lied.
‘Come, come,’ he said, ‘I’d be astonished if you hadn’t.’
‘Everyone has lapses of memory.’
There was a short silence, and then he said: ‘They do, don’t they?’ And then, ‘Cheerio, keep the aspidistra flying.’
Mary came back on. ‘So we’ll see you on Sunday?’
‘I might manage it, I don’t know yet. Can I give you a ring?’
‘Of course! Darling—’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t ever feel you have to, will you? We know you love us, you and George, you don’t have to keep visiting us to prove it.’
When she’d put the phone down she sat head in hands, shamed by her mother’s love, her generosity, her shining and impregnable loyalty.
Stella didn’t make it on Sunday. For one thing she was exhausted, this show seemed to be taking more out of her than others; and for another – the real reason – she couldn’t face her parents, when the gulf between their situation and hers seemed more than ever unbridgeable. On the other hand, Robert had not yet rung, and she wanted to be out if he did.
She called Jamie and asked if he’d like to go out to lunch. Since his eighteenth birthday and consequent striking from what she thought of as the godparental payroll, there had been a subtle recalibration of their relationship.
‘Nice one!’
‘My treat,’ she said, from habit.
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘If there’s anyone you’d like to bring . . .’
‘No, thanks, I’m resting between engagements.’
‘Prince of Jaipur at one o’clock then.’
Having obtained a 2:1 in English and media studies at Manchester, Jamie had found employment as a junior producer on an early-morning breakfast show of breathtaking loudness and vulgarity, a job he hugely enjoyed. It had cachet, cred, a high totty factor and no dress code. From time to time he rang Stella to inform her of some item of his that was going to be on. These usually involved waking up unsuspecting minor celebrities and demanding to come in and inspect their bedrooms, or doing much the same thing to members of the public. Stella had warned him that if he ever pulled such a stunt with her their relationship would be terminated on the spot, but he had set her mind at rest by pointing out that from an OB point of view Victoria Mansions was about as user-friendly as Sing-Sing, so she was perfectly safe.
He was waiting for her in the Prince of Jaipur, at a table near the buffet, wearing jeans, a frayed striped rugby top and distressed trainers.
‘Shall we get some in before we talk? I was largeing it last night.’
This came as no surprise. He was built on a titanic scale, but these days there was a distinct roll above the waistband of the jeans.
As they carried their starters back to the table, he asked, ‘Is that all you’re having?’
‘I can go back, that’s the idea.’
They ordered drinks – a pint of orange juice and Evian for him, a glass of white wine for her – and Jamie fell on his food with gusto.
‘This was such a good idea, thanks for thinking of it – I’m so bloody idle, I never call you.’
‘Don’t worry, it was selfish, I needed cheering up.’
‘But the show’s a blast, I read a review. As a matter of fact I couldn’t even get tickets for me and Jonno.’
‘Before we leave tell me when you’d like to come and I’ll make sure there are some on the door.’
‘It wasn’t a hint.’
‘I don’t care if it was. You don’t have to hint, darling, just ask, it’s what ageing godmothers are for.’
‘Ageing, you?’ Jamie gave her a cod-flirtatious look. ‘Mind if I reload?’
While he was gone she sipped her wine. It was lovely to see him but the curry no longer seemed such a good idea. She pushed the greasy chunks of samosa around her plate, her stomach rebelling. When he returned, his plate piled with pilau rice and sauces red, brown and green, she decided to pre-empt further comment.
‘I’m sorry, you’re going to have to put up with me watching you eat. I’m just not hungry.’
‘It’s a free country.’ He speared a samosa. ‘I’ll have it. So why are you depressed?’
‘I’m not, really.’
‘You said you needed cheering up.’
‘Sunday blues.’
He made circular movements in the air with his fork while he finished a mouthful. ‘How’s the love life?’
She laughed, remembering that she used to ask him that. ‘Quiet.’
‘I don’t believe you. Or have I got the wrong end of the stick – is quiet good?’
Suddenly, she wanted to unburden herself to Jamie. Unlike others in whom she might have confided – her mother, George, even Derek – she knew that in spite of his casual affection for her, the natural self-centredness of youth would ensure both his disinterest and his discretion.
‘May I be frank?’ she asked.
‘Go on.’
She told him everything, without using names. He listened and ate. When he’d cleared his plate he scraped the contents of hers on to his own, and ate that. The only time he interrupted her was to order more drinks, a Tiger beer for him this time. She’d talked for half an hour when she ran out of steam.
‘So there you have it. It’s been salutary to do this, it makes me realise what a cliché the whole thing is.’
‘Yes, but a cliché’s a cliché because it’s true.’
She smiled weakly. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And anyway, the situation may be a cliché, but you’re you and he’s who he is, so the chemistry’s unique. What are you going to do?’
‘What would you do?’
‘Oh, no—’ he held up his hands ‘—no, no! I’m staying well out of it. You don’t need my advice.’
‘I’m not asking you for it. I’m asking out of purely scientific interest what you would do in my situation.’
‘Ideal world, or truth?’
She pulled a come-on face. ‘What do you think?’
‘In his place or yours?’
‘Either.’ She shrugged. ‘Both.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Well, he’s easy. If I was him I wouldn’t have a clue where I stood with you, probably be shit-scared of you – no, you asked, this is my turn – so I’d be hanging in there waiting for something to come along and change the situation for me. I probably really like my wife even if we’re not shagging, and feel I owe her something – especially if we’re not shagging – so I’m not going to just walk out on her without a good reason. He’s probably hoping to get caught so she’ll throw him out, or that she’ll start something with the neighbour so he can walk with a clear conscience.’
‘Hang on.’ Stella raised her hand. ‘No good reason? I thought I’d spent the last however long telling you the reason.’
‘But does he know – did you tell him?’
‘What?’
‘Shit!’ Jamie blushed and banged his forehead with a fist. ‘I dunno – that you’re in love with him, something like that?’ ‘Not in so many . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘Not in so many words.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating it, I don’t even know if it’s true, all I’m saying is that in his shoes, hey, I’d need a pretty big incentive to blow everything out of the water.’
‘Right. And what about in mine?’
‘I give up.’
‘No, come on, you promised, you’re doing fine.’
‘Yes, but that was the easy bit, blokes I can do.’
‘Look on it as a challenge.’
‘Fine. Then I’d probably let things go on as they are.’
‘Would you?’ She was crestfallen. ‘Well, that sounds really, really exciting.’
‘Don’t be like that.’ He looked aggrieved. ‘The way you told me it is pretty exciting. Everyone gets to act out, and then go home. Who doesn’t like a bit of drama? Especially you. Nothing wrong in that.’
Oh, well, she thought as she walked home, talk about ‘Out of the mouths . . .’ She’d asked for it and she’d got it. Not advice, but the unlovely and unpalatable truth.
* * * * *
Robert called her from the hospital early on Wednesday and said he could get away at midday, could he come and see her?
The first thing he said as she let him in was: ‘You’re looking skinny, let’s go out to lunch.’
‘I’d much rather not. There’s food here, and anyway I’m not hungry.’
‘I am.’ He put his arms round her amorously. ‘But food doesn’t feature.’
He made love to her with great tenderness but briefly, not holding back, as if he were simply breathing his passion into her. These days, after so long, it was often like this when they first got together – a blind, wordless, mutual imprinting.
He gasped, fell back, then buried his face in her breasts. ‘God help me ...’
She stroked his head, kissed his hair. ‘Why should he? You don’t pay him no never mind.’
His shoulders jerked with laughter. ‘I’m told he likes a challenge.’
They lay quietly for some minutes, safe and sound. These were the almost-perfect moments, when they had made love, and effortlessly understood one another, and everything else was still out there, too far away to trouble them. If the essence of these times could be bottled, thought Stella, a spoonful a day would have seen them through. She put her arm about his head, cradling him. His breathing was deep and steady, but he wasn’t asleep. His hand was moving over her diaphragm, her hips, her back. After a moment he tilted his head back to look at her.
‘You know, you really are too thin.’
‘I like to be near the knuckle.’
He grunted, ran his thumb over her collarbone. ‘You’re that all right . . . I suppose it’s the show.’ ‘Probably.’ Not comfortable with this subject, she asked: ‘How is Natalie?’
He pulled himself up next to her, kissed her cheek. ‘She’s had the operation, and it was a success as far as it went. Now it’s a case of keeping a close eye on things. And of course the poor girl has to learn to live with the prosthesis.’
‘Of course.’
In the pause that followed he played with her hair. She sensed an announcement, and was not surprised when he said: ‘We’re going up to Glasgow to see them the week after next, I’ve got a couple of days off.’
‘She’ll appreciate that.’
‘What, a visit from Uncle Bob?’ He affected a strong Glaswegian twang. ‘I don’t know about that, it’s more for our consciences than their wellbeing, but these things must be done. Only trouble is, you’re so damn’ popular I haven’t been able to get a ticket between now and then.’
‘Just turn up when you can. They can always find the odd one, and I’ll give them your name.’
‘Would you? Thanks, I’d hate to miss it.’ He rested his chin on her shoulder. ‘Did you say there was food about?’
They lunched on brown bread, ham, tomatoes, a wedge of cracked and crusty strong Cheddar, and red wine. The picnicky nature of the meal meant that her lack of appetite went largely unremarked. Afterwards, they went back to bed, and as usual it was different the second time: more protracted; more tense and aware, less relaxed; more to say and less time to say it. She thought she would surely come, and when she didn’t, was desolate.
‘Don’t fret,’ he said, teasing her mortification. As so often, he thought she hadn’t seen him glance at his watch. ‘You have nothing to prove.’
This was so like what her mother, and Jamie, had said to her, that she thought: The world is full of people who claim to know what I’m feeling better than I do myself. And the thought stopped her from saying, as she might otherwise have done, what those feelings were.
On the Saturday night there was a note for her at the stage door.
Dear Stella,
This is just to say that I shall be out there this evening and rooting for you every step of the way (not that you need it, according to the papers!). I am living and working very contentedly in Colchester now, at the above address. I mention this because I want you to know that I’m always there if I can be of service. It has been several years since I saw you, except in the spotlight, of course, and it would be so nice if some time or other we could meet up for a drink, and talk, but I shall leave the ball entirely in your court.
Yours ever,
Gordon
As she changed and made up she reflected quite fondly that Gordon was the one man who could sign himself ‘Yours ever’ and be taken literally. That in itself was a comfort, when comfort was scarce and she needed it. Jamie and his flatmate Jonno were in the audience tonight as well, there need be no feeling of exclusivity . . . On an impulse she summoned the ASM and sent her round to the front with an invitation to Gordon to join Derek, herself and the others (she was careful to list them) for a drink after the show.
It was the purest coincidence that she saw him. The small window of her dressing room overlooked the side alley between this theatre and the next, where the right-hand stalls fire exit opened out. At the interval she felt so hot and lightheaded that she opened the window and stood there for a moment, breathing in the bracing West End fumes and watching the people below. And there he was, smoking a cigar. He stood, typically, right in the middle of the alley, one hand in his pocket, as if about to address a meeting. Occasional couples, taking a shortcut, had to part company to avoid him.
She was just about to give him a shout when he dropped the cigar and screwed it out beneath his foot. His wife came up to him, she carried a programme – not the two-pound one, but the souvenir version, with pictures, oh, God, of the show in rehearsal . . . Stella stared, peered, tried to read their body language as they stood there, their lips as they exchanged a few words, but it was like trying to read Hebrew – upside down, back to front, unrecognisable, a closed book. How could she ever understand them with all those years of marriage to their name? They might be out there, she in here, but it was she who was the outsider.
He glanced at his watch – that, at least, was a familiar gesture – and they walked back into the theatre.
Stella’s head swam as she sat down; her hands were white and cold, like dead hands. There was a sour taste in her mouth, she only just made the lavatory in time.
‘You played a blinder tonight,’ said Derek. ‘I thought you’d done all you could with most of those songs. Goes to show how wrong you can be. There were tears in my eyes once or twice. Put it there, doll . . . Blimey, but that’s a frigid digit!’
Later Stella was at her most glittering, out of her skull on drink, applause and misery. She took them all out to dinner – Derek, Jamie, Jonno and Gordon – to one of those big, grand old restaurants where it was still possible to make an entrance. She who never pulled rank asked for a table in the middle and got it. Waiters hovered, candles glowed, champagne popped, heads turned. Isn’t that . . .? Have you seen . . . they say it’s terrific. She likes to surround herself with men, doesn’t she? Do you think those young ones are her nephews, hmm? Never thought I’d say this but that is too thin ...
She knew she was astonishing, could see it written in their faces. Derek’s pleased, proud, a little baffled; Jamie’s absolutely chuffed to death, a quite unlooked-for triumph notched up; Jonno, if-myfriends-could-see-me-now; Gordon dear Gordon – quite simply the happiest man in the room. She spoiled them, flirted with them, flattered, indulged and amused them.
She dazzled, for tomorrow she died.
Outside on the pavement she accepted their thanks and kisses, but linked her arm through Gordon’s.
‘Let me get you a taxi,’ he said. ‘I can drop you off and go on to Liverpool Street.’
She sat with her feet up on the seat, her head on his shoulder. It was all draining away now, and she was cold. Cold, and tired, and sick. When they got to Victoria Mansions he roused her gently.
‘We’re here.’ He kept his arm round her waist as he said to the driver: ‘I’ll just see the lady to her door, if you wouldn’t mind hanging on.’
He supported her in the lift, and out of it, and found her key for her. In the open doorway she put her arms round his neck.
‘Gordon . . . don’t go.’
‘But, um, I think you need to get to sleep.’
‘I will if you stay.’
‘I’ve told the taxi to wait.’
‘Then tell him to go away.’
‘Stella, I . . . Do you think this is wise?’
‘Don’t be pompous, Gordon.’ She kissed him on the mouth. ‘Get down there and pay the man.’
She tottered away from him, her shoulders shaking. Gordon, always humble, thought she must be laughing at him, but he was entirely wrong.