Part 34 (1/2)
”I'm merely expressing-trying to say that-it's of no importance,” Marcus said.
”Sorry,” said Laura quietly, looking at the table. She felt sad again. ”I didn't get it.”
”I was just thinking aloud,” said Marcus after a pause. ”You know. If one were married. Where would one live. Have to think about that kind of thing these days.”
”Even if you're not going out with someone?” Laura said, then regretted it.
But her companion said, after another pause, ”Well, yes.” He smiled, for the first time that evening. ”Bit tragic, isn't it.”
”What?”
”Planning where I'd live if I were married. With children.” He cleared his throat with a long, drawn-out sound like rounds on a firing range. Laura looked at him, smiling self-consciously. She saw his large fingers mechanically clutching his cuff links, his large, normally expressionless face now wearing a rather anxious mask. His beautifully pressed dinner jacket, the studs of his s.h.i.+rt perfectly done up except for one missing, just visible if you looked, hidden by the jacket. Her heart contracted with sadness as she looked at him. He needed a wife; he needed someone to love him and look after him, a nice girl to move to Balham or wherever with him, who would think he was absolutely marvelous. In his way, he was a hopeless romantic, too.
”You look beautiful tonight,” Marcus said, as if he were talking about the weather. He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, rather heavily and clumsily, almost defiantly, and sat back again. ”Thank you,” he said formally.
”Hey! Ah,” said Laura, rather fl.u.s.tered, feeling she should thank him, too, or write him a formal letter.
Now that he had staked his claim, as it were, Marcus seemed to relax visibly. He stood up and offered Laura his arm. ”We should be on our way, if that's okay,” he said, and picked up her cape and put it round her shoulders.
”What kind of people are going to be there?” asked Laura, as he opened the door for her. He took her arm.
”Oh, all sorts,” said Marcus, smiling rather indulgently at her, as if she'd asked an adorable question.
They were opposite the Royal Courts, and Laura could see black ties and evening dresses trickling in through the elaborate stone gates, up the steps. She said, ”No, I mean-tell me a bit about it. Are the guests your company's clients or the bank's?”
”Sure. They're our clients. The sponsor is a fairly big German bank-they have investors of their own there, too. They have a lot of very rich private clients, so it's a formal affair and there are often some pretty important people there. But, yeah, they're all good guys. Should be fun.”
He took her arm as they crossed the road. ”Right,” said Laura, thinking that sounded like anything but fun, and already so confused by the progress of the date so far, her role therein, and the evening ahead of her that any action on her part would be pointless. She squeezed his arm. ”G.o.d, Marcus-who's that?”
A tall, blond man, maybe in his late fifties, had got out of a car that had pulled up in front of the building. He was opening the other pa.s.senger door, from which emerged a woman so overly made-up, so wholly encrusted with jewelry and sparkle, that she looked like a blow-up doll. She took her companion's arm and looked around impa.s.sively, disdain writ large on whatever part of her face still held expression.
”My G.o.d,” said Marcus, grinding to a halt.
”I know,” said Laura. ”She looks ridiculous.”
”No,” said Marcus. ”I didn't think they'd come. That's-Lars Thorson.”
”Who?” said Laura.
”Lars Thorson. Don't you know who he is? He's-well, he's the richest man in Sweden. Invested in tech stock when it was still geek territory. That's his wife, Tania. Right old slapper,” said Marcus with relish, pulling away from Laura to get a better look.
Thorson. She knew that name. She knew that name. Laura looked at Marcus in panic, trying to rea.s.sure the inner voice of warning in her head. ”Good G.o.d, look at her,” Marcus continued, his eyes lighting up. He stared openly at the couple in front of them as Tania Thorson rearranged her shawl, then turned to Laura. ”G.o.d, can't believe it. Tania Thorson. She used to be a bit of all right. Look at her. She looks like a-”
”Right, right,” Laura said, steering him toward the revolving doors. ”Right. And,” she said, not wanting to ask the question, but knowing she was going to, ”don't they have a daughter?”
”Yep, they do. Cecilia. Very fit. Used to come to presentations with her daddio. Funny, that,” said Marcus, squeezing into the door behind her and practically propelling her round, his hand on her back. ”Just remembered.”
”What?” said Laura as they emerged on the other side, feeling slightly dizzy.
”She's going out with Nick now, you remember old Nick? Ranelagh. Yeah. She's called Cecilia. Mate told me he was giving her one these days. Hope she doesn't take after her moth-Hey! Hey! There he is!”
”There who-” Laura said, her brain spinning, as the doors behind them kept spinning, spilling out people who pushed past her, swarmed around her. She couldn't see Marcus, he had vanished; she could hear his voice, but where was he?
”Nick! I say!”
The sea of people cleared, the way parted, and there was a newly invigorated Marcus, patting someone on the back, someone who turned to face her as Marcus was saying, ”Good one! Good one! Let me introduce you, old chap, this is my gorgeous date for this evening, Laura. Hey, Laura. This is the Marquis of Ranelagh, my dear. You've visited his place, you know. You told me.”
”Yes,” said Laura, mechanically holding out her hand, looking up into Nick's face. ”h.e.l.lo.”
”h.e.l.lo,” said Nick, meeting her gaze. His short dark hair was combed and neat, his evening dress immaculate, his expression remote. His other hand was in his pocket, and he squeezed her hand, then dropped it, looked from one to the other of them. Laura's arm felt numb, as if it were something sewn onto her body. It fell by her side, a deadweight, as she watched him, not knowing what to say.
”Nice to see you, Laura. Marcus-great to catch up. Maybe later. Excuse me. I should say h.e.l.lo to the Thorsons, they've just arrived.”
”Course you had, mate!” Marcus winked at him, hugely gratified at being present for this. He put his arm proprietorially around Laura, as if to say, We're all in the same boat, aren't we? Laura rocked against him, feeling like a deadweight, realizing that, for Marcus, this was shaping up to be a great evening, whereas for her, it was probably one of the all-time lows, down there with her other grandmother, Deidre's, funeral and the time Simon was sick over her brand-new Levi's 501s just before her first date with Sean Phillips when she was fifteen.
”See you later,” Nick said politely. He smiled briefly at both of them. ”Have a good evening. Good to see you both.”
He walked off toward Tania Thorson, who was walking stiffly toward the hall, and Laura watched him put his arm round her fondly, kiss her, make some joke. He hugged Lars and shook hands with a couple of other people who'd arrived, all serious, slick, wealthy-looking. Marcus gazed at them almost hungrily. Laura gazed at them, back at him. Her hand stole up to the necklace, and she stroked it gently.
chapter forty-two.
T he next two hours were two of the loneliest of Laura's life. The rain began soon after they arrived, and all evening it thudded on the roof of the hall. All through the drinks at the front of the hall, she stood mutely by Marcus's side as he roared with laughter and slapped backs with a succession of identical-looking, identically dressed men. He was happiest, she soon realized, in the company of other men. The blokes, the guys, the chaps he worked with, who moved vast amounts of money from A to B and then made it into C.
She hung back as he networked, tried to do her bit as The Date, a polite smile plastered to her face, tried not to scan the crowd, until they were ushered farther back along the huge, echoing, vaulted hall for supper. The moment they were seated and had each been presented with a laminated cardboard folder describing the achievements of the German bank over the last year and going forward, Marcus turned away from her to the man on his right, with whom he proceeded to have a similarly raucous conversation. He would turn to her occasionally and ask her if she was okay, and then almost immediately turn back with enthusiasm to a long discussion about the rise of the hedge fund.
”Sure you're okay?” he said to her on his third swivel round.
”I'm absolutely fine,” Laura said, lying through her teeth. Marcus smiled at her. ”Marcus,” she began determinedly, ”I wondered, by the way-about the donation we discussed-”
”What's that?” said Marcus.
”The sponsors.h.i.+p program,” Laura said, putting one finger on his arm.
”Oh, absolutely,” said Marcus. ”Absolutely.”
”Can we-should we talk about it at some point? Firm up the details?”
Suddenly, Marcus's hand shot out and clamped itself around her leg. All at once Laura felt totally like a prost.i.tute touting for business, or some kind of dodgy honeytrap, as Marcus's fingers clumsily patted her skin and he turned toward her, gulping his wine greedily.
”Have you...” she faltered, and looked down at his hand, high up on her thigh. He squeezed her leg, and smiled at her amicably.
”Great,” said Marcus. ”Remind me about it later. Just got to ask this chap-” And he turned away again.
Laura sank back in her chair, dispirited. Apart from the hand on her leg, she might as well have been invisible, she thought wretchedly, and outside the wind whistled along the gla.s.s, rattling it as the rain beat down.
Periodically Marcus would squeeze her thigh; and it reminded Laura of when she and Simon were small, on the sofa in the lounge at Heathcote Road watching TV after school, and Simon would suddenly poke her viciously in the ribs. She would poke him back. They would sit there in huge tension, not knowing who would dare to poke next, and when it came each would scream with the recognized shock of it. So Laura felt as she gazed around her table, around the room, trying not to look bored, waiting for Marcus's next hard, crablike squeeze on her thigh. It did not make for a particularly relaxed dining experience.