“I’m so sorry I went on at you like that earlier, Raymond. I’ve got no right to talk to you like that.” Then turning away to make the tea, she went on: “It’s years now since we were at university together. I always forget that. I’d never dream of talking to any other friend that way. But when it’s you, well, I suppose I look at you and it’s like we’re back there, the way we all were then, and I just forget. You really mustn’t take it to heart.”
“No, no. I haven’t taken it to heart at all.” I was still thinking about the conversation I’d just had with Charlie, and probably seemed distant. I think Emily misinterpreted this, because her voice became even more gentle.
“I’m so sorry I upset you.” She was carefully laying out rows of biscuits on a plate in front of me. “The thing is, Raymond, back in those days, we could say virtually anything to you, you’d just laugh and we’d laugh, and everything would be a big joke. It’s so silly of me, thinking you could still be like that.”
“Well, actually, I am more or less still like that. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“I didn’t realise,” she went on, apparently not hearing me, “how different you are now. How close to the edge you must be.”
“Look, really Emily, I’m not so bad…”
“I suppose the passing years have just left you high and dry. You’re like a man on the precipice. One more tiny push and you’ll crack.”
“Fall, you mean.”
She’d been fiddling with the kettle, but now turned round to stare at me again. “No, Raymond, don’t talk like that. Not even in fun. I don’t ever want to hear you talking like that.”
“No, you misunderstand. You said I’d crack, but if I’m on a precipice, then I’d fall, not crack.”
“Oh, you poor thing.” She still didn’t seem to take in what I was saying. “You’re only a husk of the Raymond from those days.”
I decided it might be best not to respond this time, and for a few moments we waited quietly for the kettle to boil. She prepared a cup for me, though not for herself, and placed it in front of me.
“I’m so sorry, Ray, but I’ve got to get back to the office now. There are two meetings I absolutely can’t miss. If only I’d known how you’d be, I wouldn’t have deserted you. I’d have made other arrangements. But I haven’t, I’m expected back. Poor Raymond. What will you do here, all by yourself?”
“I’ll be terrific. Really. In fact, I was thinking. Why don’t I get our dinner ready while you’re gone? You probably won’t believe this, but I’ve become a pretty good cook these days. In fact, we had this buffet just before Christmas…”
“That’s terribly sweet of you, wanting to help. But I think it’s best you rest just now. After all, an unfamiliar kitchen can be the source of so much stress. Why don’t you just make yourself completely at home, have a herbal bath, listen to some music. I’ll take care of dinner when I come in.”
“But you don’t want to worry about food after a long day at the office.”
“No, Ray, you’re just to relax.” She produced a business card and placed it on the table. “This has got my direct line on it, my mobile too. I’ve got to go now, but you can call me any time you want. Now remember, don’t take on anything stressful while I’m gone.”
FOR SOME TIME NOW I’ve been finding it hard to relax properly in my own apartment. If I’m alone at home, I get increasingly restless, bothered by the idea that I’m missing some crucial encounter out there somewhere. But if I’m left by myself in someone else’s place, I often find a nice sense of peace engulfing me. I love sinking into an unfamiliar sofa with whatever book happens to be lying nearby. And that’s exactly what I did this time, after Emily had left. Or at least, I managed to read a couple of chapters of Mansfield Park before dozing off for twenty minutes or so.
When I woke up, the afternoon sun was coming into the flat. Getting off the sofa, I began a little nose-around. Perhaps the cleaners had indeed been in during our lunch, or maybe Emily had done the tidying herself; in any case, the large living room was looking pretty immaculate. Tidiness aside, it had been stylishly done up, with modern designer furniture and arty objects-though someone being unkind might have said it was all too obviously for effect. I took a browse through the books, then glanced through the CD collection. It was almost entirely rock or classical, but finally, after some searching, I found tucked away in the shadows a small section devoted to Fred Astaire, Chet Baker, Sarah Vaughan. It puzzled me that Emily hadn’t replaced more of her treasured vinyl collection with their CD reincarnations, but I didn’t dwell on this, and wandered off into the kitchen.
I was opening up a few cupboards in search of biscuits or a chocolate bar when I noticed what seemed to be a small notebook on the kitchen table. It had purple cushioned covers, which made it stand out amidst the sleek minimalist surfaces of the kitchen. Emily, in a big hurry just before she’d left, had been emptying and re-filling her bag on the table while I’d been drinking my tea. Obviously she’d left the notebook behind by mistake. But then in almost the next instant another idea came to me: that this purple book was some kind of intimate diary, and Emily had left it there on purpose, fully intending for me to have a peek; that for whatever reason, she’d felt unable to confide more openly, so had resorted to this way of sharing her inner turmoil.
I stood there for a while, staring at the notebook. Then I reached forward, inserted my forefinger into the pages at the mid-way point and gingerly levered it up. The sight of Emily’s closely packed handwriting inside made me pull my finger out, and I moved away from the table, telling myself I had no business nosing in there, never mind what Emily had intended in an irrational moment.
I went back into the living room, settled into the sofa and read a few more pages of Mansfield Park. But now I found I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept going back to the purple notebook. What if it hadn’t been an impulsive action at all? What if she’d planned this for days? What if she’d composed something carefully for me to read?
After another ten minutes, I went back into the kitchen and stared some more at the purple notebook. Then I sat down, where I’d sat before to drink my tea, slid the notebook towards me, and opened it.
One thing that became quickly apparent was that if Emily confided her innermost thoughts to a diary, then that book was elsewhere. What I had before me was at best a glorified appointments diary; under each day she’d scrawled various memos to herself, some with a distinct aspirational dimension. One entry in bold felt-tip went: “If still not phoned Mathilda, WHY THE HELL NOT??? DO IT!!!”
Another one ran: “Finish Philip Bloody Roth. Give back to Marion!”
Then, as I kept turning the pages, I came across: “Raymond coming Monday. Groan, groan.”
I turned a couple more pages to find: “Ray tomorrow. How to survive?”
Finally, written that very morning, amidst reminders for various chores: “Buy wine for arrival of Prince of Whiners.”
Prince of Whiners? It took me some time to accept this really could be referring to me. I tried out all sorts of possibilities-a client? a plumber?-but in the end, given the date and the context, I had to accept there was no other serious candidate. Then suddenly the sheer unfairness of her giving me such a title hit me with unexpected force, and before I knew it, I’d screwed up the offending page in my hand.
It wasn’t a particularly fierce action: I didn’t even tear the page. I’d simply closed my fist on it in a single motion, and the next second I was in control again, but of course, by then, it was too late. I opened my hand to discover not only the page in question but also the two beneath it had fallen victim to my wrath. I tried to flatten the pages back to their original form, but they simply curled back up again, as though their deepest wish was to be transformed into a ball of rubbish.