“Dessert?” she said. “Just dessert?”
“Aye. Pudding,” Mrs. Watson said.
Keiko, reckless with relief, didn’t refuse when the waiter returned with a tall jug, but just watched him pour a coating of yellow cream over the tower on her plate until the berries were gone and the bowl was filled to the brim and close to overflowing. She picked up her spoon.
“Stop!” A woman was standing beside her chair with her hand up. She was wearing a dark purple garment with wide sleeves and made a dramatic figure. “Keiko, don’t eat that.”
The room had gone quiet.
“What the-” said Mr. McKendrick’s voice.
“I can’t believe you people,” the woman said. Her face was flushed and her chest rose and fell rapidly. “This is criminal.”
“What is it?” said Keiko, peering hard at the berries and then looking around the room.
“Cream,” said the woman, her voice trembling. “And ice cream. And probably butter pastry too. Dairy.”
“For the love of Mike,” someone said.
“How many times did I tell you?” the woman shouted. “Japanese people can’t eat dairy. What’s wrong with you?”
“Oh,” said Keiko, and she tried hard not to smile. “How thoughtful, but I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m fine.”
“But I thought it was all Japanese people,” said the woman, crestfallen now.
“Not all,” said Keiko. “Not me. But thank you.”
“I’m sorry about that, pet,” said Mrs. Sangster, drilling a look at Keiko’s saviour as she went back to her seat. “She doesn’t come from Painchton.”
“Pamela Shand.”
“With the gift shop.”
“Glasgow.”
“We don’t go in for all that here.”
“All what?” Keiko said, looking up. She was spooning the pudding into her mouth as fast as she could, not even following the voices as they came at her.
“Intolerances and what have you.”
“We’re old-fashioned here.”
“Eat what’s put in front of you and be thankful.”
“Never did me any harm.”
Mrs. Sangster leaned forward and stroked Keiko’s hair, smoothing it back from her face, cupping her cheek in one warm palm. “You must come to supper with us as soon as soon can be and let me show you,” she said. The waiter whisked away her cleared plate and substituted another clean one. “Roast, glazed ham I’ll make. I’m noted for my glazed ham.”
Keiko nodded, swallowing.
“We were supposed to take turns,” Mrs. McLuskie called over, hearing this. “Once we find out which evening Keiko prefers. And I’ve got a goose.”
“Crying out loud, Etta,” said Mrs. Watson. “She’s not here on a catering course. She’s a psychiatrist.”
“Psychologist,” said Keiko, but quietly, remembering what Craig had said to her.
“I thought it was physics,” someone added, a large woman wearing the same dress as Mrs. McLuskie, but in a different colour and without the provost’s chain.
“She needs building up, whatever she is,” said Mrs. Sangster. “You’ll be no good to anyone if you waste away, pet.” She gave Keiko one last pinch and sat back, picking up her own spoon again.
Keiko looked down at her plate and then looked away. “Is Mrs. McMaster here?” she asked, thinking that conversation would give her a break from eating. “I would so like to meet her.”
“Where is Pet tonight?” said Mrs. Watson, looking round.
“Off at one of her foster care meetings,” said Mrs. McLuskie.
“No!” said Mrs. Watson. “She’s not at that again. She swore she’d never let herself in for more of that heartbreak.”
“Heartbreak?” said Keiko. “Fancy?”
“Aye, well her too at the time,” said the woman who thought Keiko was in physics. “But at least she came back. Not like the other one.”
“Tash,” said another woman Keiko didn’t know, very well-groomed and wearing a mask of make-up.
“Tash!” said the larger version of Mrs. McLuskie, as if the word was impolite in some way.
The well-groomed woman frowned.
“Now, how do they organise fostering in Japan?” said Mrs. Watson after a hurried look at both of them.
“Well,” said Keiko, “families are more… Not so… I’m not sure.” Then, to get a break from talking, she had to eat again. Cheese and crackers this time, with Pamela Shand glowering. When the cheese was cleared, she hid mint chocolates in her bag, passed on the coffee, choked on the whisky, and eventually climbed the stairs to her flat again, holding her stomach in both hands.
She had forgotten about for you as the evening wore on and seeing it again as she slipped off her shoes, she groaned. Put it in the trash, Malcolm had said, so she picked it up and folded it into a paper plane, looking around for a wastebasket to fire it into. Just as she had told herself it would, the glue on the flap cracked and gave way. She hesitated for a second, then flattened the envelope again and lifted the flap open. Inside, there was a sheet of paper folded in half. She could poke it apart with a finger and see what was written there without even taking it out. She snapped on the overhead light, held the envelope up to it and squinted inside.
I know what you did. I saw you. I will tell them all
Keiko smacked her hands together to close it up again. For a moment she stood quite still, listening to the echo of the smack in the empty air. Then very slowly she turned to the shelf above the radiator and inserted one corner of the envelope behind it, wiggling it back and forward until it was almost all gone. She let go, heard it drop down, heard the tap of one edge hitting the plastic sheet, and leaned back against the front door again.
She was facing straight along the corridor into the living room and across to the dark windows on the other side of the street. She was standing here in bright electric light, against fresh white paint, with a big bay window and a wide open door between her and the outside. Anyone could have seen what she just did.
Then she shook herself and tutted, told herself not to be silly. No one was watching.
seven
It was in the basket on the back of the door, hand delivered, hours before the post was due, the direction-for you-clearly visible through the wire. The dog had grown out of letter-chewing now, but they kept the basket because it was easier on the lumbar discs not to bend down to the floor every morning, even if clumsy morning fingers sometimes fumbled at the catch trying to open it. It took several attempts that day, and then several more to get hold of the loose edge on the flap in shaking fingers and tear it open.
I saw you again. You can’t hide from me. I will tell them all.
And just like the first one, this one was taken straight to the fireplace in the lounge, crumpled up-envelope and all-and had a match held to it until it caught, flared, and died down in sheets of ash to be stirred away to nothing with the poker.
Wednesday, 9 October
Later in the afternoon she had an appointment with Dr. Bryant, her supervisor, her mentor, Socrates to her Plato, Plato to her Aristotle…
Well, she had an appointment anyway. But she wouldn’t waste the morning. She set up her PC on the big table in the bay window and started typing.
Facts, Scams and Scares: the production of consensus in dense social networks, she wrote, editing out the gossip right away. Consensus as (arti)fact: scams and scares in the construction of knowledge. A cup of coffee on her right and a cup of pens and pencils on her left made a neat arrangement. Consensual knowledge in networks: scares, fads and density. To be confirmed, she decided and typed: Something with a colon: the title of a thesis in social psychology. She put in a page break and started typing again.