‘I’m listening, and what do you mean the way he is?’
‘Well, he’s not officially ADD, but Mr Hughes seems to think that there is some kind of concentration issue.’
‘Mr Hughes?’
‘The headmaster. We’ve just been talking to him.’
‘I know. I’ve not forgotten. I just didn’t realise that the pompous prat had a name.’
He removes the bottle of wine from the ice bucket and prepares to refill their glasses. Annabelle quickly picks up her glass.
‘I’m fine.’
The bottle creates an unholy noise as he thrusts it back into the mass of ice, and for a moment he can’t hear the music, but this is good. He wonders why they always play The Gipsy Kings in wine bars, or maybe it’s just this bar that is obsessed with the fake bonhomie created by mimicking the enthusiastic rhythms of Spanish folk culture. The usual crowd of BBC yuppies are not in evidence, probably because of the inclement weather, so he is grateful for this break. As he gets older he finds it increasingly difficult to deal with either excessive numbers of people, or loud music which dominates attempts at conversation. Strange, he thinks, this heightened sensitivity to environment. He sips at his wine, and then replaces his glass on the wooden table top.
‘I’m going to take Laurie out tomorrow. And I’ll talk to him about everything, okay?’ Annabelle looks at him, but says nothing. ‘Well, is that okay or not, because I can’t tell if you don’t say anything.’
‘Of course it’s okay.’ She pauses. ‘You know I want you to talk with him.’
‘Listen, I don’t care what they say about him being difficult, I’m just praying that he gets through his exams and goes to university. That’s what he says he wants to do, and as far as I’m concerned that’s all that matters. If he’s really got some learning problems don’t you think we’d have noticed them by now?’
‘“We’d have noticed”? You mean you as well as me?’
‘Yes, that’s what I mean, both of us. “We.”’
‘If you say so. I don’t want to bicker.’
He realises that Annabelle has provided him with a classic opening for an argument, but he is determined to avoid any conflict. The issue is Laurie and he is going to stay focused.
‘I don’t like how those teachers talk about him at that school, like he’s some freak. He’s one of the few black kids in his class and I know how that feels. I’m not saying that this prat Mr Hughes, or the other teachers, actually want him to fail, but they don’t look to me like they particularly want to help him get through the system. Telling us, “Your son has a problem with this, and your son has a problem with that.” I’ve heard similar crap all my life. The fact is, I’m pretty sure they’re not on his side.’
‘And what about me? Do you think I’m on his side?’
‘Look, there’s no need to get all defensive. You know I’m not talking about you.’
‘Actually, let me tell you something, Mr Conspiracy Theorist, the truth is I don’t know that you’re not talking about me. I’m really not sure any more, okay.’
She looks around, suddenly conscious that she might have spoken too loudly.
‘Annabelle, what are you talking about?’
She returns her attention to the table and leans closer to him. ‘And so when I tell you that there’s a problem with Laurie, and you don’t bother to call me back, do you think it’s just more of the same crap that you’ve heard all your life?’
The owner appears at the table and he strikes a match against a large economy box and relights the candle. The balding man then places a glass sleeve over the candle so that the flame plumes upwards and flickers neither to the left nor to the right.
‘I’m not sure where that draught is coming from, but do let me know if it gets too nippy for you.’
The owner smiles as he thrusts the large box of matches into the pocket of his slightly feminine apron and returns to his station behind the bar. He watches as the owner lowers the open leaf of the bar back into place, and then the man picks up his notepad and continues to take inventory of the wines stacked neatly in the rack behind him.
He turns and looks again at Annabelle.
‘Listen, Annabelle, of course I know that you’re on Laurie’s side. I take whatever you have to say seriously. Anyhow, we’re here to talk about Laurie, right?’
‘And how do you think he’s going to feel when he finds out about your latest mess?’
‘My latest what?’
‘Spare me the denials, Keith. People talk.’ She pauses. ‘And don’t look at me like that. Do you want me to spell it out? I’ve never been one to ask what you’re doing for sex. Who you’re sleeping with. If you’re in a relationship. It doesn’t matter how nicely or delicately one puts it, you know it all adds up to the same thing, but as far as I’m concerned it’s simply none of my business. Until, that is, people start to talk.’
‘Who starts to talk?’
‘Does it matter, who? I mean people who enjoy seeing somebody fall flat on their face and making themselves look stupid.’
He shakes his head and takes another sip of his wine.
‘Yes, stupid. You don’t pee in your own bed, didn’t anybody ever tell you that?’
‘I’ll tell you what nobody ever told me. They never told me how vindictive and manipulative women can be, that’s what nobody ever told me.’
‘Well yippee, you’ve found out at last. Can I have some of that wine?’
He tops up her glass, and then adds an extra splash to his own, which empties the bottle. He turns it upside down and crunches it into the bucket.
‘You’ve got to protect yourself a little bit, Keith. And if you don’t want to do it for yourself, then at least have the common sense to do it for your son. Do you really want him to hear about you sleeping with girls his age?’
‘She’s twenty-six and a divorcee. She’s hardly a bloody teenager.’
‘I think you get my point.’
He stares at Annabelle, whose glass is hovering halfway between the table and her mouth. For a moment she seems unsure what to do, and then she slowly replaces the glass on the wooden table.
‘Look Keith, I know that in a sense it’s none of my business, but it matters to me.’
‘What matters to you?’
‘I don’t want you making a fool of yourself.’ She pauses. ‘People look up to you. For heaven’s sake, don’t let some desperate girl drag your name through the mud.’
‘I did nothing wrong. She’s the one who ought to take a good look at herself, but I know how it comes across. I’m older. She works for me. Apparently I’m the one with all the power. That’s what people see, isn’t it? That’s what it looks like.’
‘I don’t have to tell you what it looks like, but have you ever tried taking the word “no” for a little walk around your tongue?’ She pauses. ‘Well?’
He turns and looks out of the window as an elderly couple stroll by. They are bent into the wind, the man with an arm curled tightly around his wife’s shoulders as though trying to anchor her to the ground so she won’t blow away. That’s how it should be, he thinks. Old people with old people are not so old.
He turns from the window and looks at Annabelle, who finishes her wine and then places the empty glass back on the table.
‘Shall we go? I can drive you back.’
He calls for the bill, but continues to scrutinise Annabelle. She is still beautiful, despite the lines around her eyes, and the short, grey hair, and he has no difficulty recognising her as the courageous young woman he met over twenty-five years ago. However, he is unsure of what she sees when she looks across the table at him, for that look of respect, which he had once been accustomed to, has long since vanished from her face. He probably last saw it at her father’s funeral as they sat together, with Laurie squeezed between the two of them, in the narrow front row pew of the village’s Norman church. As the time drew closer for Annabelle to approach the altar and deliver her reading from the Old Testament, he knew that she was stealing sideways glances at him and trying to draw strength from his presence. She required his support, and he was not only proud to be there for her, he was determined that she should get through both the service and the reception at Magnolia Cottage without any unnecessary distress. He knew that his wife needed him, and so he snaked his hand behind their son’s back and gently caressed her shoulder as the captain of the local golf club finished delivering the eulogy.