Familiar Rooms in Darkness (8 page)

Adam rang Giles when he got home.

‘Meacher? God, what a poisonous little man. What's the interest in him?'

‘He was a friend of Harry Day's. At least, I think he was. Back in the fifties.'

‘Might have been. I wasn't knocking around Soho then. Still in short pants. I knew Meacher, though. I used to avoid him like the plague.'

‘Is he still alive?'

‘Well, he was when I last saw him, a couple of months ago. Horrible little piece of work. He was quite a good photographer in his day – well, right place, right time – but he had a vicious tongue on him. I hated the little bastard. So did plenty of people. Some of them found him amusing. I didn't. He was two-faced, and a cadger.'

‘How can I get in touch with him?'

‘Well, you could stand outside the Coach and Horses for a couple of days. He's bound to turn up. I haven't got a phone number, or anything like that. I don't even know where he lives. Don't know him well enough. I just see him in pubs now and again.' There was a pause. ‘Leave it with me. I'll see what I can do.'

The next day Giles rang Adam.

‘I've tracked him down, and he's agreed to meet you.'

‘Giles, you're a genius. When?'

‘He said he's usually in The French House at opening time. You can find him there. Be prepared to buy him lunch as well as a criminal amount of alcohol.'

‘Great,' said Adam. ‘I take it he knows what it's about, and will be happy to talk?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Giles. ‘Only I wouldn't expect the unvarnished truth. He's a horrible little liar.'

Bella had arranged to meet Charlie for a drink after work. She was in rehearsals for a new production of a Joe Orton play at the Ambassador's, and the walk to Charlie's chambers in the Temple took a mere ten minutes. They met in this way as often as Bella's schedule allowed – sometimes for lunch, sometimes for a drink. Despite the differences in their enthusiasms and temperaments, the relationship was a close, affectionate one, grounded in constant companionship throughout childhood, including the progressive co-educational boarding school in Hampshire which they had attended together until the age of fourteen, and which Charlie had wholeheartedly hated. Charlie was a boy who liked structure and discipline, and the liberal ethos of the place, which had suited Bella entirely, made him uneasy and miserable. Bella had been something of a protector and comforter during these years, until Charlie, using a combination of wheedling and threats, had persuaded his mother to send him to Uppingham, which he had heard about from a boy whom he had met during the school holidays, and which Charlie thought sounded much more his type of school. He had flourished there, discovering like-minded souls who enjoyed rugby and bossing people around, and was genuinely appreciative of a hierarchy based upon seniority and sporting prowess as much as intellectual and creative ability.

They always went to the same wine bar in Essex Street, and Charlie was generally there before Bella. He was rigorously punctual, even with social appointments, a quality in which Bella was deeply deficient. This evening, however, Charlie was twenty minutes late. Bella sat with a paperback book, trying to pretend she was unaware of the frequent glances she attracted from every man in the place. Even when she felt, as she did today, that she was at her bedraggled worst, in old jeans, trainers and an outsize Barbour (one which had belonged to her father and which she had sentimentally retrieved on her last visit to Gandercleugh), men always looked at her, while trying to pretend at the same time that they weren't. She knew she should be used to it by now, but it was most annoying not being able to glance around in an ordinary kind of way, for fear of making unwished-for eye-contact.

Suddenly there was Charlie, sliding into a chair opposite Bella and slapping down a rolled-up copy of the evening paper. He was out of breath. ‘Sorry I'm late. Rowley heard today that he's been made a QC, so we had a couple of glasses in chambers by way of celebration. I could hardly say no.'

‘Why didn't you ring me on my mobile to say you'd be late?'

‘Don't grumble. I'll get us a drink.' Charlie took off his coat and went to the bar.

Glancing up, Bella saw a man standing near Charlie at the bar, dark-haired, wearing a raincoat, his back to her. For a moment she thought it was Adam Downing, but he half-turned and it wasn't. To her relief. She still felt
angry and a little embarrassed at the recollection of that evening at Gandercleugh. No man had ever turned her down before. Not that she made a habit of propositioning men, but when, in propitious physical and social circumstances, there seemed to be raging mutual attraction, she could see no good reason for not taking the initiative. In fact, given the way most men seemed to be somewhat in awe of her – Bella always thought it quite ludicrous to be thus perceived, but accepted it as her inevitable lot – it was often positively necessary to do so. Of course, the way he had behaved didn't do him any favours – it merely marked him out as a prig. She had reassured herself on this point often enough. The girlfriend factor could scarcely be counted. On Bella's scale of morality, playing away, provided it didn't inconvenience or upset anyone, was perfectly acceptable. Notions of fidelity were boring, and conventions there to be broken. No, she didn't think much of Adam Downing. Which didn't prevent her from mentioning him almost as soon as Charlie had sat down with two glasses of wine.

‘Did Adam Downing ever get in touch with you? The journalist who's writing the biography?'

‘Not so far. I gave him my card that evening, but he hasn't rung.'

‘Maybe he's lost interest in the project, now that Dad's dead.'

‘Quite the opposite, surely?'

Bella shrugged. ‘I rang and left Mother's number and address on his answering machine, and he never rang back to thank me.' She wasn't sure whether she had hoped or expected that Adam would call her back. She
only knew that the unsatisfactory balance between them had to be redressed somehow.

‘Oh, he's been in touch with Cecile. I spoke to her last night. He went round to see her the other day and spent a couple of hours there. I think she enjoyed it. She even lent him some photographs.'

The knowledge that Adam hadn't abandoned the project, and would therefore have to make contact with her again at some point, pleased her. Bella took a sip of her wine and leaned back with a sigh.

‘How are your rehearsals going?'

Bella gave a groan.

‘It's an Orton, isn't it?'

‘
Funeral Games
. Which about sums it up.' She took another sip of wine. ‘No, actually, it isn't too bad. I just find it hard to get my head round the humour. De-frocked priests and bodies in the cellar. Still, according to my agent, appearing in a radical revival of a lesser-known play by a sixties icon is good for my image. God knows what the critics will make of it. It has some fairly iffy lines.'

‘I thought that was the point of Orton.'

‘Yes, well – political correctness seems to have brought things full circle.' The dark-haired man in the raincoat went out. Bella was still half-thinking about Adam. It was annoying how he stuck in her mind. ‘Getting back to this biography… Are you all right about it?'

‘What d'you mean?'

‘I mean, there's no guarantee that it's going to be some kind of hagiography. Awful word. What if Adam Downing unearths all kinds of things we'd rather not see in print?'

Charlie laughed. ‘Come on. Dad led a fairly unconventional life, but most of it has already been well covered. I don't think there are going to be many surprises. I'd be more worried if he'd led an apparently quiet, blameless life.'

‘And you think you'll be all right talking about him?'

‘Why shouldn't I?'

‘You're a barrister – you should know. When people start to ask you questions, all kinds of things can come out. I mean, you might surprise yourself. It might be upsetting, talking about him.'

‘I don't think so.' Charlie shook his head, wanting to change the subject. ‘Listen, we have to talk about the house in France.'

‘What's to talk about?'

‘I mean, it's great, Dad leaving us both the house, but I want to know what we're going to do about it.'

‘Do?'

‘Well, it was fine for Dad – he and Briony could go and spend as much time there as they wanted, more or less. Now it's just sitting there.'

‘What are you talking about? We can use it. I fully intend to. We'll work something out between us.'

‘Yeah, well, that's all right for you – you'll get out there far more often than I will. The point is, I'd honestly rather we sold the place and split the proceeds.'

Bella was astonished. In her mind, the house in France was sacred territory. Harry had bought Montresor back in the seventies, after he and Cecile had split up, when it had been just an abandoned, ancient farmhouse in the Lot. It had taken Harry years to put it into shape, gradually
turning the rooms into marvels of exposed wood and stone, building the swimming pool, bringing the orchard back to life, planting the vines that now covered the trellis which shaded the long terrace. It was there that the twins had spent most of the time they had had with Harry. Gandercleugh was for occasional weekends, half-term holidays, and Bella had never much liked its gloomy atmosphere. Besides, it was Briony's now. Montresor was summer holidays, sunshine, her childhood. How could Charlie possibly want to sell it?

He read all this in her eyes as she stared at him.

‘Don't look like that. Frankly, Bell, I need the money.'

‘You can't need the money! Not that badly. Not badly enough to sell Montresor.'

Charlie sighed. ‘Claire's found a house near Lewes. She's set her heart on it. A Georgian manor house. Three acres, lots of rooms, tennis court, swimming pool… If we're going to be able to put in an offer, I need the capital.'

‘Why does she need a Georgian manor house, for God's sake? Can't she start married life somewhere more modest? Most people do.'

‘Well, she says that if we want a family, we need a proper family home. We don't want to be moving in ten years' time. She wants somewhere she can feel settled.'

‘She wants somewhere she can swank about, more like. Why do you let her put that kind of strain on you, Charlie? All these expectations…'

‘To be honest, Bell, that's not really your concern. I'd like to buy the house, too. That's why I need the money. If you're so keen to hang on to Montresor, why don't you buy out my half?'

‘With what? What makes you think I've got that kind of money? Just because I've made a couple of half-decent films doesn't mean I'm rolling in it. Do you know how much this Orton play pays? You don't want to, believe me. It's all I can do to keep the flat in Beaufort Street going.'

‘If we sold it, you'd get your share of the capital, and you could buy somewhere in the same area. Something smaller, but still a holiday place.'

‘That's not the point, and you know it. I
love
Montresor. Another place wouldn't be the same. I couldn't bear to sell it.'

Charlie shrugged slowly. ‘I don't really see that we have any alternative.'

‘Well, you could tell Claire to lower her sights a bit, for a start. You're going to be working your arse off for the rest of your days to keep up with her!' Bella drank the remains of her wine. ‘Oh, and don't forget the school fees. Eton for the boys, if I'm not much mistaken.'

‘Don't be so bloody rotten about Claire. Stop going on as though she's pushing me into this.'

‘Well, isn't she?'

‘You may not much like her–'

‘No, I don't, as a matter of fact.'

‘–but the fact remains, she's going to be my wife, and we both want this house.'

Bella looked at her watch. ‘Shit. I'm going out in an hour.' She sighed. ‘Look, Charlie, we'll have to talk about this some other time. I've got to rush.' She leaned over, kissed his cheek, and got up. ‘It's not worth fighting about. We'll sort something out.'

He watched her leave. There wasn't any other way of sorting it out, so far as he could see. All right, the Lewes place was a bit big. The prospect of the mortgage was frankly terrifying. But he couldn't face having to tell Claire they couldn't afford it. She wanted it so badly. And when it came down to it, he had to do what was best for himself and Claire.

A light wind whipped through Leicester Square gardens as Adam walked up from Charing Cross towards Soho. It was fifteen minutes before noon, but the general vacancy of the streets and the proliferation of delivery vans gave the place a yawning, not-yet-started feeling. Which, Adam reflected, was the way of such an area, where the real day didn't begin until the pubs got going.

With ten minutes to kill, he strolled around the stalls in Berwick Street Market, then made his way to Old Compton Street and The French House. It had not been open long, and both doors at either end of the bar were open to the street, the sash windows up, airing the place from the night before and subjecting any early drinkers to a stiffish breeze. Adam stepped in and glanced round. He had expected to find George Meacher tucked away in the alcove, surrounded by the mournful nostalgia of the dozens of black-and-white photos which covered the walls, depicting Soho in days of former glory. But the small figure, instantly recognizable to Adam, was seated round the other side of the bar, taking the brunt of the gusts of fresh air from the street outside, and tapping the ash from the end of his cigarette with soulful absorption. A glass of Scotch stood before him on the bar.
Meacher took another drag on his cigarette and made some quiet remark to the barman, who, busy counting change for the float, murmured in reply. Then Meacher looked up and saw Adam.