Authors: Graham Hurley
‘
In London.
’
‘
That same place? That flat of yours?
’
‘
Of course.
’
‘
But I thought you told me you were trying to sell it? Get rid of it?
’
I refilled our cups, desperately trying to remember how much I
’
d
told my mother about the problems at Napier Road
. As ever, she saved
me the trouble.
‘
That neighbour of yours upstairs. Mr Gilbert.
’
‘
He
’
s fine.
’
‘
But I thought
…
?
’
‘
No.
’
I shook my head firmly.
‘
He can be a bit odd sometimes, a bit
funny, but no
…
he
’
s perfectly harmless. Nice man, actually. And
talented, too.
’
I told her about the flute music and finding the LP. She quizzed me
further but when I told her the name - Gilles Phillippe - it meant
nothing.
‘
How old is he?
’
‘
Forty-five?
’
I guessed.
‘
Fifty?
’
‘
Was he married?
’
‘
I
’
ve no idea.
’
‘
Does he work at all?
’
‘
Not as far as I know.
’
She pressed me with more questions, and the fact that I was able to
tell her so little made me feel slightly ashamed. If I was really going to
stay in Napier Road then I
’
d make it my business to find out a great
deal more about the man I shared the house with. That, I thought,
would be a real challenge, a chance to play Sherlock Holmes and keep
my brain cells alive while the nights drew in and yours truly got fatter
still.
My mother, newly indignant, was asking again about the baby
’
s
father.
So far, I
’
d only mentioned his name.
‘
This Brendan,
’
she began.
‘
You say he
’
s run out on you?
’
‘
Not exactly.
It
’
s mutual, really.
’
My mother was looking grave. I suppose I should have spared her
the news but I didn
’
t see the point. The last seventy-two hours, since
I
’
d talked to Andi on the phone, had hardened me a great deal.
Nothing good ever comes from hiding from the truth. I told her
Brendan was married.
‘
And
did you know that when you… you know…
’
‘
Oh yes, his wife was my boss.
’
‘
Julie
!
’
My mother looked round, horrified. There were obviously limits to
her sympathy and I
’
d just breached them, though I had a shrewd
feeling that bad news is better swallowed whole. Let
’
s get this over
with, I thought. Then we can be friends again.
‘
He left her for me,
’
I told her.
‘
We lived together for a couple of
months then he
…
’
I shrugged,
’
…
went back.
’
‘
Went back where?
’
‘
To his wife.
’
This time I laughed out loud. If anyt
hing, the news that Brendan had
abandoned his mistress for his wife was even more shocking.
‘
How could he?
’
she said.
‘
What kind of man does that?
’
‘
I
don
’
t know.
But he did.
’
‘
Did you love him?
’
‘
Yes.
’
‘
Badly?
’
I think she
’
d got the wrong word but, although she hadn
’
t meant to,
she
’
d rather summed me up.
‘
Yes,
’
I admitted.
‘
Badly
’
s about right.
’
Afterwards, she insisted on a tour of Mothercare. It felt hugely
presumptuous to be looking at nappies and baby gear when we were
still months away from December but I took it as a vote of confidence
and we left with a bag full of Pampers and a rather sweet Babygro that
my mother had fallen in love with. She
’
d wanted to buy a teddy, too,
but I
’
d spent most of the previous evening rummaging in bedroom
cupboards, looking for my own, and I was determined to pass it on.
Being at home
made me r
ealise what a magical childhood
I
’
d enjoyed. With my father away at sea m
ost of the time, the credit for that had been
almost entirely due to m
y mother and as the
weekend slipped by I became more
and more conscious of how my little
piece of news had drawn us
together.
I don
’
t think my mother was hurt
by my decision to try and cope alone. O
n the contrary, I think she may
have been quite relieved. But by the time she dropped me at
Petersfield
station on Monday morning,
we were c
loser than we
’
d been for years.
At last we had something in common,
something to look forward to,
s
omething to protect.
‘
Find out about that neighbour of yours,
’
she sang out as the train
drew slowly away.
‘
But no more falling in love
,
eh?
’
My quest, as I liked to think of it, for the real Gilbert began with a
major windfall. It was Friday of the same
week
. The weather had
broken with a vengeance. Big, fat clouds had been building over
London since mid-morning and by three in the afternoon it was
practically dark. The lightning, when it came, brought the rain
sheeting down. Out shopping, I sheltered under the canopy of the
supermarket until it stopped. Cars and buses had their lights on. It
might have been ten o
’
clock at night.
I was home, soaking wet, an hour or so later. My shopping included
a couple of items for Gilbert and I was
putting them on his stairs when
I saw the note on the doormat. It was written on the back of an
envelope, backward sloping handwriting, a little smudged from the
rain but perfectly legible.
‘
Gillie
…
‘
it read.
‘
Mama
’
s
back
home
in
one
piece
.
Best
give
me
a
ring
.
0831
306708
(new
toy!!)
.
Yrs
.
Tom
.
’
I
lingered in the hall for a moment or two, reading the message again.
Was this Gilbert
’
s father? Favourite cousin? Whoever it was certainly
sounded like family. I fumbled rather guiltily in my bag and made a
note of the number.
0831
meant a mobile phone. Hence, presumably,
the comment about the new toy. I returned the envelope to t
he mat and
let myself into my flat.
Since I
’
d come back from Petersfield, at my mother
’
s insistence, I
’
d
invested in an answering machine. She was sick of ringing an empty
flat and after such a lovely weekend, I thought an electronic message
pad was the least I could offer.
The little window on the top of the machine told me a message was
waiting. I dumped the shopping in the kitchen and returned to the
front room. The moment I respooled the t
ape, I recognised the voice. It
was Brendan.
‘
Lovely to hear you, Jules,
’
he began.
‘
Since when have
you had one of these?
’
He paused for a cough here and I wondered
whether he was back on the Camels again. Then the voic
e returned.
‘
Listen,
’
he said,
‘
I
know I
’
m the last guy in the world you want to see
just now but I
’
ll be in Latino
’
s at half past eigh
t tonight. If, just if, big if,
you could be there, I
’
ll know there
’
s a God in heaven. I love you,
believe it or not.
’
The message came to an end and I was left standing
by the phone fighting the temptation to go through the message again.
What I wanted to feel was anger. How da
re he call like this and invite
me out? After everything that had happ
ened? And just say I went? Just
say I joined him at that table at La
tino
’
s, the one we
’
d pra
c
tically
rented, right at the back, beneath the
rubber plant, what then? Would
he apologise? Tell me he
’
d made a big
mistake? Tell me we could wind
the clock back and pick up where we
’
d left off?
And just say I was
foolish or pathetic enough to believe him? What then?
I shook my head, genuinely angry now, not that he
’
d phoned but
that he
’
d so cleverly ambushed me with all these questions. He knew
me inside out. He
’
d set me a little trap, baited with contrition
, and he
was probably over at Do
ubleact now, sprawled behind his desk,
visualising exactly this scene. My big mistake, I realised, was ever
letting him inside my head.
Nikki was at home when I phoned her. I told her I needed moral
support. I told her I
’
d bought a present for the cat, and something
ultra-yummy for her, and how would it be if I came over for the
evening? A couple of hours later, after yet another visit to the
supermarket, I was safely inside Nikki
’
s flat. The cat demolished the
offcuts of salmon, we gorged ourselves on a huge chocolate gateau,
and when Nikki suggested I stay the night, no one could have been
happier than me. The last thing on my mi
nd before drifting off to sleep
was Brendan. If he
’
d been silly enough
to turn up at Latino
’
s, I hoped
he was still there, sat alone at our table, pining. Stupid man.