One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [160]
‘Ivan.’
I smiled, kept my voice steady.
His guard went up. The initial surprise and openness disappeared from his face at my cool rendition of his name. He matched my glacial demeanour ice-block for ice-block.
‘How have you been?’ I enquired.
‘Fine, thanks. And you?’
‘Good, thanks. Yes, really well.’
A silence.
‘I like the new shirt.’ I didn’t, actually. Well, I did, but it had thrown me, this indication of the speed at which he’d transformed himself into a separate being, with a separate life. I knew all his clothes, you see.
‘And I like your coat.’
‘Thank you.’
Another silence.
‘This isn’t your patch?’
‘Hm?’ He was staring at me.
‘Portobello,’ I said. Work with me, Ivan, keep this conversation going. We need only do it for two minutes, for form’s sake, then I can walk on by.
‘Oh, no. But there was a fire at Camden. Some idiot left a fag burning.’
‘Oh, how awful.’
‘So, Ned,’ he nodded at his friend who’d turned away to serve a customer, ‘said I could share his stall here for a few weeks while they get their act together at Camden. Not much to share really: I lost most of my stock.’ He shrugged ruefully.
‘Oh Lord. Did you?’
‘Yeah, but hey.’ He ruffled the hair on the back of his head. ‘Sometimes it’s good to start from scratch again. Get rid of all the dead wood. Makes you evaluate what you really want in life, don’t you think?’
He was eyeing me carefully now. Did he mean me? Was I dead wood? Was he deliberately being hurtful? I swallowed. Didn’t hurt at all.
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
‘You get used to something, start acting through force of habit, mechanically. And not all habits are good. I can see that now. I’ve rather gone off the jewellery. I like the religious artefacts now, and clocks. Clocks are my thing.’
‘They’re lovely,’ I said, reaching out to stroke a mahogany long-case, tenderly. I snatched my hand back. They were. But I was a bad habit. Move away, Hattie. Nod, smile, say, ‘Lovely to see you,’ then walk on. That’ll be it for ever. His eyes were much too smoky, his throaty voice dug up too many memories. Too many laughs. Shaking with laughter, in fact, in bed, beside each other, facing the ceiling, or on a mattress on the floor.
‘And you?’ A quizzical gleam in his eye.
‘Me?’
‘You got to Seffy on time?’
‘Oh – yes, I did.’
Of course. He’d gone missing from school. And I’d run all the way back from Provence.
‘And?’
‘And yes, he’s back. Back at school. All’s well. It’s… a long story, but all’s well.’
‘Good. Give him my love.’
How funny. That was what did it: the damage. Him giving Seffy love. I felt a bit faint.
‘I will.’
It occurred to me I’d behaved very badly. He was fond of Seffy and of course I should at least have let him know he was all right. But the thing is, when one is trying so hard to stay afloat, bailing out like fury, one does rather jettison anything that might threaten sinkage. I’d tossed Ivan overboard, knowing he could have me plummeting in moments. Did I, for instance, want to be forever wondering where those steady grey eyes were resting in Camden Passage? Where that laugh was barking out, head thrown back, throat exposed? Wonder what fun he was having, and with whom? No I did not.
I took a tissue from my coat pocket, went to dab my nose, but actually, surreptitiously wiped my lipstick off. Then I removed my sunglasses. I’d put a spot of mascara on for the estate agent this morning, but other than that,