Chapter 9: Next To You
The wind is like the sea, thought Marianne, as she moved across the sweeping curve of the park, hair blowing across her face. Hills or water: she would have to make her life next to one or the other (Dalston was fine for now of course.)
Near the café, shuttered over like an eyelid, a mother released a kite into the air, to squeals from her tiny children.
The air smelt after-the-rain. She climbed past the wildflower meadow, with its tufty grass, yellow like it wouldn’t succumb to anything other than summer. But why, in October, were the blackberry bushes so wizened? In Deal they’d be ripe and juicy. At the rosehip bushes she began to run: a healthy glow would be perfect to greet Archie.
The bench where she had left the notebook was empty, expectant. Nearly dusk, the summit was deserted, other than two Americans exclaiming at the distant landmarks. Highgate stretched behind, nothing to prove.
She shivered. The weather was turning and her first day at Lean Green Cars had been just as dreary: she had made tea and answered two enquiries. Even Marianne could see that the recession wasn’t a good time for an eco-taxi company, although Mr Ivry – her shrunken, grinning boss – had insisted it was a blip, and anyway Mondays were often quiet; the phones rang non-stop Wednesday to Saturday. She wondered who these customers were – presumably the rich and guilty, those who fly weekly whilst making donations to rainforests – as she knew she would never be able to afford an eco-cab herself.
“Marianne?” She spun round.
“Archie?”
Even as they shook hands, kissing once on the cheek in an awkward half-hug, a wave of disappointment swept over her. He was so ordinary! Short dark hair, scruffy jeans, a smart coat, almost handsome, except his cheeks were too thin and his chin was hidden under a thick beard. Marks lined the ridge of his nose where he had removed glasses.
A pale moon peeped between the clouds. “Sit down,” she said, patting the bench, trying to be coquettish, although she felt more like an elderly relative.
Archie produced a bottle of fizz from a plastic bag – and two copies of the evening paper to sit on.
“Want a glass?”
*
Down at the foot of the hill, on the edge of the estates, an older man couldn’t stop thinking about Marianne, either. There was something charming about her, decided Leonard Mulberry, in his living room, lamps on in daylight, in fact she was just the person he needed to pen his memoirs. His problem was this wretched RSI in his wrist – it had paralysed his writing to the point where every idea was in danger of evaporating. What had Marianne said she was doing for a job? Mind you, if it was that forgettable, it couldn’t have been anything much.
He chuckled as he remembered waving to Tom last night. The internet’s giddying potential never failed to amaze. Note to self, though: he must never again leave a stranger downstairs whilst he took a late afternoon nap. He trusted people too much; enjoyed helping them, almost to a fault. Tom had been honest, however, and very sexy, although thin as a novella. Leonard pottered into his kitchen; boiled a kettle; pulled a ginger snap out from a Tupperware box. As he eased himself down onto a kitchen chair – too low for the table – he was already dialling Marianne’s number.
She answered after a dozen rings. “Hello?”
“Good evening Marianne, it’s Leonard Mulberry. You came round to collect your notebook at the weekend.”
“Oh yes-”
“Where are you? It’s terribly noisy.”
“I’m – I’m on the Heath. Sorry, it’s really windy, quite dificult to hear-” She turned to Archie and pulled a face.
“Oh right. Obviously an inconvenient time-”
“No, no – ”
“Well, it’s just that I have a business proposition for you and wondered if you’d be interested.”
“A what?”
“A business proposition.” He was shouting; this girl wasn’t making it easy; she must have a man with her. “I said, would you like to come and work for me? Why don’t I call you back another time?”
She smiled. “Oh wow, that sounds brilliant. Thanks. Can I call you back?”
The phone in her handbag, she turned to Archie: “That was the man who brought us together.”
*
We all invent the story of our lives, Joe knew that, but his was still confused. Marianne had enjoyed last night – just listening to her pleasure, it was obvious – but she’d kicked him out at dawn. No excuses, she kept on repeating, I’ve got my new life here. Blah blah blah. But it had been easy enough to follow her – a bit like being on one of them TV shows.
He had waited for Marianne to shut the front door whilst hiding in the churchyard opposite, then trailed her – all tarted up like a secretary – at fifty feet. She was one of those mugs who thought the world danced around her, so she would never expect someone – him – to fall “off message”. When they were growing up, she had enjoyed her pick of the lads at school, a different sucker every Friday at the ice cream parlour on the seafront. Haters used to call her a slag behind her back, and it was only sheer persistence on his part that had brought – and kept – them together.
Watching her saying hello to half the stallholders – foreigners, all of them – along that market street, was odd: was she having some kind of breakdown? And why was she leaning over, talking to the woman selling the homeless magazine? At least his anonymity was secure in the throng on the platform; and once on the train, he had kept careful watch for her stop.
Now he was in this famous place, Hampstead. Dalston wasn’t English really, was it? Areas like that were the reason this country’s losing its identity. He wouldn’t vote BNP – although a lot of his mates were – but the simple fact was that there were too many people here, too many cultures, all trying to grab a slice of the pie. Too much clatter. How on earth was everyone meant to get along? Straightforward common-sense, wasn’t it? But here, in Hampstead, people seemed calmer. He could get used to this, an England he could identify with.
It had been hard to follow Marianne up that hill – what the hell was she thinking, breaking into a run? He had taken cover in the bushes, and, sure enough, she had met a bloke there, on a bench. Slag. They were drinking wine out of plastic cups, and seemed to be laughing and joking, and at one point the bloke – who was a proper show-off – had his arm round her. Joe had to stop himself from running out and punching the bastard; no, he couldn’t be that hasty. Be brave.
Oh yes, he decided, as he watched them wander downhill, he’d take his revenge – action over inaction – but first, he’d have a bit of fun.
Click through to read chapter 10
