Midnight is a Lonely Place (2 page)

Anne nodded. ‘They approve and I can see them just as often from Edinburgh. It’s not as though it’s the end of the world, Kate. It’s only four hundred miles.’

Kate smiled. ‘Well, if C.J. approves, and Mum and Dad approve, it must be OK. Get rid of the flat with my blessing and I’ll try and hang on to Jon for a bit!’

But she didn’t.

It was sod’s law, she supposed, that the day after Anne moved into her new flat in Royal Circus she and Jon had their first serious row. About money. Hers.

‘How much are they going to pay you?’ He stared at her in astonishment.

She pushed the letter over to him. He read it slowly. ‘It’s an American contract! You must have known about this for months.’ He was hurt and accusing.

‘I didn’t want to tell you until it was definite. You know how long these things take –’ She had saved the news as a surprise. She had thought he would be pleased.

‘Christ! It’s iniquitous!’ Suddenly he was on his feet. ‘I get paid a paltry few hundred dollars’ advance for my last book of poetry and you –’ he spluttered with indignation, – ‘you, get that!’ He threw the letter down.

She stared at him, shocked. ‘Jon – ’

‘Well, Kate. Be realistic. You write bloody well, but it’s hardly literature!’

‘Whereas your books are?’

‘I don’t think anyone would dispute that.’

‘No. I’m sure they wouldn’t.’ She took a deep breath.

‘Oh, hey, come on.’ Suddenly he realised how much he had hurt her. Silently he cursed his flash-point temper. He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Look, you know me. All mouth. I didn’t mean it. You are bloody good. You do enough research! Take no notice. I was just miffed. No, let’s face it, jealous.’ He gave her a hug. ‘I might even go so far as to swallow my pride and borrow some of that money off you.’

It was the first time she had heard even a hint of his financial problems.

He managed it by making her feel guilty. She saw that later. It was a subtle manipulation; a masterpiece of manoeuvring. She pushed the money at him; threw it at him; gave it to him and lent it to him, with every cheque tacitly apologising that she made money while he did not. When the end came she had less than a thousand left in the bank and no prospect, though he had promised faithfully to repay her, of any more until her next royalty cheque in the summer.

Even so, it was not the increasing pressure over money which came between them in the end. It was something sudden and quite unexpected.

It was a cold, miserable day in early December when Jon found her in the Manuscript Gallery of the British Museum standing looking down at the flat glass case where an open book stared up at her, Byron’s crabbed, slanting hand, much crossed out, flowing across the page of the dedication to ‘Don Juan’. The atmosphere of the gallery, the air conditioning, the strange false light with its muted hum were giving her a headache. She had been concentrating too long and the unexpected tap on her shoulder had given her such a fright she let out a small cry before she turned and saw who it was and remembered Jon had said he would meet her for a quick coffee.

The restaurant was, as usual, packed and as they sat down at a table near the wall she had no idea that this would lead to the outbreak of war. A couple of Japanese tourists, hung with cameras, inserted themselves, with bows and apologetic smiles, into the two spare chairs next to them. Coffee slopped into Jon’s saucer. A tall man, his own legs had folded with difficulty beneath the table as he pushed himself into the corner opposite Kate. His tray balanced in one hand, a letter in the other, his long, lanky frame and floppy hair lent him an air of languid elegance, something to which one look at the keen darting of his eyes as he stared around the room immediately gave the lie.

Still thinking about Byron, she had not immediately sensed his excitement. ‘You’re coming with me, Kate!’ He picked up the letter which he had put on the table between them and waved it at her. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

‘Coming with you? To the States?’ Giving him her full attention at last, Kate looked at him in surprise. ‘I can’t.’

The expression of baffled anger which for a moment showed in his face confirmed her sudden suspicion that he was not going to understand.

‘Why?’ He was hurt and astonished by her response. He had thought she would be as excited as he was. He scowled. Why was it that she never reacted the way he expected? ‘This is the most important time of my life, Kate. My new novel being published in the States. A lecture tour. Publicity. Perhaps real money at last. Isn’t that what you want for me?’

‘You know it is.’ Her tone lost its defensiveness. She regarded him fondly. ‘I’m terribly pleased for you. It’s wonderful. The trouble is I am writing a book too, if you remember. And I can’t just swan off on a tour at the moment. My research is complete. My notes are ready. I am about to start writing. You know I can’t go with you. It’s out of the question.’

‘For God’s sake, Kate, you can start the book any time.’ Jon flung the letter down. He had counted on her; he could not visualise himself without her. ‘I’m not asking you to give it up. I’m not asking you for a vast amount of time. We would be in the States less than a couple of weeks.’

Kate glanced at the Japanese woman sitting opposite her. Her eyes tactfully lowered, the woman was unwrapping a vast multilayered sandwich, from which tranches of ham and cheese and various highly-coloured salad leaves hung in festoons. The air filled suddenly with a mouthwatering aroma of cooked meats.

‘You know as well as I do that a couple of weeks is a hell of a long time when you are writing,’ she retorted crossly. Her headache had worsened, she felt tired and depressed and she could be as stubborn as he on occasions. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Jon. Anyway, you would get on much better without me.’ Somehow he had managed to make her feel guilty.

‘But I need you. Derek has got some terrific things lined up for me.’ Jon stubbed at the letter with his forefinger. ‘Telly in New York. And some wonderful parties. An interview with the
New
York Magazine
and
Publishers Weekly
. You would meet everyone. He is expecting you to be there, Kate. We’re an item on the literary circuit – ’

A wave of impatience swept over her. ‘I don’t care if your publisher is expecting me, Jon. I don’t care if the President of the United States is expecting me. You may be an item, but I am not. Nor am I a natty little accessory to complement your glittering image. If I tour New York it will be to publicise
Lord of Darkness
, not to be photographed smiling at your elbow. I’m sorry, but I’m going to stay here and work.’

Jon shook his head. His voice was suddenly bleak. ‘You can’t stay in the flat, Kate.’

‘What do you mean? Of course I can.’ Even then she took no notice of the warning bell clanging away at the back of her head.

He folded his arms, the familiar stubborn expression beginning to settle on his face softened by a hint of anxiety. ‘Derek has asked me to lend the flat to Cyrus Grandini while I’m away.’

Kate was speechless for a moment. ‘And who, may I ask, is Cyrus Grandini?’ she spluttered at last.

‘Oh, Kate.’ He was impatient. ‘The poet. For God’s sake, you must have heard of him!’

‘No. And I don’t wish to share a flat with him.’

His reply was apologetic. ‘There’s no question of sharing the flat. I’m sorry, Kate, but I have agreed he can have it for two weeks.’

‘But what about me? I thought it was my home too.’ She fought to keep the sudden panic out of her voice.

‘It is your home.’ He sounded angry rather than reassuring. ‘You know it is. Derek expected you to come to New York; so did I. I thought you would jump at the chance!’

‘Well, I haven’t.’

‘Then you will have to find somewhere else to go for a couple of weeks. I’m sorry.’

So, that was it. She knew where she stood. A lodger. A lover. But not a partner.

She stood up, scraping her chair back on the floor with such vehemence that the Japanese man next to her nearly dropped his pastry. He too leaped to his feet, climbing from behind the table so that she could squeeze inelegantly past him. A wave of frustration and anger and unhappiness swept over her. ‘If I go, I go for good,’ she stated flatly as her neighbour subsided once more into his chair and reached rather desperately for his pastry.

‘OK. If that’s the way you want it.’ He had turned away from her and sat, chin in hand, staring up at the horsemen from the Parthenon on the frieze on the wall above him, suddenly and shamefully near to tears. Correctly interpreting his rocklike stance the Japanese lady who had been preparing in her turn to rise and allow him to leave the table relaxed and took a large mouthful of sandwich.

It was after eleven when he returned to the flat that evening.

The front door led straight into the small sitting room where she was sitting reading, cosy in the warm light of the single table lamp. Outside she could hear the sleet hitting the window. The shoulders of Jon’s heavy jacket glistened and sparkled with unmelted ice. ‘Well, have you changed your mind?’ he asked.

For a moment she was confused, still lost in the world of Lord Byron and his friends. Unwillingly she dragged herself back to the present. ‘No. I haven’t changed my mind.’

‘It’s not working, is it?’ He stood in front of the electric fire and began slowly to unwind his long scarf.

‘What isn’t working?’ She kept her eyes on the book before her. Her stomach had clenched uncomfortably at his tone and the print blurred into an indistinguishable black haze.

‘Us.’

She looked up at last. ‘Because I won’t go to the States with you?’

‘That and other things. Kate, let’s face it. You’re too obsessed with your damn poet to have time for me. Look at you. Even now you can’t take your eyes off some bloody text or other.’ He swooped on her and grabbed it out of her hand. ‘See!’ He held it up triumphantly. ‘
Victorian Poets
!’ He hurled it down onto a chair. ‘He –’ by implication Kate gathered that ‘he’ meant Byron, ‘– comes between us all the time. You have no time for us; for our relationship, Kate.’

‘Jon – ’

She was stung by the injustice of the remark but he swept on. ‘No, hear me out. You’re completely obsessive. You have no time for me at all.’

She leaped to her feet. It had taken her much of the afternoon to calm down after their exchange at the British Museum earlier. She had thought they could work things out amicably once he came home, once he had had time to think about the justice of everything she had said. ‘You … you say that, when all you ever talk about is your own work. Your friends, your parties, your TV interviews! You admitted that you only wanted me to go with you to the States as an appendage! The Jon Bevan literary circus. The wonderful, clever, stunning novelist and poet Jon Bevan and his cute girlfriend who writes such glitzy biographies – though heaven forbid that they should be taken as seriously as Jon’s
oeuvre
.’ Her hands had begun to shake as she realised the implications of what she was saying. She was condemning their relationship unequivocally to death. There would be no going back on this, no making up, no withdrawing of hurled insults. ‘You’re right, Jon, This relationship is not going to work. It’s over. Finished!’ Pushing past him, she flung out of the room.

Their bedroom was very small. The double bed, pushed against the wall, left space for a desk – her desk. On it her laptop sat amongst piles of books and papers. Jon’s desk was in the sitting room she had just left. Jon’s sitting room. Jon’s flat. She stared round in despair. Then she reached for her coat. Throwing it on, she turned and ran to the front door.

‘Kate. Don’t be childish. We can work this out.’ Jon followed her. Suddenly he was terrified by what he had done. ‘For Christ’s sake, where are you going?’

‘Out.’ She was fumbling with the deadlock.

‘You can’t go out. It’s nearly midnight and it’s snowing.’ His anger had gone. He saw himself suddenly as she must see him – selfish, arrogant, thoughtless, cruel. ‘Kate, please –’ He stretched out a hand towards her.

She did not answer. Slamming the door behind her she had run down the steps and out into the street.

II

She missed him.

The flat was tidy, already empty though she was still there, and the days were ticking by. She had to find somewhere, somewhere she could afford, to live, to lick her wounded self esteem, to write.

She tried to justify what had happened; to explain it to herself. He was right. It had not been working. There had been too much conflict, too much competition between them. And all the sacrifices had been hers: her time, her concentration, her money and her commitment.

Well, now it was over. All her time, her concentration, her commitment could be focussed on one thing. One man. Byron. She stood, spreading honey on a slice of bread, watching the wholemeal crumbs disintegrate. Frowning, she tried to stick the crumbs back together. She couldn’t stay in London, that was obvious. Her money – the money she had leant him – had been her sole source of income. She had spent a morning scouring her bank statement and building society book, calculator in hand, trying to see how far she could make the last few hundred pounds stretch. Thank God she had had the sense to stick some of it into a tax fund which, even for Jon, she had not touched. Without that she would be in trouble indeed. It was all her fault. She was a sucker, a classic, besotted mug. She had no one to blame but herself. And Jon. She had tried calling him names. It helped, but always she came back to the empty space in her life and the fact that she missed him.