Dying to Write (15 page)

But Hugh looked up and caught my eye. When he smiled, slowly, erotically, I'm afraid my pulse beat distinctly faster.

I returned demurely to my place. Then, because, after all, the room was quite warm, I took off my overshirt, slipping it over the back of my chair. Perhaps the camisole would do its stuff and make me look sexy. Perhaps, even better, it would make me feel sexy. Meanwhile, waves of dejection kept washing over me. For all the brilliant cerise of the camisole and a whole tropic of colours on the overshirt, I felt bleak. Chris ought to have made some effort to come and see how I was; he shouldn't have been put off by Agnes's mock anger. He should have tried to comfort me, even if I'd rejected any attempts to do so. Kate would have cuddled Sidney. If I'd been at home I'd have dug out my old teddy bear.

I was on my own in the kitchen. The team of cooks was also supposed to wash up, but Thea was in hospital and Agnes wrestling with an asthma attack which one or two people were ready to ascribe to the presence of Sidney in the kitchen. I rather hoped other people might offer to help out, but on the assumption that I'd stay on my own, I scraped and stacked systematically. Then I thought of my silk camisole. I'd have to wear that disgusting apron again, and maybe rubber gloves.

I could feel my hair collapsing in the steam from the washing-up water; I could almost see the glow from my shiny nose, my make-up having gone wherever make-up goes. Perhaps it was a good job everyone else was dancing attendance on Hugh, I thought bitterly. Was it Mary or Martha who got stuck with the chores while her sister was listening to Jesus? And then got told off for her pains? I felt for her. And for me. And I still wanted that gin. Especially as I could hear the deep attractive laugh rumbling in the distance. At this rate, Hugh's reading might start without me.

I'd better sing.

One thing I will lay claim to is a good voice. It's not all that strong but it's true. I filled my lungs and let rip. Schubert, the Octet. All eight parts, if not quite at once.

So I jumped – literally, it seemed – when a hand lifted a plate from the drying rack.

‘Sorry to hear about the rat business,' said Ade. ‘Nasty thing to do.'

‘Very.'

‘I thought you'd like to know they'll be doing a postmortem.'

‘On a rat!' I exclaimed. ‘They'll be having a bloody inquest next! Doesn't having your head cut off usually result in death?'

A different hand took the next plate. ‘In a case like this you can't afford to make assumptions like that, Ms Rivers,' said Chris. ‘In any case, I thought you and Ade were rodent-lovers.'

‘I'm more a gerbil man myself,' said Ade, who'd obviously missed the sarcasm. ‘Less smelly, if less intelligent. I keep mine in a big aquarium, with a deep layer of peat and sawdust, so any smells they make are quickly diffused. And I bath them, very occasionally. You could bath Sidney, of course. That might help.'

‘Bath him?' Chris asked, pausing, his hand suspended over the plate rack.

‘Some rats jump, so you need to close the doors and windows. Lukewarm water, then towel them dry.'

‘Not a hair dryer?' I asked, keeping my voice particularly serious.

‘Only if you're very careful. Low heat. And make sure you blow the fur the right way.'

‘That goes without saying.' All this talk about bloody animals when I could hear that laugh again, responding, I was sure, to Tabitha.

I emptied the washing-up water and ran the taps again. Glasses, now. But it was nice to have assistance. And I was enjoying Ade's conversation. So, I suspected, was Chris, who was gaining an insight not only into rodent care, but also into one of his more promising colleagues. I hoped he appreciated it.

‘Any news,' I said, after a reasonable interval, ‘of Kate?'

‘The news is bloody well full of Kate,' said Chris. ‘God knows who snitched to the press. We wanted to maintain the blackout another twenty-four hours at least. Haven't you seen – oh, of course, no TV, right?'

‘No radio either. Just newspapers. And she wasn't front page this morning. In any case, there can't be any real news or you'd have told me – wouldn't you?'

He laughed.

‘So the news is no news?' I prompted.

‘The news is we're still looking. Roadblocks. We've extended the search to Cannock Chase and all public parks in the area, big and small. A check on all ports, of course. The press'll be baying round here any moment. Hell, the last thing we want is unauthorised bloody poking around. Jesus!'

I'd had enough of the press after the debacle of the spring. The only consolation was that news is a very evanescent phenomenon, so that after three days of what felt like persecution I had suddenly and completely disappeared from the headlines.

‘I've briefed Shazia,' he continued. ‘She's agreed to lock all the doors to the outside world. My people will stop any harassment. Let me know if … if –'

For once I looked straight at Chris and held his gaze. Ade dropped the spoon he was polishing. Chris and I jumped. I think we'd both forgotten he was there.

‘– if you have any problems,' Chris concluded in his official voice.

Then his radio barked and he and Ade left. Ade ducked back for a moment to shake out and hang up their tea towels.

At this point the other kitchen door was opened by Toad, his hands full of glasses. We'd drunk water with the curry and apparently they'd now been drinking the surplus wine. I could easily have become either lachrymose or vicious. I hummed a little more Schubert while I decided.

‘That's nice,' said Toad. ‘Mozart, is it?'

‘Schubert,' I corrected him gently.

‘I like Schubert,' he said. ‘Nice tunes.'

‘Wonderful. Do you play his Sonata? The one for the arpeggione? You know, that defunct string instrument. It's been adapted for the viola, hasn't it?'

Toad stared at me. ‘You do know a lot about music, don't you?'

I wondered if I detected a note of resentment. ‘I just like Schubert,' I lied. ‘Who's your favourite?' I know this is the sort of unanswerable question people usually put to six-year-olds, but Toad was having that effect on me. And it was better than feet.

‘Oh, Mozart,' he said. ‘He's so soothing, isn't he?'

That was not the adjective I would have chosen.

‘Wonderful melodies,' I said mildly. ‘Think of the
Sinfonia Concertante
– that slow movement.' I wished I hadn't said that. It was one of George's favourites. He said the work was the apotheosis of friendship. I bit my lip till I could taste blood. I wouldn't let Toad see me cry.

‘You do know a lot. Hey, you teach English, don't you? You could tell me what I ought to read. And maybe you'd like to look at my screenplay. Give me your expert opinion.'

‘I'd love to read it. But I'm not an expert.'

‘I'll just go and get it. I'll read it to you while you wash up.'

‘What about the reading?'

‘Oh, I came to get you. And bring you these glasses.' He clearly thought I should be grateful.

‘Could you swill them while I go to the loo?'

‘Oh, it won't take you long. And you've missed some cups.'

‘Couldn't you –'

‘No.'

‘Please? Won't take you a second.'

‘Washing-up's women's work,' he said, with unbearable smugness.

The words came out before I could stop them: ‘If I wasn't on my best behaviour, my very, very best behaviour,' I said, ‘I'd knee you in the groin for that. And as your head came down I'd tip the washing-up water over you.'

I swept out of the room.

While I was in the loo, I wondered what on earth had made me overreact so badly.

I slunk back to the kitchen. No Toad. Then the door opened.

‘There you are!' said Hugh Brierley. ‘I've been waiting for you.'

The Reading.

It had certainly acquired a capital letter from somewhere. The students were sitting in a reverent circle; an old master could have used them as models for a particularly melodramatic depiction of the disciples. There was a flutter of applause as Hugh re-entered. I held back until I could scuttle into the group as unobtrusively as a cerise camisole will allow.

Toad was nowhere to be seen; my rudeness must have upset him. Gimson would still be avoiding my cooking. Naukez was no doubt counting badgers. Shazia was looking anxiously at Agnes, whose chest was still heaving. She was dragging at an asthma spray.

‘Empty,' she gasped.

‘And I can't find the one she says is in her bedroom,' added Shazia. ‘Don't you think we ought to call a doctor?'

‘Hasn't anyone else got a spray?' Hugh asked.

‘Of course,' I said, forgetting, in my anxiety, all about unobtrusiveness. ‘Will you try mine, Agnes?'

She nodded.

‘I'll get it. Hang on.'

I ran to my room. Sidney's smell greeted me – I'd forgotten to foist him on to the police. He padded over and stood hopefully on his hind legs. I rewarded him with a tickle to the tum and a bit of biscuit.

His odour gave me another idea. In my case was some Gucci 3: I sprayed a little cloud into the air, then walked into it. That should improve both the room and me. Thirty selfish seconds doing that. Then to business. Asthma spray. Where the hell had I put it? It wasn't in my case. Then I remembered. It was in the pocket of my thicker tracksuit – I sometimes get an attack while I'm running.

I closed the door carefully. It seemed to be general knowledge that Sidney was back and it might not be mere self-interest to give him police protection. I'd try and find Ade as soon as the Reading was over. I dodged into a bathroom and washed the inhaler's plastic outer case carefully; then it occurred to me that she might find an antihistamine tablet useful, so I took extra seconds to go back to my room and dig a bubble strip from my toilet bag.

Then I legged it – via the kitchen so I could get her a glass of water – back to the lounge. Toad was now in the group. He glared at me resentfully and hunched a shoulder when I tried to catch his eye. A couple of gasps at the spray gave Agnes enough breath to agree that a tablet would be useful. Shazia pressed one out of the strip and held the glass to Agnes's lips.

Matt coughed quietly. Not to attract general attention – just mine. Without a word he burrowed under the big cushion at the back of his chair and out came at least half a bottle of rioja, followed by a glass. Then he put the cushion on the floor beside him.

‘I'll give you a hand with the washing-up and tidying afterwards,' he said. ‘There were a couple of plods in there when I looked in, and I'm afraid I wasn't in the mood for light conversation after this afternoon.'

I nodded. I understood, and was grateful for his offer.

‘Before we start,' he continued, in his public voice, ‘I thought you should all know that incoming calls are being intercepted to save us being harassed by the media. The Bill are stopping traffic at the main gate. Shazia has agreed to keep the house doors locked to keep out any more energetic paparazzi who might've walked from the access point down by the motorway. If you want to talk to the press, that's up to you. But remember to respect everyone else's privacy.'

Whenever Matt spoke, people seemed to murmur agreement. They murmured now. I almost wished for a Gimsonian interruption.

At last, Matt introduced Hugh Brierley. ‘He's a poet who appears in many of the small literary magazines –
Iron
and
Stand
, for instance. Many people think he deserves a wider audience. Perhaps he'll get it in the autumn, when Bloodaxe publish his first collection. Ladies and gentlemen, Hugh Brierley.'

Hugh smiled, much less tense than I'd have expected him to be, and started. He projected his voice well and without apparent effort. While he read, I tried to make sense of the man. He certainly didn't have the air of someone starving in a garret; payments from small presses for occasional poems wouldn't buy shoes or a shirt like tonight's. His lean, elegant build suggested regular weight training or running. He had slender hands with rather heavy veins and tendons, and used them economically to emphasise the occasional point. His head was interesting, too. He might be losing that fair hair, but his skull was the sort designed to be shown off. His facial bones were good, but then, I've always liked heavy brows and wide cheekbones, and jaws untrammelled by jowls. In this light his eyes were so blue as to be navy. How could I fancy such a visual cliché? And yet there was a saving grace – one of his teeth, the second incisor, protruded slightly. I wondered why he'd never had an orthodontist treat it, but I was glad he hadn't. All in all, he'd certainly be decorative company. Perhaps I should invite him to join me if I went for my constitutional tomorrow.

His poetry was so easy to listen to I suspect he must have spent hours polishing it. Politics; erotica; desolation in the Black Country; a curiously moving, unsentimental poem or two about his handicapped brother. A funny one about growing old. As encores, two about food.

Then questions. I've always found that many people at this sort of gathering ask not to discover anything but to show how clever they are. This group was no exception. Most questions were longer than the answers. Once or twice I suspected him of trying to catch my eye. More likely it was Matt's: I could feel suppressed chuckles shaking the seat I was leaning against.

Inevitably, when the Reading was over, he was mobbed. Matt stood up slowly, rubbing his back.

‘OK, let's attack that washing-up. Much left?'

I looked around: there were still some glasses and coffee cups.

‘Hardly worth bothering you. I'll soon –'

‘You gather these up,' he said. ‘I'll see if there's anything left in the dining room.'

Matt's formula for effective washing-up included glasses of triple-distilled Irish whiskey for the workers, so progress was not especially fast. Matt was silent and his face grim. But I was content just to have company.