get any worse, so I decided to enter the fray.
‘But you don’t know Roehm. He doesn’t seem old, though I suppose he is. Anyway, he’s rich. You should meet him. Then you’d understand why she loves him.’
Luce looked at me in horror, as if I’d suddenly given her certain evidence that I had been deposited on the planet by visiting aliens.
‘Then you’ve already met this monster. Let me tell you, child, that I have no desire whatsoever to meet him.’
‘Well, you should.’
Luce and I glared at each other. Liberty suddenly thumped across the threshold, waving her programme.
‘Drink up, chaps. I’ve got the car out the front. And I’m on double yellow. Did you save me some? Where’s Isobel?’
Suddenly she noticed that something was horribly wrong. Luce’s cheeks were black with running paint.
‘Heavens, Luce, what’s up?’
I poured myself the last glass of champagne and began to drink it down at speed. I offered Liberty the dregs with a provocative smirk.
‘Luce and Iso have been fighting over a man.’
* * *
We lived in a smokeless zone. I sat in front of an illegal wood fire. An implausible thriller set in Cornwall was running its course on BBC2. There were two possible murderers. One was an ideological vagrant given to meditation sessions on the top of a tor, and the other was a retired lifeguard, who had dedicated his last days to alcohol and embittered disillusionment. He was bristling with possible motives. So it was more likely to be the unemployed vagrant. The porch lights were on. Isobel had not come home.
I heard someone’s step on the gravel and the highpitched ring of the bell as the key turned simultaneously in the lock. Luce. No one else had the keys. I sat waiting in the sitting room, but turned off the sound. A small blue loudhailer with a line through it appeared in the left-hand corner of the screen. My mind went blank.
Luce strode in, rustling with heavy bracelets and chains. She was dressed to kill in reds, blues, greens. Her mouth was a thin line of violet.
‘All right, then,’ she sat down and stubbed out her cigarette amongst the others festering in a shell left on the bookcase, ‘who is he?’
‘I told you. He’s a scientist. He works in London and somewhere else abroad. He’s also got a research institute in the Alps.’
‘And how old is he exactly?’
I had no idea. But I had done some calculations.
‘He must be over fifty. He said that he remembered his father coming back from the war.’
Luce snorted. She lit another cigarette. I hugged a cushion and noticed that the police were swarming up the tor in search of the philosophical vagrant. Luce stared at the soundless screen, her face impassive.
‘He smokes. Like you.’
She stubbed it out at once, in a rage.
‘I don’t see why you’re so angry. Roehm makes her happy.’
I had no idea why I was saying this. I didn’t believe that anyone could be happy with a man like Roehm. He was too ambiguous, too large and too terrifying. But I pushed out the patter of clichés into the gap between us.
‘Don’t you want her to be happy?’
‘Not with him!’
Luce snorted with indignation and righteousness. I sat silent for a while. The vagrant was flying across the moor, pursued by dogs. Cut to the rotting boat which the lifeguard kept on the beach.
‘He must have another name. He can’t just be Roehm, like Heathcliff.’
‘She’s never called him anything else. I thought it might be his first name.’
‘It’s not a name at all. Do you know where he’s from?’
I volunteered the minimum of hard information. I had no tangible motive to keep the little I knew secret from Luce, but I refused to give up this strange huge man. It was as if Roehm now belonged to me, to us.
‘His car is registered in the Haute-Savoie. It’s got left-hand drive. It’s French.’
Luce gave an irritated shrug.
‘Well, that’s a start, I suppose. But won’t tell us much about him. It could be a
‘But you don’t know Roehm. He doesn’t seem old, though I suppose he is. Anyway, he’s rich. You should meet him. Then you’d understand why she loves him.’
Luce looked at me in horror, as if I’d suddenly given her certain evidence that I had been deposited on the planet by visiting aliens.
‘Then you’ve already met this monster. Let me tell you, child, that I have no desire whatsoever to meet him.’
‘Well, you should.’
Luce and I glared at each other. Liberty suddenly thumped across the threshold, waving her programme.
‘Drink up, chaps. I’ve got the car out the front. And I’m on double yellow. Did you save me some? Where’s Isobel?’
Suddenly she noticed that something was horribly wrong. Luce’s cheeks were black with running paint.
‘Heavens, Luce, what’s up?’
I poured myself the last glass of champagne and began to drink it down at speed. I offered Liberty the dregs with a provocative smirk.
‘Luce and Iso have been fighting over a man.’
* * *
We lived in a smokeless zone. I sat in front of an illegal wood fire. An implausible thriller set in Cornwall was running its course on BBC2. There were two possible murderers. One was an ideological vagrant given to meditation sessions on the top of a tor, and the other was a retired lifeguard, who had dedicated his last days to alcohol and embittered disillusionment. He was bristling with possible motives. So it was more likely to be the unemployed vagrant. The porch lights were on. Isobel had not come home.
I heard someone’s step on the gravel and the highpitched ring of the bell as the key turned simultaneously in the lock. Luce. No one else had the keys. I sat waiting in the sitting room, but turned off the sound. A small blue loudhailer with a line through it appeared in the left-hand corner of the screen. My mind went blank.
Luce strode in, rustling with heavy bracelets and chains. She was dressed to kill in reds, blues, greens. Her mouth was a thin line of violet.
‘All right, then,’ she sat down and stubbed out her cigarette amongst the others festering in a shell left on the bookcase, ‘who is he?’
‘I told you. He’s a scientist. He works in London and somewhere else abroad. He’s also got a research institute in the Alps.’
‘And how old is he exactly?’
I had no idea. But I had done some calculations.
‘He must be over fifty. He said that he remembered his father coming back from the war.’
Luce snorted. She lit another cigarette. I hugged a cushion and noticed that the police were swarming up the tor in search of the philosophical vagrant. Luce stared at the soundless screen, her face impassive.
‘He smokes. Like you.’
She stubbed it out at once, in a rage.
‘I don’t see why you’re so angry. Roehm makes her happy.’
I had no idea why I was saying this. I didn’t believe that anyone could be happy with a man like Roehm. He was too ambiguous, too large and too terrifying. But I pushed out the patter of clichés into the gap between us.
‘Don’t you want her to be happy?’
‘Not with him!’
Luce snorted with indignation and righteousness. I sat silent for a while. The vagrant was flying across the moor, pursued by dogs. Cut to the rotting boat which the lifeguard kept on the beach.
‘He must have another name. He can’t just be Roehm, like Heathcliff.’
‘She’s never called him anything else. I thought it might be his first name.’
‘It’s not a name at all. Do you know where he’s from?’
I volunteered the minimum of hard information. I had no tangible motive to keep the little I knew secret from Luce, but I refused to give up this strange huge man. It was as if Roehm now belonged to me, to us.
‘His car is registered in the Haute-Savoie. It’s got left-hand drive. It’s French.’
Luce gave an irritated shrug.
‘Well, that’s a start, I suppose. But won’t tell us much about him. It could be a
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