White Bodies(34)

No, I’ll come down to London, maybe next month. We’ll go somewhere anonymous—maybe a park, or a Starbucks. Luke about to come home—I have to go.

As soon as I log off, I go to Curzon Street to return the memory stick. I hope to steal it again in a week or two, to see if Tilda has added anything to her letter. Then I clean the place, wiping dirty marks off the coffee table, putting clothes back in the cupboards, re–cling filming the crockery. Once I’m happy with my efforts, I leave, deciding not to take the bus to Eva’s house to return the key.





17


I’m at home, tidying, and my phone rings. It’s Felix, the soft tone of his voice meaning that I have to turn the radio off and concentrate on listening.

“We’re home from Martinique,” he says. “We should meet up for a drink. Champagne if you like, or cider. Or would you like dinner?”

“You, me and Tilda?”

“You and me.”

“What for?”

A quiet laugh. “To reestablish good relations. Remember how we used to get along so well? Let’s get that vibe back. I’d like to; and it would please Tilda. I’ll take you somewhere special. How about dinner at the Wolseley?”

“You’re joking. . . .”

“No I’m not. Come.”

I feel suddenly light-headed, overcome by fear, but also weirdly exhilarated. I sense he has an agenda, that this isn’t just a spontaneous show of friendship. But I don’t think I’ll manage to behave normally around him now that I’ve read Tilda’s letter, and I can’t imagine us getting through the evening without it ending with me losing my temper and in some catastrophic confrontation. At the same time, the more information I can extract from him, the better I’ll be able to protect Tilda. For ages I say nothing, then I agree to go, and the minute I put the phone down, I turn back to the dossier to make a list of questions to ask him.

? ? ?

The following day, in the bookshop, I’m packing up the returns and phoning customers to say their reserved books have arrived, but my mind is on Felix, and I find myself becoming absurdly fixated on the difficulty of fitting in at the Wolseley. I don’t imagine it’s a jeans and T-shirt sort of place, and before I know it, I’m seeking advice.

“Daphne, I’m going to the Wolseley, could you give me some advice on what to wear?”

She snorts in a way that Mum would call “unbecoming,” and puts her Virginia Woolf mug down.

“Bloody hell, sweetheart.” She’s bellowing across the shop, “How come?”

“My sister’s boyfriend is taking me. The one I don’t like—I think he’s trying to win me round.”

“Well, make the most of it. I’m not sure I’m the right person for style advice—but how about this—I’ll buy you a dress. I’ll close the shop for an afternoon and we’ll go into town together and choose something.”

So that’s what we do. She takes me to Fenwick department store on Bond Street, and I try on several dresses that each cost hundreds of pounds, all of them picked out by Daphne “to make the most of your shape.” She riffles through the rows of clothes, finger-walking through the hangers like an efficient filing clerk, saying, “No; no; God no; that’s frightful; yes, take this one . . .” And she follows me into the changing room, peeking round the curtain and commentating. “No, it’s squashing your bust,” or “Too droopy; you need fitted.” I surrender to her wisdom, recognizing that she’s picking out classic designs for me and is making me look stylish; although it’s odd that her own way of dressing—leather miniskirts and Cuban heels—is so different.

We settle on a royal-blue dress. At first I don’t think I can possibly wear it, I feel so exposed. Not that it’s too low cut, or too short, but the fact that it follows my curves is embarrassing. When I protest, Daphne says, “I’m not going to pressure you, Callie, but you do look quite lovely. You have a fantastic figure . . . and you have no sense of how gorgeous you are, which makes you all the more lovely.” I feel my cheeks crimson, and I say, “Okay then, I’ll be brave.”

“Now for some shoes.”

“No. It’s too much! You can’t spend all this.”

“And you can’t wear that dress with trainers.”

“I think it would be fun with trainers.”

“Not for the Wolseley. Come on.”

So she buys me shoes. At least, a pair of ankle boots in smoky gray suede with a thin little heel. “I adore them,” I say. “But I feel guilty.”

“View them as your summer bonus, a reward for persuading Mr. Ahmed to buy all those P. G. Wodehouses and selling so many Get Well Soon cards.”

I laugh, because we both know that I’ve sold only one Get Well Soon card in the past three months.

? ? ?

At work the next morning I wear the suede boots with my jeans, and Daphne says, “Very nice. Dress them up; dress them down.” Wilf comes in, and I make a point of walking across the shop floor to put a cookery book back on its shelf. He doesn’t notice the boots, but he looks at me with a bemused face, trying to work out what’s different.

“Can I help you?” I say.

“Yes, I think you can.”