Kissed a sad goodbye - Deborah Crombie [4]
She was beautiful. For an instant he thought she was sleeping, even hesitantly said, “Miss …”
Then a fly lit on the still white hand resting on the breast of her jacket, and he knew.
CHAPTER 2
Down by the Docks is a region I would choose as my point of embarkation if I were an emigrant. It would present my intention to me in such a sensible light; it would show me so many things to turn away from.
Charles Dickens (1861)
At five minutes to ten on an already hot Saturday morning, Gemma found herself looking for an address in Lonsdale Square. A few minutes’ walk from her Islington flat, the square was lined solidly with the cars of residents at home for the weekend. A posh neighborhood, this, the preserve of upwardly mobile Blairites, and Gemma wondered how the woman could afford such an exclusive address. The terraced Georgian houses looked severe, their gray-brick facades relieved only by trim in black or white … except for the one with the glossy red door.
Gemma checked its number against the address on her notepad, then climbed the steps and rang the bell. She tucked a stray wisp of hair back into its plait and glanced down at her casual Saturday clothes—jeans and sandals and a linen shirt the color of limes. What did one wear for the occasion? Maybe she should have—
Before she could talk herself into retreating, the door swung open. “You must be Gemma,” the woman in the cherry-red jumper said, and smiled. She wore little makeup other than the red lipstick outlining her full lips, her short dark hair was fashionably ragged, as if it had been trimmed with nail scissors, and against her pale skin her eyes were a clear and luminous hazel. “I’m Wendy.”
“I like your door,” said Gemma.
“I find it breaks the ice. Come in.” The room into which she led Gemma faced the street. It stretched towards the back of the house, long and narrow with simple lines and a high ceiling. A formal Georgian mantel on the outside wall divided the room into two perfectly proportioned halves.
Beyond that all Gemma’s expectations failed. The walls were crayon yellow, the furniture sixties contemporary in primary colors, and above the mantel hung a huge poster of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road.
An upright piano stood against the long wall, between the fireplace and the rear of the room. As Gemma looked round, the woman touched her arm and gestured towards the sofa.
“Sit down. I’ve made us some coffee. This morning we’re just going to get acquainted.”
“But I thought …” Gemma’s nervousness flooded back. Whatever had possessed her to make this appointment, to give up a free Saturday morning that could have been spent with Toby? It had been a stupid idea, a chance thought followed up when it should have been dismissed, and now she was about to make an utter ass of herself. Thank goodness she’d told no one but her friend Hazel what she meant to do.
Wendy Sheinart sat down beside Gemma and lifted the coffeepot. “Now.” Smiling, she filled Gemma’s cup. “You can tell me why you want to play the piano.”
KINCAID HAD PACKED THE SORT OF picnic he thought a boy would approve of—thick ham sandwiches, potato crisps, Cokes, and the pièce de résistance, an enormous slab of chocolate gâteau from the bakery on Heath Street. He stowed the hamper, specially bought for the occasion, in the Midget’s boot, then put down the car’s top with a grateful glance at the clear blue arch of sky visible over Carlingford Road.
After the heavy rains of the first few weeks in June, the prospects for Wimbledon Finals had looked dismal. But Kincaid had persevered in his quest for tickets, finally securing two center-court seats for the day, and it seemed that the weather gods had seen fit to reward his diligence.
Offering up a silent thanks, he hopped into the car with an unaccustomed sense of anticipation. The Midget’s engine roared obediently to life, and as he eased it into gear he felt a spasm of guilt for having