‘It’s probably him,’ warned Janice.
‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to Francine?’ said Ralph.
‘Yes, it’s me.’ She felt aggrieved that he did not recognize her voice, and her excitement at the sound of his, along with all the pleasant contrivances of the past hour which had made things seem so much better, disappeared. ‘What do you want?’
‘What’s wrong?’ he said. His voice was surprised.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’
Janice rolled her eyes on the sofa.
‘You sounded a bit upset, that’s all. I was wondering why you didn’t come round tonight. I thought something might have happened to you.’
‘I’m fine. I just wanted to be on my own.’ The phrase sounded triumphant to Francine. She looked at Janice, but she had leaned back and closed her eyes, as if she were asleep. ‘I am allowed to be on my own, aren’t I?’
‘Of course you are. You might have told me what you were doing, though. I was worried.’
‘You don’t own me,’ said Francine. ‘I can do what I want.’
Ralph was silent for several seconds and her heart quickened with the delivery of provocation as she awaited his reply.
‘So you keep telling me,’ he said finally. Something crackled dangerously in his voice and a wave of apprehension rose in her stomach at the sound. She sensed that he was not going to respond to her challenge in the manner she might have wished. ‘But in case you hadn’t noticed, we seem to be stuck with each other, so why don’t you just stop messing around and start acting like a decent person?’ The last words were delivered at a shout, and a tremble of awe warmed her at the emotional force of their interchange. ‘Now, if you want to sit around with your — your bitch of a flatmate talking about how awful I am, then that’s fine, but don’t come round tomorrow expecting sympathy!’ He paused, out of breath. ‘OK?’
Francine was surprised to feel the prickle of tears at her eyes, and having no better weapon to hand, she seized on them, forcing them out with sobs loud enough to inform Ralph on the other end of her distress. Janice looked up, suddenly alert, her face a picture of outrage. She made slamming signals with her hand which suggested that Francine should put the phone down.
‘Francine?’ said Ralph nervously. ‘Francine, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. I’m sorry about that. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Francine, sniffing softly.
Janice shook her head dramatically.
‘Come round on Thursday. Can you do that? We’ll have a good talk. Everything will be fine, I promise. Will you come?’
‘I–I’m not sure,’ she demurred. ‘You frightened me.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake—’
She could hear impatience rising again in his voice, and knew that an aspect of surrender was her only refuge.
‘What time shall I come?’ she said weakly.
Janice put a despairing hand to her forehead.
‘Whenever you like. No, come at about seven. I won’t be able to get away much before that.’ He paused. ‘I’ll see you, then.’
‘See you,’ said Francine.
Fourteen
Ralph sat at his desk and looked out of the window at the sky, where swift, muscled clouds were chasing the sun, intermittently cloaking the nervous glare of the Holloway Road with their grey pallor. He was finding it difficult to work, although only a few minutes ago Neil had visited his desk, straightening his sportive mustard-yellow tie to signal the imminent assertion of his authority.
‘Watch at the mender’s?’ he had said jovially, gripping the back of Ralph’s chair with his large hands and leaning close to his ear.
‘I beg your pardon?’
He had shrunk from the sudden assault of Neil’s breath, which was warm and bitter with coffee. His physical proximity, only an hour or so after Ralph had reluctantly emerged from the clean, tight bud of sleep, was ripe with odours. Seeing Ralph flinch, Neil drew back stiffly.
‘You’re late again, mate,’ he said, cold with offence. ‘We start business here at nine o’clock sharp and not even flipping royalty comes in at half-past.’
‘Sorry,’ said Ralph. Roz was staring at him, her face empty as a plate. ‘I got stuck in traffic. I’ll leave home earlier tomorrow.’
‘If you would,’ said Neil. He observed a calculated pause before delivering his final blow. ‘Pull your finger out, mate. All right?’
Ralph didn’t reply and Neil walked back to his desk, his retreating shoulders awkward with importance. Roz continued to stare. Ralph could feel her drifting at the periphery of his vision like a moon.
‘I went to my grandad’s last night,’ she said suddenly.
He looked at her in astonishment. His life seemed to have taken on an atmosphere of unreality in which he had been rendered powerless.
‘Really?’ he said.
‘We sorted out his attic.’ She nodded. ‘It was a right mess.’
‘He must have been pleased,’ said Ralph. He held her gaze for a minute longer and then directed his eyes deliberately back to his work.
‘He’s dead,’ said Roz.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘I saved something for you. Do you want it?’
Ralph felt hot with desperation. His throat was tight. He stared at her helplessly.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Magazines,’ replied Roz. ‘I got a whole box full.’
‘What sort of magazines?’ He tried to sound interested and alert, but thoughts of a fingered pile of obscenities, rancid with second-hand loneliness, made his voice unsteady.
‘Cars. Do you want them?’
‘Oh — OK.’ Relief made him biddable. ‘Thanks very much, Roz.’
‘I’ll bring them in tomorrow,’ she said.
The desire to avoid any further communications on the subject infused Ralph with application. He bent over his work, willing it to occupy him, as hungry for its oblivion as an insomniac begging for sleep. Gradually he was absorbed, and by lunchtime he had completed his whole day’s ration of copy. He put it on Neil’s desk.
‘I’ve finished,’ he said ridiculously.
Neil looked at him and suddenly emitted a high-pitched laugh.
‘Got your knickers in a twist, did I?’ he said. ‘It’s that posh school you went to, old boy. Next time I’ll give you a good caning and me and Roz can take the day off. Ha, ha!’ He bent over his desk, convulsed with humour.
Ralph left the office to go shopping. Francine was coming that night, and the thought of buying delicacies for her made him feel less guilty for the fact that he recoiled from the prospect of her arrival. He imagined arranging things on plates, sentimental offerings behind which he could disguise himself and skirt the void of his affection for her, frightened of what might happen if he tripped and fell into it. It had been good spending a night away from her. He had slept deeply, marinated for hours in the dreamless essence of himself, and when he woke it had been just as he had feared: incandescent with autonomy, he couldn’t even stand the thought of her. He had tried to warn her of that on the phone, the fragility of their concord, the risk she ran by taking even a small step back that he would see her too clearly. Sometimes he felt that it would require only a breath to extinguish his guttering feelings for her completely. As he joined the shabby flow of people drifting along the littered pavement outside the building, he grew fascinated by the sudden sense of his own hollowness, his transparency; so much so that within minutes he had collided painfully with a man coming the other way. Stammering his apologies, he felt the blood burn again in his skin and he walked on towards the shops, clumsy now with physical solidity as an ache glowed in his shoulder.