The Beautiful Indifference Page 7

  He had a soft, burred accent, Scottish, perhaps pared from the Highlands. He held the door for me and I entered the room.

  There was a large cast-iron fireplace with decorative tiles and trivets. A vase of white stargazers stood on the mantel. A desk was pushed against the far wall; on top were a slim white laptop and the intercom hub. An armchair and a sofa faced each other across a low table. The carpet was Regency blue, and the room had been wallpapered in a pale green period design. It was a richer interior than the passageway, and smelled newly cleaned. The young man waited for me to catch his eye and then he spoke.

  OK. First things first, welcome to The Agency. Thank you for coming.

  There was a pause, and then he asked, Would you like a coffee? I shook my head. He brought his hands together in front of his chest, the fingertips steepled. It was a demure gesture, or it was artful; either way he seemed too young for such mannerisms.

  Tea? A glass of champagne, perhaps?

  He smiled and raised his eyebrows. I could feel a tiny muscle pulsing under my eye.

  Oh, champagne! he said quickly. It’s practically the afternoon, isn’t it? Please, sit.

  He moved to a side door and opened it. There was a small kitchen beyond; the corner of a refrigerator was visible and a cabinet door. I heard the dinging of glassware, a muted pop, and the wet crackle of the drink being poured. Alistair reappeared holding two tall stems. He set them on the table, sat down on the couch and held out a hand.

  Join me?

  The leather of the chair clucked and sighed as I sat.

  I’m sorry, I said. I was referred by a friend and it’s all very new to me. I suppose I don’t really know what I’m doing or what I should do. I think I haven’t completely made up my mind, about anything. I’m sorry.

  Alistair smiled again. His teeth were crowded, but white.

  Please don’t apologise. It’s wonderful that you found us, even just as an option. Here.

  He reached forward and slid the stem towards me. I lifted it to show willing, and then looked at him properly. He was clean-faced, with a remarkably good complexion, and his hair had been cut to fall one side of his brow in a sharp, stylish way. There was a classic, vintage tailoring to his suit, and he wore the waistcoat buttoned. He would not have been out of place in a pre-war television drama. He had obviously been created to go with the location, though his attentiveness and etiquette seemed unforced. He was attractive in a singular and imperfect way. Is this what women want? I thought. I took a sip. The champagne tingled against my lip, and was crisp and sour. I knew I would drink it too quickly if I kept it in my hand, so I set it back on the table.

  Thank you, I said, and again he replied, Of course.

  He leaned back against the upholstery and crossed his legs.

  So, Hannah. Really The Agency prefers to consider this initial meeting as you interviewing us. We absolutely hope to be able to provide you with everything you’d wish, but it’s entirely at your discretion, whether you think we’re suitable for you, and whether you choose to engage us. We’re versatile, and we operate a legal service, on and off the premises, but we understand that some special requirements also need to be met.

  He paused a moment, as if to allow time for the words, and their meaning, to be metabolised.

  We want to meet all possible needs. So it’s best to be as specific as possible in these early stages. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. There was a sheet of paper on the table. He drew it towards him and lifted a corner.

  Hannah. Would it be very boring if I offered you some literature, so you can get a sense of what we provide, and we can get a sense of what you prefer?

  I was watching his mouth as he spoke. He was moderating his language, his politeness had escalated, and his lips were amplifying the shapes they made.

  I’ll let you have some privacy while you look through. There’s no time pressure at all. Often people like to consider things at home again before committing to a further appointment.

  The last phrase had been cleverly chosen. He had been cleverly chosen. The calibration was perfect. He slid the sheet of paper towards me, took a pen from his inside pocket and set it on the table.

  Please don’t worry. This is simply to help us identify your preferences. You can take it away after we’re done. We don’t keep any records here.

  He pressed his hands together again and stood.

  I’ll leave you to it. There’s a call button on the desk when you’re done. Don’t forget your champagne.

  I took another sip, aware that for all his deference, I was being gently marshalled. There was something deliberately neutral about the meeting, but the young man standing over me was passively steering things. Alistair had been selected for his social skills and his intelligence. Or was the enterprise his, I wondered. Had he recognised a niche in the market and filled it? How old was he? In his mid-twenties? Only a few years ago he might have been one of John’s Politics students. He moved towards the door.

  Oh, and Hannah? he said quietly. I should just make it clear, the first question, gender, doesn’t apply to you. We know you’re female. All our members are, as you’re probably aware.

  He smiled. The door closed.

  I felt as if I’d been holding my breath for the entire discussion. I blew air out, reached for the glass and drank to the halfway mark. Alistair’s glass had not been touched and it occurred to me that it had actually been poured and left for me as well, to make the proceedings as comfortable as possible. I stood and went over to the fireplace. The inlaid tiles were Arts and Crafts. The lilies on the mantel were real. Their scent was delicate, elative. The petals were austerely white, but here and there were orange pollen stains. The stamens had not been removed and on their tips were gathered beads of sap. It was not just nerves or caffeine making me edgy, exciting me. I did not feel unsafe or exposed, as I had supposed I would. I knew that I could leave, easily, and without drama, while the reception room was empty. Alistair would not be surprised to find me gone when he came back. But I didn’t want to leave. And I knew he also would not be surprised to find me still there.

  I sat back down on the warm leather and picked up the sheet of paper. It was a form with a series of boxes to tick, not unlike the questionnaires found in beauty clinics. I scanned through. The term used was companion. There was brevity to the phrasing, options that I had perhaps anticipated, but some of the later choices were startling. Film, Restraints, Doll, Defecation.

  Anthea had not gone into detail about her experiences. I tried to guess how she might have navigated the form, how straightforward or strange her choices. My life seemed so simple. I did not think what I wanted was unusual. I picked up the pen and struck a line through the appropriate boxes. Then I selected two more from the last section. I finished the champagne, went to the desk and pressed the call bell.

  Alistair knocked and opened the door, greeting me warmly, as if we were old friends. He had removed his suit jacket. Underneath was a fashionably striped shirt. The waistcoat was still buttoned.

  OK, Hannah. If you would like me to review the form now, and if you’re happy for me to arrange an introduction, I most certainly can. Otherwise I can get in touch with you in a few days with a referral and a telephone number. Would you like me to top you up there?

  He gestured to my empty glass. I shook my head.

  I have to drive, but thank you.

  There was a pause. I expected him to say it again, ‘Of course’, but he did not. The veneer of professionalism remained but now I felt his keener interest. It was not flirtation, the way he was looking at me, but curiosity perhaps, as to my proclivities. The atmosphere in the room felt low, as if the wind outside had relieved the room of its currents. I held the sheet of paper out. My hand was steady. If Alistair noticed the change he gave no indication. He sat opposite me again, crossed his legs, and read through the profile. His eyes flickered across the page, he nodded once, but his face remained expressionless. I tried to guess his age again. Old e
nough to front such a business and be intuitive. Young enough to seem coltish and, when necessary, submissive. How many wives had he hosted in this room? How much power did he hold? There was obviously money and experience behind the venture, though surely not his. However entrepreneurial he was, however philogynous, he could not be so knowing. Suddenly I was certain he had not orchestrated the enterprise. No. He was skilled, but he was, in effect, a drone. The Agency had been conceived by a woman. The rooms, the tidy gatekeeper, the subtle game; it all belonged to a woman.

  After a minute Alistair looked up and smiled.

  Hannah, there’s a lounge upstairs that’s very comfortable. It’s free at the moment. Would it be convenient for you to wait ten minutes or so, while I make a quick phone call? That outfit really is beautiful.

  When I arrived home it was getting dark. I checked my emails, put a load of laundry into the machine and ran a bath. In the bedroom I took off the suit, covered it with the plastic sleeve and hung it up in the wardrobe. I sat on the edge of the bed and removed my shoes. I turned them over. There was slight scuffing on the soles, nothing more than if they’d been trodden across the gravel path outside the house to break them in. A ladder ran through one of my stockings, following its black seam. I unhooked the clasp and rolled the material down my leg, then took off the other. A bruise was spreading under my hip bone. If he noticed, I would tell John that the car door had swung shut against it in the wind. The marks around my wrists I would have to cover until they faded. I put the stockings back in their packet, took them to the rubbish bin in the kitchen and placed them underneath the topmost items. I reached inside the plastic drum and pushed the waste matter further down towards the bottom, then emptied a half-eaten container of yogurt over everything. I washed my hands, poured a glass of water and went back upstairs.

  My skin felt tender as I climbed into the bath. I took my hair down, lay back against the enamel and closed my eyes. I could still see the patterns in the green wallpaper at The Agency and the elaborate wrought-iron rosettes in the banister of the staircase. Those dripping orchids. I could see the interior of the cab that had driven me through the wet, leaf-strewn streets. The hotel foyer and the number of the room. The black petals of the brooch pinned to my burgundy jacket, and the jacket lying in a dark pool of material on the floor. He was not exact, not as I had imagined. He had asked for a phrase, to stop everything, and I had given John’s mother’s name, Alexandra, but it had not been used.

  After half an hour in the bath I felt loose and hot, as if I were beginning to come apart, as if I was as smooth as the water. I stood up, pulled the plug out and turned the shower to a cool setting. When I had dried myself and dressed I went into the lounge to clear up the children’s mess. Jamie’s school jumper was stuffed behind the settee, there were magazines and books scattered about, a sweet stuck in the fibres of the rug. It was too late to think about work, so I shut the computer down. In the hallway my bag was open and inside it I could see the blue light on my phone flashing. There were three missed calls. The first was from John, saying he would be home about seven with Katie after her swimming lesson. The second was from Alistair, confirming my next appointment. I deleted both after listening. The last message was from Anthea King, asking if I could mind her daughter after school the following day. A note of distraction sounded in her voice, and I heard the rattle of the keyboard as she typed something. The message ended. I called her back and agreed to mind Laura. We spoke for a moment or two. There was a pause in the conversation, and then came her gay, indecorous laughter.

  Oh, we must catch up soon. I do hope you had a jolly time in the city today.

  I was just visiting a relative, I said.

  She laughed again. Yes. Of course, darling. Of course.

  She Murdered Mortal He

  When the fight was over she left the salon tent and walked towards the beach. The way through the jungle was signposted. It was not yet dark. She was not sure what to do. Everything was out of control. She wanted to think clearly, get her bearings. She wanted not to feel so lost, or to feel so lost that nothing more could be taken. Mostly she just wanted to leave their room. She followed the path through the bowed and necking trees. The air was heavy, greenly perfumed, and the avian calls were loud and greasy. The dust felt cool against her feet. She turned left, then right. They had walked this way earlier, after arriving in the complex, to get to the town a mile up the coast, and they’d been surprised by the sudden vertiginous drop. The jungle ended abruptly and the dunes were incredibly steep. There was no gradation. The dark canopy, with its humidity and silicone music, gave way to a long corrugated ramp, ionic sea wind, vast space – two utterly different realms. The path wove through the brush. She stooped under low branches, careful, despite the surging recklessness, where she trod, not wanting to disturb snakes coiled under the leaves.

  What’s wrong, she had asked him, as they lay on the bed after their trip into town, stroking his back. You seem distracted.

  Nothing, he had said a few times.

  But she had persisted. What? What is it?

  After a while he had turned.

  Something feels different, he had said. Don’t you think so?

  They had been together a year. He had said nothing like this before. She had knelt upright at the corner of the bed, and put her arms round herself. He had begun breathing hard, blowing out, as if what he was saying, or was about to say, was heavy labour.

  Something feels wrong between us. We should talk about it.

  Then, with such terrible ease, it had all begun to unravel. Their meeting at the Hallowe'en party, and his ridiculous bloody stump. Their conversation about Flaubert, the shared cigarette. The kiss, in his terrible heatless flat. The late-night texts. Their first dinner party with its triumphant co-concocted fish soup. The formative moments, winding away, as if they had never been safe.

  She picked her way through the foliage, through muggy, scented chambers. Now the birds around her sounded electrical, like mobile phones. Every time she heard a melodic stammer she thought she would come upon someone talking. But there was no one on the path – the lodge was almost deserted, the other salon tents were empty. And there was no phone signal here. An occasional bar crept up on the display, then disappeared, a faint or false satellite. She stopped. All around were intimately knotted branches. The pulp inside the peeling bark was an extraordinary garish orange. There were leopards in here, they had been told by their driver – elusive, flaxen-eyed creatures that were almost never seen. Or seen too late. They were gradually coming back after years of being hunted. And the thought occurred to her, that if one of them were to take her now, powerfully by the neck, and drag her up into the crux of a tree, what then? Nothing then. She began walking again.

  The tide was on the way out. She knew this even before coming upon the beach. She could hear its retreat, the sonorous hiss at the back of its throat. The trees finished. The air thinned. She saw the ocean for the second time that day, and drew a breath. How had she forgotten its scale, its grandeur? The water was a literal blue. All blues. For a moment the scene looked like one of the cheap plasticised paintings of the Mediterranean on sale in the harbours of southern Europe. But this was not the Mediterranean. This was a body of water so prodigious it looked almost solid, except for the ragged crests, the series of spraying breakers that came from far out and swept up the shore, driving sand high into the jungle. This ocean generated its own wind. It bellowed. Its inhabitants were huge breaching creatures that were of no consequence. After an aborted attempt earlier that day they had not swum. Even knee-deep the undertow had been too strong, dragging their feet down into trenches, making them flap their arms, squat forward and wade against the pull.

  The holiday had been her idea. She had read an article in the travel section of the Guardian. The writer had urged people to come before the character of the place changed irreversibly. She’d pitched the idea, of being more intrepid, of a different kind of trip, and after a week or two he’d a
greed. They had left the hire car at the South African border and been brought to the tiny, fledgling resort in an old white Land Rover with an insecure driver’s door that kept swinging open. The driver’s name was Breck. He was from Richards Bay, but had come north because the opportunities for new tourism were exciting. He taught scuba and arranged whale-watching during migration season. As he drove down the unmade roads he waved to the women carrying canisters and baskets on their hips and heads, and to the children. There were children everywhere. When they passed a man with no hands sitting on an oil drum he said, Look. Long sleeves, I reckon. He’s from Zimbabwe. A few have come here. It used to be the other way round. What do you do? he’d asked them.

  I’m a lawyer.

  Ah. Right. Clever guy. And you?

  I manage a company that arranges ghost tours.

  Oh, what, to see ghosts?

  Places where people have seen ghosts, in London. There are lots of places.

  But not the ghosts?

  No.

  That’s good. Then they can’t ask for their money back.

  Not really, no.

  Though an American woman had fainted in Whitechapel the previous week and had made an official complaint. She had not realised the tour would include spots where victims of the Ripper had been found, she said. She just wanted to see queens and princes. Breck had worked hard to sell the area to them, playing up the economic recovery, making claims about the restoration of wildlife.

  The transit vehicle needed to be booked in advance. The border checkpoint closed at 5 p.m. Though she did not want to stay at the lodge that night, though she could not face seeing him after what had been said, or half said, her window to leave was gone.

  She waded down the steep sand bank, leaning back, sinking up to her calves. The beach levelled off and she began to walk towards the headland with the cliff path that could be taken into town. Crabs were working the tideline, scissoring pieces of blue jellyfish, dragging the dissections backwards into their burrows. The sun was setting on the other side of the dunes. She could not see any red display, just a dull luminescence above the treetops. She turned and looked behind. The beach was misty with spray and deserted, a long alluvial corridor. He was not following. He would not follow; she knew that. She had refused to let him comfort her after she’d begun crying. He would adhere to this preference, even if she did not.