I would have written and told her myself, except there was no return address.
Chapter 5
I was wandering through an art gallery, searching for Sophie, convinced she had just passed this way. If only I could walk fast enough, I would catch up with her. I'd gone past some very famous paintings, such as Sunflowers and the Mona Lisa, before realizing I'd been here before. Or had I? Perhaps I'd only watched Sister Wendy talking about it in a television programme.
But then my ears tuned into a distant thudding, and I realized with a dull shock of dismay that the sound was coming nearer.
Ker-chunk ker-chunk ker-chunk
Coming closer, getting louder, echoing off the walls of the gallery as it came.
I found myself in front of Mantegna's Cristo Morto, the one with the famous foreshortening and the crinkled feet, the one on the postcard Sophie had sent me. The flesh was dead flesh, the colour and texture of mouldy green cheese, and I stared at it transfixed, unable to tear myself away even though I knew something dreadful was going to happen — I knew this because it had happened before, and nothing I could do would prevent it from happening again. I couldn't move and now it was too late, because the booming filled my ears. It was all around and there was no escape.
In a single swift and sudden movement, Christ sat upright on His slab and extended His arms out towards me. I gazed on Him with awe. His hands were enveloped in fluffy green oven mitts. He was offering me a fluted white dish.
I went up on tiptoe to peer inside, and what I saw made me gasp in wonder and delight.
It was a baked chocolate souffle, fresh out of the oven.
I had never before laid eyes on such an impeccable souffle. It sat there, gently quivering. My mouth watered in anticipation of the first bite — the delicate crunch as my teeth sank into crust light as a cloud, its barely there essence dissolving into bittersweet nothingness on my taste buds.
And then, all of a sudden, the souffle collapsed into itself, and was gone.
Christ grinned broadly, revealing supernaturally perfect teeth and gums, and said. 'What's taking you so long?'
'You just have to look at him to realize he's a complete bastard,' Marsha was saying. We'd run into each other in the hallway again, and now we were talking about someone I'd foolishly pretended I'd met when in fact I hadn't, not ever, and it was starting to get complicated; the conversation had taken an awkward turn and I was beginning to think I would be found out. Marsha had just started to say something else when from upstairs there came the crash of a door being flung open.
We broke off and looked at each other. This was the first indication either of us had had that Sophie was back in town.
We stared in amazement as she came hurtling down the stairs towards us. The French sun had restored a little colour to her complexion, but her hair was uncombed and her eyes were wild. She came storming down like a fury and charged right up to me until her face was inches from mine. I tried to step back, but the wall was in the way.
She exhaled sharply, a gasp of stupefied outrage, and I cringed. She had dragon's breath.
'Hi, Sophie,' I said.
'Hello, Sophie,' called Marsha.
But Sophie took no notice of her. 'You've been seeing him, haven't you!' she yelled into my face.
So the jig was up. She'd finally found out about Miles and me. The fact that our relationship was over didn't make it any less awkward or embarrassing to be rumbled now.
'I have no idea what you're talking about,' I said, giving her my best wide-eyed and candid look.
'You are seeing him!' she shouted. 'Don't try to pretend you're not! You are! And I thought you were my friend.'
'Look,' I said, 'Miles hasn't even been…'
I trailed off. She'd fallen back a few paces, the wildness in her eyes now softened by a mist of bewilderment. 'Miles?' she demanded. 'Why the hell would you want to see Miles?'
'I thought…'
'Don't you dare try to confuse me,' she said, but the stridency was gone. 'You know perfectly well who we're talking about.'
'No, I'm sorry,' I said. 'I don't.'
The bewilderment vanished and her eyes hardened into glittering slits. 'Bitch bitch bitch. You know perfectly well I'm talking about Robert.'
My first thought was that she was referring to the letter I'd opened. I felt an instant's guilt, and heard Marsha go 'uh-oh' under her breath, but didn't get an opportunity to respond because in the very next instant I found myself lying flat on my back on the floor, trying to protect my face from Sophie's fingernails as she knelt on top of me, slashing and clawing and screaming unintelligible words.
It was fortunate she was such a delicate creature; I was more shocked than hurt, Marsha grabbed her by the armpits and hauled her off easily, saying, 'That will be quite enough of that.'
'I'll get you,' said Sophie.
'Lovely to see you too,' I said, getting to my feet and brushing myself down.
'Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do,' she said. 'You've always been jealous of me, always. Do you think I don't notice?'
It was true I'd felt the occasional pang of envy, but I glanced at Marsha as if to say, What's going on here? and Marsha returned the glance with interest.
Sophie broke out of Marsha's restraining grasp, but she was calmer now. Her eyes flashed one last poison dart at me before she flounced back upstairs.
We heard the door crash shut behind her.
'Jeez,' said Marsha. 'Doesn't look as if ten days in Provence was enough now, does it?'
There was something else bugging me. 'Did you notice anything peculiar about her? I mean apart from the behaviour. Something about the way she looked.'
Marsha shook her head.
'She wasn't wearing beige,' I said.
But Sophie was back in town, and, though that first meeting didn't go so well, I soon found myself with another bonding opportunity. One evening, I spotted her in the Landrace Inn as I walked past. The windows were fitted with faux-antique dimpled glass which made whatever was on the other side ripple, like one of those flashback effects you sometimes get in old black and white movies, but through the undulation I made out Sophie. She was sitting in the corner, head bowed in deep conversation with a dark-haired man who might have been good-looking if only the window hadn't been blurring his features into one of those portraits by Francis Bacon.
I'd had enough of hanging out in the sort of lowlife dives favoured by Dirk and Lemmy. It was time to get myself a taste of the glittering W11 life I'd been hankering after for so long. I was prepared to forgive Sophie's bizarre behaviour and put our long-standing friendship to some practical use, and I thought I would make a start by muscling in on her cosy tête-à-tête. Besides, I needed to meet more men, since Miles was no longer in the running, and my promising relationship with Walter had yet to develop past a state of nodding acquaintance.
But first I had to get a drink and pretend I'd been there all along, so Sophie would think I took places like the Landrace Inn in my stride. By the time I'd elbowed my way to the bar, attracted the attention of one of the Australians holding court behind it, shelled out vast sums of money for a bottle of authentic Japanese lager, and wormed my way through the crowd to where she was sitting, it was too late. Her companion had legged it, and she was on her own.