‘Julius Caesar.’
‘Right. Like that, anyway. I just kind of carried it around with me. Other things too.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, mostly about myself. Feelings I have, kind of like premonitions. At the moment, say, I’ve got a feeling about that guy.’
‘Which one?’
‘London Transport, you know. About him. Weird.’
‘Why on earth don’t you do something about it?’ cried Agnes.
‘What could I do? That’s not how it works. I’m just spooked. It doesn’t change the way things are. My grandma was the same.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She went crazy.’ Greta rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘Well, she was always kind of crazy.’
‘But what you said to me the other day, about not letting your sadness show, remember?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, couldn’t it just be that? I mean, it isn’t as if you’re jinxed or anything.’ Agnes was growing uncomfortable. She felt herself edging away.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Greta. ‘It’s not infectious. What I said to you, well, that may be true. People are pretty much self-fulfilling prophecies. The premonitions are different, though. That’s more like remembering things that haven’t happened yet. It stinks.’
Agnes thought about this for a while.
‘But where does it come from?’ she said finally. ‘It’s not as if you make the things happen just by seeing them. And why is it always bad things?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ Greta shrugged. ‘This mystic lady once told me I had the evil eye. She was a bitch. I said to her, lady, if I had the evil eye, I’d be watching you squirm.’
‘Gosh,’ said Agnes faintly.
‘The best one was this old witch from Regina who told me I was experiencing karmic grief from another life.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘Maybe I need to be born again. Maybe I should hook up with Dave.’
A mad person accosted Agnes on her way home, accusing her of being a spy for the social services. She got off the train and walked back to Highbury.
Chapter Twenty
AGNES was in a bar in Islington, a place where people sipped Italian coffee served by French waiters as if they had never lived any other kind of life. Agnes drank beer from a bottle and waited for Merlin, who was coming there straight from work. They were going to see a film together; perhaps something with subtitles, Agnes thought, to fit in with her mood. She contemplated the grey marble moon of the tabletop, with its folded newspaper and elegant foreign bottle. It was almost convincing. She could live another kind of life; could go to a place where such things were details of a more extensive canvas, rather than lonely still-lives against a background of dirty streets and cold cloudy skies. Perhaps she would accrue depth there, like a foreign film, with the mere fact of difference lending her a certain mystery.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Merlin as he arrived. ‘I’ve been terrorised. Bomb scare.’
He took off his coat and put it on a vacant chair. The smell of damp wool pervaded the air. It reminded Agnes of congested buses and discomfort. He didn’t look very well, she noticed; not exactly ill, but with that pinched, worried look she had begun recently to notice in her own features. She wondered what was wrong with him.
‘Shall I have something with a lime?’ he was mumbling, scanning the menu. ‘Or maybe something with caffeine. Coffee with a lime. What are you drinking?’
Agnes turned her bottle around so that the label showed. She had begun to feel less ingratiating of late, especially towards men. It had occurred to her that emanation generated a certain type of vulnerability. It made one a known quantity, and thus easier to injure. She wanted to be more reserved and hence tougher, like Nina.
‘Does that come with a lime?’ Merlin inquired.
She nodded and then shrugged to suggest that the citrus feature was optional.
‘Will it talk to me?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Agnes allowed.
‘Well, don’t shrug, then. I’ve had a horrible day. I can’t cope with shrugging.’
Agnes realised she had perhaps chosen the wrong moment to experiment with her new style of gender relations. Merlin was staring fixedly at the menu.
‘What time does the film start?’ he said, looking up. ‘Try and answer that with a shrug, baby.’
‘Baby?’ Agnes precipitantly replied, all concessions for the moment abandoned in the light of this new outrage. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Generic term, ironically employed. No offence intended.’
‘None taken,’ she conceded gallantly. ‘Besides, you underestimate me. Eight and a half shrugs, in answer to your question.’
‘Right.’ He tried to flag down a waiter and failed. The sleek-haired, black-clothed minions cut sneeringly through the crowded tables like sharks, unapproachable. ‘These people are the end,’ he sighed. ‘Talk about power-broking. We should have them all deported.’
Agnes was moved by his views on immigration to stare at him.
‘Are you okay?’ she inquired.
‘Apart from being temporarily invisible, yes. How about you? You seem a little — on edge.’ He contemplated her wearily. ‘Hey, what’s happened to your face?’
‘What do you mean?’ Agnes put her hands to her face, searching for hitherto unnoticed deformities.
‘Your mouth is missing,’ he baldly replied.
Agnes glared at him, speechless.
‘Thanks a lot!’ she burst out finally. ‘Thanks a bloody lot, Merlin. I’m just not wearing any make-up, okay? Is that a problem? Look—’ She glanced an old plastic bag fortuitously discarded at her feet and held it aloft. ‘Look, I can wear this over my head if it offends you!’
‘Agnes, hang on a minute, will you?’ he interjected. ‘I was only joking, honestly. I like it. It suits you.’
‘Well, that’s okay, then. As long as the men are happy.’
‘Oh, Agnes, you know I didn’t mean—’
‘Shall we talk about something other than my cosmetic arrangements?’
‘Fine.’ Merlin’s face betrayed an emotion which resembled suppressed laughter. ‘Um — work. How’s work?’
‘It’s fine. Everyone’s in a funny mood, though, especially Jean. She’s got a new boyfriend.’
‘Jean has a boyfriend!’ laughed Merlin with relish. ‘The crone of Finchley Central! The scourge of leisured people everywhere! That’s really funny.’
‘Why?’ said Agnes coldly. ‘Does she have to be young and pretty and submissive to deserve a man?’
‘That’s not—’
‘Let’s just hope she knows how lucky she is, Merlin. Heaven forbid that she should take it for granted that a member of the hallowed sex finds her attractive.’
‘Agnes, you know I didn’t mean it like that. I thought Jean was official material. I was only trying to make you laugh. Come on, tell me about it. Tell me how she met him.’
Unfortunately for Merlin, his wheedling tone reminded Agnes of John, who had used to treat her enraged outbursts with precisely that same indulgent manner, which, in her view, should be reserved for fractious children and pets.
‘Don’t condescend,’ she said.
‘What? I wasn’t! What’s wrong with you?’
‘Does there need to be something “wrong”? Would it make you feel better if I said I was suffering from pre-menstrual tension?’
Merlin looked at her. Other people in the café appeared to be looking at her. If there had been a mirror handy Agnes would have looked at herself, but there wasn’t. The phrase ‘pre-menstrual tension’ appeared to be echoing around the tables.