Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(19)
“Not by him.”
“Crap all the same. This first one. Pastoral bollocks. Whereas this … Going for it, that’s what he’s doing there. Color. Light. All them gradations of blue in the sky. Whistler in a way, but Turner closer still.”
“You like it?”
“Yeah, course I do, but that’s not the point.”
Grabianski smiled. “Your friend in Cologne …”
Eddie Snow shook his head. “Strictly kosher. Never touch anything without it’s got perfect pedigree, properly authenticated bill of sale, the whole bit.” He lit a second cigarette. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a bill of sale?”
“And you,” Grabianski said, “have you got buyers who are less scrupulous?”
Using his tongue, Snow fidgeted a piece of sausage from between his teeth. “Let me know how to get in touch.”
“Better I get in touch with you.”
Snow scraped back his chair and stood up. “Legit business. I’m in the book.”
“I know.”
As Grabianski watched Eddie Snow walk, slim-hipped, away, he noticed that though the couple were still holding hands, the woman was crying. He restored the Polaroids to his pocket and moved the remains of Eddie Snow’s breakfast to another table, where the birds could scavenge in peace. He would have another cup of coffee and then that second piece of carrot cake would go down a treat.
Eleven She could feel it happening. The listlessness that crept over her, those evenings when he had neither arrived nor phoned; evenings which previously she would have used productively, reading, preparing work, enjoying the space and time before settling back downstairs at ten to watch whatever was on TV. Northern Exposure. Frasier. ER. Or she would be on the telephone to friends, arranging to meet for a drink, a chat, a movie perhaps. And there were those evenings when she would crawl home from school like someone who had been beaten, those days when for one reason or another the kids had left her exhausted and drained. But all of this was okay, this was what she could handle, it was her life: pleasant, controlled, contained. And she could feel what was happening with Resnick beginning to threaten that in so many ways and, much as she enjoyed being with him, it was hard not to resent him for it.
She recognized the feelings from before; first with Andrew and then with Jim. An Irishman who taught poetry and a musician who taught clarinet, oboe, and bassoon. Andrew aggressively and Jim by default, both men had made her dependent upon them. Not for money, stability; not, exactly, for love. Presence, that’s what it was: need, the need of one person.
Outside a relationship she was fine, living on her own something she had learned, something she had earned the right to do. She had her job, her immediate family, her network of friends, some of whom she had known since university, a few since school. But once a commitment was made, however unclear or uncertain, then no matter how hard she tried to resist it, things began to change.
Hannah smiled to herself wryly, remembering the key she had slipped into Resnick’s pocket—what?—six weeks ago, two months? So casual a gesture, almost insignificant. Now it felt as though she had handed over part of herself, the part that allowed her to stand up straight, on her own two feet and clear-eyed.
She thought about her mother, abandoned in the dust-free suburban home in which she had lived for more than thirty years, Hannah’s room still first left at the top of the stairs. Posters of famine and forgotten pop stars, teddy bears. Her father was living in France with a twenty-nine-year-old writer called Robyn who had just sold her first novel. Robyn with a Y.
“It won’t last, Dad,” she’d told him, cutting into her capricciosa in Pizza Express. “It can’t. She’ll leave you, you know that, don’t you?”
Stupidly happy, her father had sipped his Peroni and smiled. “Of course she will. In time.”
It was three and a half years now, shading up to four. And Hannah? Eighteen months with Andrew, a little over two years with Jim. The way her mother bit her lip heroically when the question of grandchildren came to mind. Birthdays on the calendar, challenging time. Did she really want to make herself vulnerable to all of that again, the disappointment, the pain?
When the doorbell rang, it wasn’t Resnick, forgetting his key, but Jane, lines of sorrow plump around her eyes.
They sat in the kitchen while Hannah made tea, impatient for the kettle to boil; drank it at the table, Jane holding her cup with both hands, steadying it slowly to her mouth. Upstairs in Hannah’s study, they sat in the bay window, Jane with her feet tucked up beneath her in the easy chair, Hannah on a cushion on the floor. Dark spread like a slow bruise across the park.
Three times Jane started to speak and each time she betrayed herself with tears.
Getting lightly to her feet, Hannah touched Jane’s hand, and leaning over from behind the chair, kissed her gently on the head, gave her shoulders a squeeze. “I’ve got some things I should be doing downstairs. I’ll be back up in a while.”
Hannah organized the books and folders she wanted for the next day, wrote a quick card to her mother, rinsed the supper things. She was sorting some clothes, ready for the wash, when the phone rang.
“Charlie …”
Resnick’s voice was muffled, remote; strange to think he was no more than a mile or so away.
“No, I don’t think so, Charlie, not really. Not tonight. It’s just …”