Lunching at Laura's Page 9

  That was the trouble, of course. All she ever did here was sleep and perhaps drink a cup of tea as she stood poised for the ring on the doorbell that would tell her the early taxi had arrived to take her to market. She didn’t do any real living here; she stored her clothes, that was all. All her living was done in Little Vinegar Yard, at the restaurant. And that wasn’t living, was it?

  She began methodically to put away her purchases; some catfood, a packet of tea, some disinfectant for the loo, a packet of corn flakes, a carton of UHT milk, because that sort kept best – it was all so impersonal, so unimportant, so dreary, and she stood and looked down at the pack of toothpaste that was the last thing in the bag and thought – if I died tomorrow and a stranger came to clear this flat, they could know nothing of me from what they found. It’s as though I’m no one. No personality, no one. Just Laura who runs a restaurant and who, when she isn’t there, disappears.

  ‘Ridiculous!’ she said again, more loudly this time, and went into the living room to switch on the radio and to collect the bowl of dying flowers so that she could replace them with the fresh ones she had bought from the stall on the corner.

  She’d give a small party, that was it. Invite a few people, get some food in and do her own cooking. She wouldn’t just bring stuff Angie had cooked; she’d be a real person and give a real party of her own –

  Who for? asked a little voice deep in her mind. And when? You’re always at the restaurant, reckon you can’t be spared. That no one but you can do the work properly. How long since you had anyone you could call a close friend, close enough to come to a party here?

  Mary? she thought, standing still and staring out of the kitchen window again, the fresh flowers held unregarded in one hand. Mary – what was her other name? That girl who used to come into the restaurant, who had remembered her from their schooldays together. Mary – but she’s married now, she remembered then. Came and told me – how long ago? – ages – that she had met this super man and was getting married and I must come to the wedding. And that was the last I ever heard from or about her. So who could I ask here? The people from the restaurant? Angie? Leno? Customers? She shook her head vigorously at that thought and went on with arranging her flowers. Not to be considered.

  Yet who else was there in her life but the people who touched her through her work? She had her restaurant, the money she made and nothing more. Just the work. A successful capable business woman, that’s me, with a complex job that I do superbly and a life as dull and tasteless as a bucket of cold water.

  Once again she tried to pull herself out of her mood, but that wasn’t easy. She wasn’t a person much given to introspection; she’d never had time. In the early days running the restaurant, looking after her old parents, had been more than enough. Then, when Poppa had died, she had had to let go of the old flat they had shared and find this one – and a nice enough flat it was, for all its sense of emptiness – and work even harder at Little Vinegar Yard, to keep her mind off the loneliness of not having anyone to go home to at night; so she had not had time to think much. Why she could choose today to do so was beyond her; and once again she found herself standing still and staring blankly at unseen sights while she tried to work out just what had made her so low today. Not miserable, precisely. Not depressed. Not ill. Just a bit melancholy. It must be the weather, she thought; this first February sunshine reminds you it’s still a while yet before it gets warm and easy. It’s still winter. That’s why you’re melancholy.

  Stupid, the little voice jeered. It’s nothing of the sort. It’s lunch that did it. All that talk of people’s children and who’s marrying who and who’s doing what. It reminded you that you’re not marrying anyone, you’re not having children, you’re just old Laura who works and makes money for the others and has no other function. Bloody family! she thought with sudden savagery and then was ashamed of herself, for they were, for all their occasional tiresomeness as individuals, a good family and without them all what and who would she be? Even less than she was.

  The phone shrilled and she jumped and stood there in the kitchen with her heart actually thumping, and angry with herself for over-reacting so absurdly and then, as the phone went relentlessly on, thumped the flowers on to the table and went to answer it, luxuriously annoyed at being disturbed when she was so busy, and even angrier with herself for being such a liar.

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped.

  ‘Laura?’ The voice was familiar yet not immediately identifiable and she frowned.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘My dear, why so cross? Did I disturb something madly important?’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘I did disturb you – I’d better call again.’ There was a lift of laughter in the voice now and that made her even more sharp-tongued.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, either say who you are or go away! I’ve better things to do than play silly games with –’

  ‘Oh, lawks, I’m sorry, Laura. It’s Philip. Philip Cord. Obviously you are busy and I’m making a pest of myself. I am sorry – I’ll go away. Just tell me when would be a good time to call and I won’t bother you a moment before that.’

  She stood and stared at the film of dust on the table where the phone stood and then stretched out one finger and made a mark in its smoothness.

  ‘Philip. Oh. Hello.’

  ‘I did disturb you. I’m a wretch. Were you about to step into the bath? Or worse still, did you get out specially for me? Are you standing there stark and dripping and hating my guts? I would if I were you.’

  ‘No – I was just – I’d been shopping. Just got in actually.

  Sorry if I snapped at you. I was a bit –’ She left it dangling in the air, furious with her own stupidity and not knowing how to extricate herself. ‘What did you want?’

  ‘It seems so feeble now,’ he said and she could almost see his face. Not a handsome face but a friendly and agreeable one and she felt some of the tension drain out of her as she saw it break into a smile as vividly as though he had been standing there in front of her. ‘I just wanted to say thank you.’

  ‘Thank you? What for?’

  ‘A super lunch. It was all so – I don’t know. Not just the food, but all of it. The ambience, the warmth. The sheer friendliness of it all. And it was all your doing. Without you to organise that lunch the whole family would just be a bunch of individuals – some nice, some – well, I can say it to you, some absolutely awful. But you pull them together for this lunch in a way that really is – well, I just wanted to say thank you.’

  She felt her face go red and actually put up her other hand to touch her cheek. ‘Oh, really, Philip. That is way over the top! It’s just a lunch. If anyone makes it – all the things you say it is, it’s Anya Zsuzske. She’s a remarkable old –’

  He laughed again, a soft sound that made her face go even redder. ‘Dear Laura, you see what I mean about you? You put the best complexion on everything. Dear old Anya Zsuzske is a dotty old bird who cares for nothing except food and lots of it. You know I’m right. A greedy old –’

  ‘Philip, if you go on like that you won’t be asked to any more of her parties.’ She tried to sound stern but knew she was laughing. It was true, after all. ‘You should show more respect.’

  ‘Oh, sod that!’ he said cheerfully. ‘I don’t reckon this notion of respecting people just because they’ve managed to stay alive a few days more than the average. It’s what a person does that deserves respect, not mere longevity. And I wanted you to know how much respect I have for you. You perform wonders there at that restaurant. And not just for the family affairs. All the time, for everyone. Does Ilona ever say how grateful she is for the money you make for her? Does Paul? Or the Ucherguts sisters?’

  ‘The who?’ she said, momentarily diverted.

  He laughed again. ‘The Ucherguts sisters. It’s a label I use for that awful pair Evelyn and Dolly. They really are the pits. Remember to make it sound really German and ugly,’ and he said it again, rolling
the word deep in his throat so that it sounded singularly unpleasant. ‘It suits them, doesn’t it?’

  She couldn’t help laughing, though she knew she shouldn’t. Tiresome as Dolly and Evelyn were, she really shouldn’t discuss them outside the family – and then she blinked at the oddness of that thought. Philip was family, of course he was. What else could he be, her cousin’s husband? What else could he be but family?

  ‘– they ought to,’ he was saying and then as she said nothing added, ‘Do they, Laura?’

  ‘Do they what?’

  ‘Say they appreciate all the money you give them?’

  ‘I don’t give them any money, Philip. It’s their right. They own shares in the business, so they’re entitled to share the profits –’

  ‘Without your efforts there wouldn’t be any profits. Of course they should be grateful. I keep telling Ilona that but –’ There was a little silence and when he spoke again his voice was different, a little more guarded. ‘Anyway, I’m grateful for today. And I just wanted to say so.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Philip.’ She smiled and for the first time let her shoulders, which had been held high and tight, relax. ‘That was a very kind thought. Though you did say it at the restaurant, of course, not more than a few hours ago.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think I’d said it enough. So I dropped Ilona off at Harrods and then thought, I’ll tell Laura. Tell her right now, what sort of a glow she’d left in me for the afternoon. I wanted to share it with you. The way you share all your work with the family. And, as I said, if they don’t say they’re grateful, then they ought to be made to. You’re something very special.’

  He was doing it too. Talking about the family as though it had nothing to do with him, as though they were outsiders and he were blessedly free, on the outside, and suddenly she liked that picture of him and felt a warm glow inside that was so powerful that it came out in words.

  ‘Thank you, Philip. You’ve made me glow now. It’s a nice feeling.’

  ‘Isn’t it just?’

  There was a short silence and then he said, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Right now. What are you doing?’

  She laughed, a soft sound that even to her own ears sounded agreeable. ‘Talking to you.’

  ‘What would you be doing if you weren’t?’

  ‘Tidying the flat. Putting flowers in water. Feeding the cat.’

  ‘What sort of flat is it?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Big and glamorous? Small and cosy? “House and Gardens” or “Woman’s Own”?’

  ‘Neither,’ she said and let her eyes travel round the square room with its heaps of floor cushions and low chrome tables and art deco lamps that had been her grandmother’s and which had been taken from Little Vinegar Yard when the upstairs rooms had been made into the Extras. ‘I’m not sure how you’d describe it. Dull and empty –’ And then she added, so softly that it was just a breath, ‘– like me.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just a flat. Ordinary.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’ He sounded vigorous and busy suddenly. ‘I get the feeling that you’re not doing anything terribly important. Listen, will you make me some tea? Ilona said firmly I wasn’t to pick her up till Harrods closes, and that won’t be till seven because it’s Wednesday – so I was just going to prowl around town, and fill in the time as best I could. It’s not long enough to go home and come out again, you see. So, will you take pity on a poor benighted man and give me some tea? Only tea – I had a rather good lunch somewhere – won’t bother you with the details – and I’m stuffed with food. But tea would be bliss.’

  ‘But can’t Ilona take a cab home? Why do you have to hang around to wait for her?’ she said and then was annoyed with herself for being stupid again, for his voice seemed to become cool and remote.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to be a nuisance. If you’re busy, then, of course, I’ll –’

  ‘Of course you’re not a nuisance. It’s just that – it seemed so silly Ilona having to be fetched and carried –’

  ‘You don’t know your cousin Ilona,’ he said after a moment. ‘But never mind, Laura. I didn’t want to make a pest of myself. If it’s awkward, then forget all about it. It was just an idea –’

  ‘Don’t be silly! Of course you’re not a pest,’ she said quickly. ‘It was just that – I’m not used to – I mean, there’s only me here and – but look, do come and have some tea. I could do with some myself. Eating lunch makes me thirsty. I don’t usually have so much – it was just that it was the family and – so, please, do come. I’ll put the kettle on right away.’

  Stop gabbling! her little secret voice commanded, stop making such an absolute ass of yourself, but she ignored it and went on chattering. ‘Where are you now? How long will it take you to get to me? I’m in Morwell Street, in Bloomsbury, you know. I have the top flat at number twenty-two – I’m afraid there’s no lift so you’ll have to climb three flights. There’s an entry phone so I’ll buzz to let you in – how long will you be?’

  ‘It all depends on how long it takes to get a cab,’ he said, and sounded amused and friendly again. ‘Say twenty minutes? The kettle should be boiled by then. Twenty-two Morwell Street, third floor. See you.’

  And then she was standing with the phone buzzing in her ear and staring at the dust on the table, amazed and angry with herself and, she could not deny, very excited. He had somehow manoeuvred her into inviting him to the flat for tea. She, who never invited anyone here, who had been glooming about the place for that very reason, to have been so suddenly pitchforked into entertaining, and she hung up the phone with a clatter and in a sudden panic rushed to the kitchen to find a duster. To let anyone see the place looking so tired and unkempt would have been embarrassing; that Philip Cord should be the one to see all the dust and the dreariness was more than she could bear, and she went round like a whirlwind, straightening already straight cushions, dusting ashtrays and generally working herself into a tight coil of anxiety.

  She had completely forgotten her decision over lunch to tell Ilona not to be so anxious and tense about her husband, and to smile more as a way of dealing with her fearfulness. She was much too fearful herself about Philip Cord’s imminent arrival to remember anything at all.

  9

  The girl on the stage was revolving in a desultory fashion to the heavy rock music that was thumping out of the record player, and doing vaguely lewd things with the vacuum cleaner hose she was holding. Her costume looked rather odd; she was wearing only a frilly starched pinafore with a bib so narrow that her puny little breasts stuck out on each side of it like startled pimples and nothing else apart from a pair of very thick green leg warmers and heavy shoes. Joe Davriosh stopped in the doorway, holding the tatty plush curtains to one side and laughed loudly.

  ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘You couldn’t turn even me on with that one, Don,’ he said. ‘And everyone knows I got a fuse as short as a gnat’s willy. Where’d you get her?’

  ‘I’m looking for a stand-in for Georgie. She’s got the flu –’

  ‘More like bloody AIDS, the way she goes on,’ the girl on the stage said loudly, still going through her act and making the vacuum cleaner hose loop and curl around the cheeks of her buttocks with considerable skill as she stared malevolently over her shoulder at Davriosh. ‘As for turning you on, Joe Davriosh – the girl’d have to be bleedin’ hard up to want to do that, I can tell you. Everyone knows about you.’

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ Preston said. ‘I don’t take performers who are rude to my colleagues, young lady, and don’t you think it. And take off those godawful leg warmers. You look as tasty as last week’s toad in the hole. If you’re auditioning, then bloody well audition –’

  ‘If you kept this place a bit warmer, you mean bugger, then I’d be able to audition without ’em. It’s as cold as bloody charity in here. Listen, do you want me or don’t you? I got
offers all down the street, you know. You’re not the only vaseline in the jar, and don’t you think it. I can get all the work I want. I only said I’d come in to do you a favour. So piss or get off the pot –’

  ‘These girls,’ Preston said, looking pained. ‘It’s bad enough I have to be in such a rotten business. Why do I have to spend so much time with such ill bred people? It’s possible to be a lady as well as a stripper, madam, and don’t you forget it. No, I don’t want you. Go and get yourself one of the other jobs, if you can. If I’ve seen one Bored Little Housewife act I’ve seen thirty. Original, that’s what I want. Ladylike and original. So on your way –’

  ‘Sod you,’ the girl said, but there was no animosity in her tone. ‘All right then, you mean bugger. I’ll do it at the usual rate. If you was anyone else I’d want double.’

  ‘If I were anyone else you’d get half,’ Preston said and got to his feet. ‘All right. On your bike. Ten o’clock tonight for the first turn. Three more after that. And for Christ’s sake put a bit of colour on your nipples. Let’s pretend you’ve got something the customers want, eh?’

  The two men watched her go flouncing off the small stage into the even smaller wings, cursing loudly as she went and Preston shook his head as he led the way out of the small auditorium to the office at the far side, picking his way through the bald velvet seats.

  ‘A rotten business,’ he said again. ‘The sooner I can jack all this in and get myself a nice clean berth in a nice clean set-up the better off I’ll be. This isn’t good for my health.’

  He had reached the office now and went to the high backed buttoned leather chair behind the huge leather topped desk. ‘I’m getting ulcers, I swear to you, ulcers. So, tell me, Joe, how goes it? What’s happening? Not a word have I had out of you for over a fortnight, and you said you’d keep in touch.’