'What a pity,' he said, but I don't think I was meant to hear it.
*-*-*-*
'You want to watch out, my love,' my brother said sagely when I told him the story of my meeting with Geoffrey de Mornay. 'The lord of the manor has certain historical privileges, you know. Pick of the village virgins, and all that.’
'Don't talk rot,' was my response.
It was a week later, Saturday evening, and we were sitting in the unmistakably posh surroundings of Roderick Denton's house in London. The dinner party had been a great success, as all Rod's social ventures inevitably were, and not for the first time I had to admit that my brother's advice had been spot on.
The evening had provided me with a welcome break from the seemingly unending cycle of unpacking and deco rating, and I felt nearly human again. On top of which, I finally had an excuse to wear dressy clothes, in place of the jeans and the floppy shirts I'd been living in for the past fortnight. It gave me a deliriously sophisticated, grown-up feeling. If only I hadn't been so dreadfully bored.
Two weeks out of London, I thought, and already the talk flowing around this room seemed unconnected to me, and narcissistically shallow. Tom caught me yawning and nudged me playfully.
'I told you to go easy on the wine,' he reminded me,
'Sorry.' I yawned again. 'I think I've reached my limit, Tom. I have to go.'
'Okay. I'll see you to the door,'
'Julia, my dear." Roderick Denton descended upon me with outstretched arms, blocking my escape route. 'I'm so glad you came.'
I hugged him back. ‘Thanks for the invitation. I've had a wonderful time. And be sure to thank Helen for me.'
'You're not leaving, already?'
'I'm afraid so. I have a friend waiting up for me.'
'Oh?' He raised a gossip's eyebrow. 'Spending the night n town, are you?'
'Yes, with my friend Cheryl. You remember Cheryl, don't you, Rod? She works at Whitehall.'
He frowned, but only for a moment. 'Red hair?' he checked. 'Quite intelligent? Lives in Camden Town?'
'Islington, now,' I corrected him. 'She's had a raise in
pay-Rod ought to appreciate that, I reasoned, being a social mountaineer himself. It was rather underhanded of me to use Cheryl as an excuse for leaving the party. She was not, in actual fact, waiting up for me. She wasn't even in Lon-ion. Her boyfriend was treating her to a weekend in the Lake District, and she'd cheerfully given me the loan of her Bat for the evening, along with her pet cat and the use of her parking space.
'If you wait a few minutes, I can find someone to give you a lift,' Rod offered, ever the considerate host.
'No, thanks.' I shook my head. 'It's just as quick to take the tube. And you'—I poked Tom in the arm—'should be leaving, too. You'll sleep through your sermon tomorrow.' 'Along with the rest of the congregation,' Rod said, and
Tom smiled at me, indulgently. 'Laugh it up,' he invited. 'I'm not letting you take the tube in this state, you know. Ill find you a cab.'
'I don't want a cab,' I protested. 'I want to take the tube. Or walk. I fancy a bit of fresh air.'
But Tom was resolute. He saw me down to the street, hailed a cab, and bundled me into it, giving the driver directions to Cheryl's flat. As soon as the cab had turned the first corner, I leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. 'I've changed my mind,' I told him. 'Embankment tube station, please.'
I should have kept the cab, after all. The entrance to the tube station was clogged with young people, and the press of bodies steeped in stale beer and Saturday-night sweat made me feel distinctly claustrophobic. I had intended to take the northern line straight up to Islington, but suddenly the garishly lit tunnels of the underground held little appeal. There really was no hurry, I told myself. I could always stroll a little way along the river, and pick up the circle line at a station farther on. With a final deciding glance at the boisterous crowd, I turned my steps toward the softer streetlamps of the embankment and the myriad twinkling reflections of the slumbering Thames.
Behind me, back by Westminster Bridge, curved the impressive facade of the old County Hall building, and ahead the familiar dome of St. Paul's, sharply illuminated, rose like a beacon against the night sky. It was a beautiful night, surprisingly peaceful and quite mild in temperature, despite the humidity. I walked on, past Cleopatra's Needle with its watchful sphinxes, past the looming bulk of Somerset House and the more majestic gateway leading to the Temple and the Inns of Court.
At first, I enjoyed the sense of solitude. But after several minutes my wine-fogged complacency slowly gave way to a creeping wariness. It was, after all, quite late on a Saturday evening, and as lovely as the embankment might be, it was not the wisest place for a woman to walk alone. I quickened my step, uneasy. At the very next tube station, I promised myself, I would go underground. I had walked far enough, for one night. Besides, I had drunk slightly more than I ought to, and I was feeling terribly tired. My steps swayed a little, unsteadily, and my head felt curiously light, filled with an odd, ringing sound.
A minute later I'd given up the thought of taking the tube altogether, and altered my course away from the river in search of a cab. But there didn't seem to be a single cab in sight, and the more I searched the maze of streets, the more lost I became. The streets narrowed first to lanes, and then alleys, becoming progressively darker and rougher underfoot, while the ringing in my ears grew steadily louder. After several wrong turns, I finally came across one street that looked familiar—a crooked little street of oak-framed houses with plaster walls, their crowded overhanging top stories painted and carved. As I passed a sheltered doorway, a small, ragged boy took a step forward, raising his lantern.