“Sadler,” I said, waving my key in the air, assuming he took me for some octogenarian interloper. “Eleven-o-seven.”
“Of course, sir,” he said, coming over and halting me before I could get into one of the lifts. “Only I’m supposed to tell you that there’s a lady waiting to see you. She’s been in the residents’ bar for about an hour now.”
“A lady?” I said, frowning. “At this time of night? There’s not some mistake?”
“No, sir. She asked for you by name. Said that you knew her.”
“Well, who is she?” I asked impatiently. The last thing I wanted was to be hounded by another journalist or a reader at this late hour. “Is she carrying a bundle of books under her arm?”
“I didn’t see any, sir, no.”
I looked around, considering it. “Look, do me a favour, will you?” I said. “Go in and tell her that I’ve gone to bed for the night. Apologies and all that. Ask her to contact my agent—he’ll know what to do with her. Hold on, I have his card here somewhere.”
I rooted in my pocket and took out a handful of business cards, staring at them with a sense of exhaustion. So many names, so many faces to remember. None of which I was ever any good at.
“Sir, I don’t think she’s a fan. Might she be a relative perhaps? She’s rather elderly, if I may say so.”
“You may if she is,” I told him. “But no, there’s no chance that she’s a relative. Did she leave a note for me at all?”
“No, sir. She said to tell you that she’d come all the way from Norwich to see you. She said you’d know what that meant.”
I stared at him. He was rather beautiful and, of course, the fires never go out.
“Mr. Sadler? Mr. Sadler, are you all right?”
I made my way into the darkened lounge nervously, loosening my tie a little, and searched the room. It was surprisingly busy for that time of night but there was no mistaking her. She was the only lady of advanced years in the room, for one thing. But I think I would have known her anywhere. Despite the passing of so many years, she had never been far from my thoughts. She was reading a book, not one I recognized, and looked up, though not in my direction, when (I suppose) she sensed me watching her, and I thought that a shadow of sorts crossed her face. She lifted her wine glass and brought it to her lips but seemed to think better of it and returned it to the table. I remained motionless in the centre of the floor for rather a long time; only when she turned and offered me a slight inclination of the head did I come forward and take the seat opposite her. She had chosen well; a slight alcove, away from others. Flattering lighting. Good for both of us.
“I read about your award in the newspaper,” she told me without any preamble as I sat down. “And I happened to be in London for my grandson’s wedding, which was yesterday. I don’t know why exactly but I thought I would call on you. It was a last-minute decision. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m glad you did,” I replied, which seemed to be the polite thing to say, although I was uncertain exactly how I felt to see her again.
“You remember me, then?” she asked with a half-smile.
“Yes, I remember you.”
“I knew you would.”
“The wedding,” I said, struggling to find a safe topic while I composed my thoughts. “Was it enjoyable?”
“As much as these things ever are,” she said with a shrug, nodding at the waiter when he offered to refill her glass; I ordered a small whisky, then changed my mind and increased the measure. “All we ever do is eat and drink together, Tristan,” she said. “Curious, isn’t it? Anyway, yes, it was fine, I suppose, although I don’t care for the girl much. She’s a floozy; there, I’ve said it. She’ll run Henry a rare dance, I can see it now.”
“Henry is your grandson?”
“Yes. My eldest girl’s youngest boy. I have eight grandchildren, if you can believe it. And six great-grandchildren.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I suppose you’re wondering why I came?”
“I haven’t really had time to wonder,” I said, thanking the waiter as he left my drink. “You’ve taken me a bit by surprise, Marian. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not at the top of my game.”
“Well, you’re as old as the hills,” she said lightly. “Although I’m even older, so there we are. The fact that we’re both even compos mentis is a triumph of good food and healthy living, I expect.”
I smiled and took a slow dram of my whisky. She hadn’t changed really. There was still the quick absurdity of her speech, the urgent wit and literacy of her.
“I suppose I should congratulate you,” she said after a moment.
“Congratulate me?”
“On your award. I’m told it’s quite prestigious.”
“Yes, I’m told the same thing,” I replied. “Although it’s rather ugly, if I’m honest. I wonder that they couldn’t have commissioned something beautiful.”
“Where is it, then? Up in your room?”
“No, I left it with my agent. It was rather heavy. They’ll send it along, I dare say.”
“Your photograph was on the front page of The Times,” she said. “I was reading about you when I took the train up on Monday. And you were a clue in the crossword. You’ve done well for yourself.”
“I’ve been fortunate,” I agreed. “I’ve been permitted to live the life I wanted. To a certain degree, anyway.”
“I remember that day, just before we parted, you told me that you’d been dabbling in writing for a little bit but that you planned to start taking it more seriously when you got back to London. Well, you certainly did that, didn’t you? There’s quite an impressive number of books to your name. I’ve never read any of them, I have to admit. Is that rude?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I wouldn’t expect you to have. You didn’t like novels, as I recall.”
“Actually, I came around to them in the end. Just not yours. I saw them in bookshops all the time, of course. And I use the library and they’re great fans of yours there. But I never read one myself. Do you ever think of me, Tristan?”
“Most days,” I admitted without hesitation.
“And my brother?” she asked, apparently unsurprised by my admission.
“Most days,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
She looked away now and had some more wine, closing her eyes for a moment as the grape entered her bloodstream.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she said a moment later, looking across at me and smiling, a rather demented sort of smile. “I wanted to see you but now I don’t know why. I must seem mad. I haven’t come to attack you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Tell me about your life, Marian,” I said, interested in what she might have to say. The last image I had of her was her sitting on the platform at Thorpe as a group of people stared at this distressed, weeping woman, and then her charging towards the glass of my window seat as the train pulled out of the station. I had gasped, thinking she meant to throw herself under the wheels, but no, she had simply wanted to attack me, that was all. If she had got her hands on me, she might have killed me. And I might have let her.
“My goodness,” she said. “You don’t want to know about my life, Tristan. It would seem terribly boring compared to yours.”
“Mine is a lot more humdrum than people might imagine,” I told her. “Please. I’d like to know.”
“Well, the potted version, perhaps. Let’s see. I’m a teacher. Or I was, anyway. I’m retired now, obviously. But I trained as a teacher shortly after my marriage broke up and remained in the same school for, goodness me, it must be over thirty years.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Very much. Small children, Tristan. The only ones I could handle. Stand one on top of the other and if you’re still taller than them, you’re safe. That was always my rule. Four- and five-year-olds. I loved them. They were a great delight to me. Some of them were just wonderful.” Her face broke into a radiant smile.