Beneath the Skin(63)
She takes a breath, lifting her chin before answering the front door. It’s silent and dark outside. A small thick-set man with red hair and cheeks to match is at the top of the steps. ‘Colin. Colin Green, from the office?’
‘Yes, of course, Colin. Hello. Come in.’
‘Charlie called me. From the hospital. He asked if you wouldn’t mind me collecting a couple of files. Just work stuff, obviously. I did call, but there was no answer.’
He’s looking above Antonia’s head, to the side and even at the ground. Anywhere but at her, she notices. ‘I haven’t got the clap,’ she’s tempted to say, which surprises her. It’s such a Sophie comment. ‘The files are in the study, second door on the right. Can I get you a coffee? Or a sandwich to keep you going until supper?’ she asks instead.
Colin Green demurs without eye contact and scuttles away, emerging an hour or so later with three boxes full of papers, one of which she helps carry to his car. The same Colin Green who all but pinned her to the photocopier with hot breath at the last partners’ social in the office. The tarnish of death, Antonia muses.
She remembers it well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sami suggested the Lead Station after work because Jemima lives virtually opposite the wine bar. And after all, that’s the point of him sitting here: a quick drink, then to her place for another shag before going on home to Sophie. The trouble is that Jemima seems to have different ideas.
The last interlude was nice enough. An easy conquest, a bit of astonishingly rapid intercourse and a lot of flattery, just when he needed it. She stripped in front of him without any coyness almost immediately, revealing a great physique. Slim, toned and athletic, like a man, almost, but softened by her hair. Perhaps that’s why he noticed her in the first place. Or perhaps it’s because her coffee cup says ‘Posh Totty’ on it.
He still isn’t sure why he invited himself over on Sunday. It was frustration at Sophie’s lack of contact, rather than having any particular desire for sex. He wasn’t sure as he raced along the M62 back towards Manchester, but when he arrived at her flat, she had wanted him immediately and the compliments had flowed. ‘So handsome, so fit, so big!’ Followed by a crescendo of repeated ‘Oh, my God!’ Then it was all over remarkably quickly. Before he even caught his breath, she was up and in the bathroom, taps hissing, toilet rumbling. She sat on the side of the bed with her slim naked back towards him, raking her hair up into a tight high ponytail. Then she put on a sports bra and rooted around in a white chest of drawers for ‘matching panties’ in readiness for her ‘cool down run’.
‘You can take me out for a drink next time,’ she said in her slightly lispy way, standing over him with her hands on her narrow hips. ‘I’ll send you a text and let you know when I’m free. Or maybe I’ll just pop into your office.’ Which she did at noon today, at the very moment Sami was at a low point, staring at his private line and willing it to ring.
So here he is on a Wednesday evening, sitting opposite Jemima at the Lead Station wine bar, realising far too late that her voice is really going to get on his pip. She’s talking, she has been talking since they arrived. Sami has no idea what about, but he gathers from the movement of her eyebrows and hands that he’s supposed to be impressed with whatever high-minded opinion she’s espousing. Posh, attractive and intelligent, she wants him to know.
‘So, not just a pretty face,’ he finds himself saying at some point. Even as he cringes at the sound of his clichéd words, he knows it’s a poor shot at encouraging her to shut up and suggest they go back for ‘dessert’ at her flat. Not that she looks like the sort of girl who ever eats it.
‘Thank you for asking for me,’ Antonia says, holding Charlie’s hand at the side of his hospital bed. ‘I would have come earlier but I didn’t want to—’
Charlie pulls his hand away carefully, conscious of the cannula in the back of it. He hates feeling such a dependent fool. Even more he hates the fact that he hasn’t the strength to be anything other than that. When he tries to get up, he feels legless (an obvious joke he and David would have laughed at), but for all the wrong reasons.
‘—make my condition any worse,’ he says. He finds he’s completing Antonia’s sentences already. He knows that he should let her answer for herself, but it’s a habit he has difficulty breaking. ‘Oh don’t worry about me, these pretty nurses will sort me out soon enough. It’s you we should worry about. Has everything been all right at home? Has Helen been round yet?’
Antonia shakes her head. He thinks she looks nervous, her eyes remarkably calf-like.
‘Oh, she will. With lots of sensible advice. So now you’ve been warned!’
Charlie tries for a chuckle. Antonia tries for a smile. He knows what they’re both thinking, what they both want to say: ‘David’s dead. It’s unbelievable. It doesn’t feel real.’ But neither of them do. Instead there’s a silence, a very long silence. He clears his throat eventually and speaks. ‘Did Colin Green call?’
Antonia nods, her gaze far away. ‘Yes, he visited on Monday. He took—’
‘—some files. Yes, nothing to worry about. You know, business matters.’
Another silence, then a Charlie cough. ‘Ah, money. Are you all right for money? Enough in the bank? You must let me know if you get short.’