White Bodies(42)

“Hey, Amy,” he says, “catch up with you later. Urgent meeting . . .”

Again that flickering look, and Amy says, “Run along.”

Outside, the evening has somehow become warmer, and Bruce from the office has removed his shirt and is in the middle of a bare-chested rant about politics: “Wilf agrees, don’t you, Wilf?” He’s shouty, looking for a fight.

“Not now, mate.” Wilf steers me away.

“Let’s walk,” I say. But he just stands there.

“Something’s wrong. You’ve been avoiding me and now you’re kinda jumpy. . . . Am I being dumped, Callie?” He’s nervous, and for a second I want to tell him that everything is fine, and I want him to kiss me. But I check myself:

“Did you see that story in the Mail—about Tilda?”

“Yes . . . everyone saw it. It confirmed those worries of yours, don’t you think? Talking about giving up her career . . . hinting at Felix’s control problems.”

“Not many people knew about those things. I know . . . and you knew. Maybe no one else. . . .”

He’s a bit slurry because of drinking, and his voice goes too loud. “God . . . you don’t think I had anything to do with it?”

“I know they pay hundreds for a story like that.”

“For fuck’s sake—is that your opinion of me? Really? That’s your fucking opinion?”

He throws his wineglass in the gutter, smashing it into tiny pieces.

“Why did you have to throw that? Why?” I feel tears rising in my eyes; I’m reminded of Felix throwing the vase.

I walk away, Wilf shouting, “Don’t go! Come back, Callie, and let’s talk about this. . . .”

But I don’t turn back, other than to glance round as I turn the corner, seeing Wilf going back into Willesden Estates, back to the dregs of the party. I pick up my pace, half running home, to get away from him, to return to my flat and its reassuring solitude. I’m better off alone. It’s simpler and less painful.

At home, my bedroom is impossibly hot and humid. I open up the window to let the air in and switch on my laptop to compose an email to Scarlet.

I write:

Yes. Monday will be fine. I don’t work on Mondays, so I’m free all day—shall I suggest somewhere to meet?

She comes back straightaway:

This is the right thing to do, trust me. It’s important that we’re not noticed together though, so we should meet somewhere anonymous, where no one will pay us any attention. Do you know Kenwood House on Hampstead Heath? We could meet outside, where the benches are—the ones that have views of the heath and the lake.

I’m surprised that Scarlet knows London—I assumed she was Manchester through and through.

Yes, I know Kenwood.

Good. You’re going to think I’m being melodramatic—but I’m going to hide my identity. I’ll wear a head scarf like the Muslim girls do, and sunglasses. I suggest you do the same.

Really? It sounds a bit idiotic.

You’ll realize why. . . . Let’s say one o’clock. I’ll have a red head scarf, and I’ll be reading a book.

Okay. I have an orange scarf, so I’ll wear that.

In bed later, Wilf’s on my mind, and Belle, and my stomach is fizzing with too much alcohol. Also, it’s hot, and I’m covered in a thin film of sweat. Twice I get out of bed to drink water, and I don’t sleep properly, which means that I get up late, and panic about getting to work on time. I see in the mirror that my face is bloodshot and my eyes puffy, so I splash cold water on myself and head downstairs. The post has arrived—a traumatizing stiff white envelope with Tilda’s handwriting on it, and a small brown parcel addressed in a loose flowing script that I don’t recognize. I suppress my thoughts, put both in my bag and leave for work, jogging half the way there.

Daphne says, “What’s the matter? You look like you need a strong coffee—sorry, a hot chocolate.”

“I’ll make it.” I might sound a bit curt.

“There’s been something wrong lately, hasn’t there, sweetheart?” She rises from her position by the door, following me into the kitchen. “Let me do the drinks today.” She reaches for the kettle, plugging it into the wall socket. “And guess what I’ve bought—Jammie Dodgers! Guaranteed to cheer you up.”

Something gives way inside me, and I blurt out: “I’m sorry I’ve been so useless recently. . . . A friend of mine died.”

“Oh jeez . . . I’m so sorry, Callie.” Her face collapses with concern. “I’ll put the CLOSED sign on the door, and we’ll sit down and you can tell me about it.”

So I do. I tell her about Belle and the day we spent together in York, and the way in which she died, protecting Tricia. I cry a little, and Daphne finds paper towels in the kitchen cupboard for me and tells me how shocked she is that something so terrible could happen. Then she makes our drinks, and I tell her everything I know about Belle’s life, about her care for her patients, about the presents she bought for Saskia and Alfie, and the breakfast she left for me in the kitchen, with the white napkins and the tulips in a vase. I go on talking about her until I’m utterly drained, and then Daphne and I distract ourselves by chatting more generally, in a gentle, friendly way. I tell her in confidence that Tilda is marrying Felix and that I’m sort of in denial about it, not wanting to discuss things with her. I couldn’t care less about her dress or the seating plan or the honeymoon. Then Daphne confides that she went on an internet date last night with “another Mr. Wrong. When I offered to go halves he hunched himself over the bill, like Uriah Heep, adding up the numbers . . . most unattractive.”