A Question of Love Page 5

  ‘How considerate.’

  ‘So I decided I’d ask you a question that you’d be able to work out.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘How many times a day does the human heart beat?’

  I looked at him blankly. ‘That sounds like one of your classic snippets of Useless Information.’

  ‘It is. But your mental arithmetic was pretty hot, I remember, so I knew you’d get it.’

  ‘But it would almost certainly have taken me longer than five seconds, so you could have doubled your money there, Luke. Your little joke was rather expensive, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh well.’ He shrugged. ‘Eight grand’s enough.’

  ‘For what—if you don’t mind my asking? I mean, why on earth did you want to take part?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘I do. I was surprised to see you, to put it mildly.’

  ‘Okay. I was put up to it by a couple of friends. I was complaining to them that I needed a few grand because I’d like to go to art school—I’ve always wanted to go. Don’t you remember that?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Of course.’

  ‘And I’ve got a place at the Slade to do a part-time diploma. But I’m very short of cash at the moment for various reasons which I won’t bore you with, so they suggested that I try and get on Whadda Ya Know?!! When I discovered that you were the presenter it was a bit of a shock, to put it mildly, and I decided against it. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how much I’d like to see you again—especially when I found out that your office isn’t far from where I live.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you just write to me there?’

  ‘Because I didn’t think you’d reply. You probably wouldn’t have done, would you?’

  ‘I don’t…know. I…probably…not.’

  ‘Exactly. So I decided that I’d just get myself on the show. To be honest, I thought you’d know beforehand.’

  ‘I should have done, but I hadn’t read the list of contestants.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Crikey—I must get going—I’ve got to pick up Jessica.’ Jessica? ‘She’s my girl,’ he explained proudly. I felt a sudden sagging, as though all my buoyancy had gone. ‘She’s the love of my life.’

  ‘I see.

  ‘She’s really gorgeous. She’s got big blue eyes…’

  ‘How nice…I really must talk to the other contestants.’

  ‘And this fantastic smile.’

  ‘That’s great.’ I held out my hand. ‘It was nice seeing you again, Luke.’ I gave him a brittle smile, then turned away.

  ‘Do you want to see a photo of her?’

  ‘Sorry? No—not particularly, since you ask.’

  ‘Hang on…here you go…’ He’d removed a small folding leather frame from his pocket and now handed it to me. Staring out at me was an angelic little girl, smiling gappily.

  ‘She’s your daughter?’ He nodded enthusiastically. A wave of relief flooded over me, in a way that took me aback. ‘I didn’t know you’d had a baby.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  I shrugged. ‘I didn’t have a clue what had happened to you.’ I didn’t add that I’d avoided finding out. I’d dropped all our friends because I couldn’t bear the association. I looked at the photo again. ‘She is gorgeous. She’s really beautiful.’

  ‘Well, I think so obviously, but thanks.’

  ‘She’s, what, five?’

  ‘Just turned six.’

  ‘So you—got married and all that, did you?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ So that was that then.

  ‘Anyway…’ He fished his car keys out of his pocket and jingled them. ‘I’d better be off—it’s my turn to collect her from school. So…I guess you don’t want to have dinner with me.’ He shrugged. ‘Oh well…’

  ‘I didn’t actually say that, Luke.’

  ‘Well you didn’t say that you did.‘ He picked up his scarf. ‘So you’ve changed your mind have you?’

  ‘How could I have changed it when I hadn’t made it up? You’re being so…bloody…manipulative.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m not actually—I’m being direct. I’m asking you if you’ll have dinner with me—how about Friday? Now, I’m in a hurry so, if you don’t reply, I’ll take your silence as assent. I’ll pick you up at eight shall I?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But what?’ He looked at me then slapped his brow. ‘Of course…but I don’t know your address. Silly me. Give it to me now then will you?’

  ‘No Luke—that wasn’t what I meant. I meant—what about your wife?’ My heart was beating so loudly I thought he’d hear it. ‘You said you were married—won’t your wife mind? I rather imagine she will.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not going to tell her.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I don’t think that’s on.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Get off your high horse will you Laura. I’m not going to tell her—for the simple reason that I don’t have to. We’re separated.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. My heart sang. In fact it wasn’t just singing—it was jigging and pirouetting and twirling and hopping. ‘I am sorry to hear that. Since when?’

  ‘Last May…Anyway, Laura, I’ve got to leave right now. So what’s the answer then?’ He picked up his coat.

  ‘Well—’ and now, for the first time, I allowed myself to smile—‘the answer is…a hundred thousand. The human heart beats a hundred thousand times a day doesn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He kissed me on the cheek. ‘Sometimes more.’

  They say the first cut’s the deepest—and it’s true. Seeing Luke again seemed to have cast the whole world in an entirely new light. All that was familiar looked oddly unfamiliar—as though the prism through which I’d viewed everything had changed. As I opened my front door that evening, it was as though the past had risen up to overwhelm the present and I was seeing the flat for the very first time. I went straight to my desk and took out a carved wooden box in which I’d kept things too personal for public display. There was a black and white photo of my parents, kissing; there was a beribboned lock of my grandmother’s hair, there were my engagement and wedding rings in their velvet boxes and, at the bottom, one of Luke’s drawings of me. I’d burnt all the others—he’d done dozens—but, for some reason, I’d kept just thisone. He’d sketched me while I slept one Sunday morning at the end of our first month together when everything had been heightened—intense. Now, as I looked at my younger self, my naked form caught in dark blue pastel lines and smudged shadows, I thought of how different my life might have been.

  I poured a glass of wine, had a couple of large, steadying sips, then lay on the sofa, eyes closed, thinking about Luke, allowing all the memories that I had pushed away for so long to wash back on a nostalgic tide…

  Thump! Thump! I opened my eyes. ‘Oh God.’ Thump! Thump! I looked at the ceiling. ‘Not again.’ My new upstairs neighbour is a medium and her séances can get a bit noisy. Thump! THUMP! THUMP!! I rolled my eyes, imagining the curtains swishing, light bulbs popping and furniture flying round the room. I haven’t met her yet, though I caught a glimpse of her when she moved in—she’s one of these glamorous brunettes d’un certain age. But I know what she does, because for the past month people have been buzzing my intercom, and asking me if I’m ‘Psychic Cynth?’ Thump! Thump!! According to the letters she gets, her real name is Cynthia del Mar. THUMP! THUMP!!! I see her cat sitting on the fire escape sometimes.

  THUMP!! THUMP!!! ‘EEEEEEHH!!!’ This really was a bit much. Why couldn’t she show a little consideration, or at least clock off at a reasonable time? I glanced at my watch. It was a minute to eight—time to turn on the TV; with luck it would drown out her noise.

  ‘Fingers on the buzzers now everyone,’ said the continuity announcer cheerily. ‘Because it’s time for Channel Four’s brand new quiz show - Whadda Ya Know?!!‘ The opening credits rolled. And there I was, asking the four contestants—two men and two women—to introdu
ce themselves. We’d recorded this edition in early January.

  ‘My name’s Peter Watts and I’m a civil servant.’

  ‘I’m Sue Jones and I work in I.T.’

  ‘I’m Geoff Cornish and I’m a poultry wholesaler.’

  ‘My name’s Kate Carr and I’m a librarian.’

  ‘Here we go. First Question…’

  I felt disconsolate, watching it alone, but there wasn’t anyone to watch it with. My parents live in Yorkshire, Hope and Mike were out, and I hadn’t wanted to go round to Felicity’s because I was seeing her the following night. It would have been nice to have watched it with Tom, but he was obviously busy. I think he might be seeing someone—I’ve got that feeling. Now, as we got to the third or fourth question I heard, from above, ‘Oh!—oh!—OOOOOH!!‘ THUMP!! THUMP!!!

  Living below a spiritualist might bother some people, but it doesn’t bother me because I don’t believe in the paranormal—I’m a rationalist, so I only believe in facts. But although it doesn’t spook me, I do object to the noise. And Geoff the poultry wholesaler had just got the question about Noël Coward completely wrong (the answer was Blithe Spirit, not Hay Fever), when there was the sound of rapidly descending footsteps, then urgent knocking.

  ‘Hell-oooo!!!’ I heard, in a pleasantly husky, but oddly over-elocuted voice. ‘Is there anybody there? Is there anybody th-e-r-e?‘ I wearily got to my feet.

  ‘You’re a medium,’ I muttered. ‘So you should know.’ I opened the door. There was Cynthia, looking desperate.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she breathed, clasping the architrave with both hands. ‘But I’ve got a problem.’

  ‘Yes?’ I said wonderingly, inhaling the overpowering aroma of her Knowing. I’ve a good memory for scents as well as facts.

  ‘I’m Cynthia.’ She offered me a bejewelled and beautifully manicured hand. ‘I know we haven’t met properly, but I wonder if you could help me.’

  ‘Sure. If I can do. How?’

  ‘My blasted television’s broken down again. It usually responds to manual violence, but not today for some reason.’ Ah. That explained the noise. But what did she think I could do? Thump it myself? Call Radio Rentals? ‘And there’s this new quiz show I’m dying to watch.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It looks like a real goodie actually.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘So I wondered if you’d mind if I watched it down here.’ Oh.

  ‘Well…’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she breathed. ‘I know it’s an awful imposition.’ Why not, I thought? In any case my encounter with Luke had made me feel expansive and generous.

  ‘It’s…okay. I really don’t mind. I’m just watching it myself actually.’

  She clapped her hand to her chest, rattling her string of large pearls. ‘Oh that is kind of you! You see I adore quizzes,’ she explained, as she barged past me and installed herself on the sofa. ‘I watch them all. I’m rather good at them if I say so myself. Ooh, is that an open bottle? I’d love a glass.’

  I wouldn’t have minded Cynthia’s presence—or the speed with which she consumed most of my Merlot—were it not for her non-stop commentary on the show. She sat right forward on the sofa, staring at the screen intently. If she’d had a tub of popcorn she would have been rattling it.

  ‘What an awful shirt that man’s wearing…And she really should get her teeth fixed…It’s the Ngorongoro crater you moron! Ngorongoro!…The presenter’s a bit weird-looking, don’t you think…? No, no, it’s not a monkey house, you steaming great ignoramus—it’s a place where bees are kept!’ At times her exasperation with the contestants would almost lift her on to her feet. At other times she would roll her eyes at me before returning her gaze to the screen. ‘No, not the Titanic, you idiot—it was the Lusitania! How many properties are there on the Monopoly board? Forty! Oh. Twenty-two is it? Hmmm…’ Sometimes she’d try and hurry the contestants, as though she was the compere. ‘Come on, now…Come on…’ Then it came to Turn the Tables time. ‘My God,’ Cynthia gasped. ‘He’s going to ask her a question. That’s novel! I bet Anne Robinson wouldn’t like that!’ We watched as the leading contestant, Geoff, the poultry wholesaler, asked me, with a smug little smile, as though he was convinced I couldn’t possibly know the answer, ‘What is a quadrimum?’

  ‘A quadrimum?’ Cynthia repeated with an appalled expression. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. Poor girl, she’ll never get that—how humiliating. I can’t bear to watch.’ She covered her face with her hands. We could hear the stage clock ticking as the five-second countdown began. ‘Quadrimum?’ Cynthia repeated quietly from behind oblonged fingers. ‘Fiendish. Absolutely fiendish…’

  ‘It’s the best or oldest wine,’ Cynthia and I heard me say. ‘It has to be at least four years old.’

  ‘That’s…correct,’ said Geoff with an expression that combined horror, surprise and naked disappointment—after all, he’d just lost two grand.

  ‘That was good,’ Cynthia said. She looked at me, her eyes like satellite dishes. ‘I was amazed she knew it.’

  ‘It’s not that hard. It’s in any dictionary of difficult words—I used to make myself learn five new ones every day—andof course studying Classics helped. That word features in a beautiful poem by Horace.’ I made a mental note to re-read it. I glanced at the shelves—I knew I’d got it somewhere.

  ‘Even so, it’s impressive, I mean…’ She was looking at me again, and now her expression had changed. ‘I mean…’ She stared at me openly then turned her head back to the screen. By now the penny was rolling around in the gutter, tinkling loudly. ‘It’s you…‘ she breathed. ‘I didn’t…notice…I didn’t…realize…’ She’d clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘But it is you, isn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘Of course—you’re called Laura.’ She looked at the TV. ‘And so is she.‘

  ‘That’s…right.’

  Having looked mortified, Cynthia suddenly brightened, as if seeming to glimpse the possibilities of the situation. ‘Well…that’s rather good. I’ve got a celebrity neighbour. A real live television presenter!’ she concluded happily. ‘Now, tell me—how did that come about?’ As the closing credits on the show scrolled up the screen, I quickly explained how I’d got the job.

  ‘So you’ve had fame thrust upon you, then.’

  ‘Well I certainly didn’t go looking for it.’ I thought, sinkingly, of Nick. ‘Fame’s the last thing I want. And you?’ I went on. ‘You’re a…medium aren’t you?’ I poured her another glass of wine. ‘A spiritualist?’

  ‘Oh no.’ She looked appalled. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead at a séance, and I do not communicate with the deceased. Too creepy,’ she added with a shudder. ‘I did do a course in mediumship skills some time ago but I had a rather unpleasant experience with some ectoplasm.’

  ‘So what do you do then?’ I asked as I topped up my own glass.

  ‘I’m a psychic. I have the gift of clairvoyance and I use it to give people advice, or to help them achieve their goals. I can help with all sorts of matters—matrimonial crises, professional problems, family difficulties—I even help to find missing pets. Some people think of me as their spiritual guide, or even angel.’

  ‘Well—‘ I regard it as complete baloney but tried to think of something nice to say. ‘That sounds fascinating.’

  ‘It is, although, confidentially…’ her brow had pleated with anxiety, ‘I could do with a few more clients. In fact it’s a bit of a worry. It’s hard, isn’t it—having to make one’s living,’ she added distractedly.

  ‘Well,’ I shrugged. ‘I’m…used to it.’

  ‘So if you know anyone who’s in need of a little clairvoyance…’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Have you put an ad in the local paper?’

  ‘I have—and I’ve got a website—but the problem is that there are so many psychics in London. The market’s saturated—oh hello Hans!’ Her cat had just wandered in through the open door and was now winding itself in and out of her ankles, purring like a tiny Ferrari. �
��You don’t mind cats do you?’ she asked as it sprang on to her lap.

  ‘No. I like them.’

  ‘And she’s very sweet.’

  ‘She is. Erm…why do you call her Hans, if she’s female?’

  ‘Because I found her outside my old flat in Hans Place.’

  ‘Hans Place in Knightsbridge?’ She nodded. ‘That’s a nice address.’

  ‘Oh it was,’ she said regretfully. ‘It was heaven.’

  ‘So what brings you here?’ I asked. ‘Ladbroke Grove’s a bit…different.’

  ‘I know. But, well…’ she sighed. ‘My circumstances changed. You see, my last flat didn’t belong to me. Unfortunately.’ She snapped a breadstick in half. ‘So, when that…arrangement…came to an end I decided I really must buy my own place. This was all I could afford, but it’s a nice flat.’

  ‘But how did you get into the psychic…business?’

  ‘Well, that’s quite a story actually…Do you want to hear?’ I didn’t—but I nodded politely. She sat back, and cradled her wine, gazing into the middle distance as she began her trip down Memory Lane. ‘It was all because of a seagull,’ she began. ‘A psychic seagull, to be precise.’ I looked at her. ‘It saved my life.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Without a doubt. You see, this time last year I was feeling very, very low—I’d reached…a major turning point in my life. So I went to stay with my sister in Dorset and one afternoon I went for a walk on the cliffs. And I must have been too near the edge, because I slipped and fell about twenty-five feet. And I was lying there, on the beach, trapped between two boulders, in great pain with a broken leg, quite unable to move—like this.’ She’d clapped her arms stiffly to her sides to help me visualise her predicament.

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘It was terrifying—not least because I knew the tide was coming in. I kept calling out, but the beach was deserted; and as I lay there, sincerely believing that I was going to die, a seagull came and hovered overhead. And it wouldn’t go away. So, in desperation, I shouted at it. I yelled, “For God’s sake, go and get help!” To my very great surprise, it flew off.’ She leaned forward, her large grey eyes widening. ‘But this is the incredible part. I learned afterwards that it had flown to my sister’s cottage, where it tapped on the kitchen window with its beak, and flapped its wings and made a huge noise. My sister tried to shoo it away, but it persisted, so she decided that it must be trying to tell her something. So she followed it outside, and on it flew; but it kept stopping and looking back at her to make sure that she was still following, then on it would fly again. When it alighted at the cliff edge, it looked over, and my sister looked over too and saw me lying there, and called the fire brigade.’ Cynthia sat back again, shaking her head in bewilderment. ‘Don’t you think that’s an incredible story?’