Lonely Hearts

Thirty-Three

“Don’t do it, Charlie.”

The band was taking a breather and the disco had taken its place immediately below the stage, patterned lights and sixty-watt speakers. They had found a table in a side room, where most of the others were families, grandmothers left with the smaller children while their parents danced. To saxophone and accordion, Rachel and Resnick had waltzed, quickstepped, simply walked around the floor, slowly, in each other’s arms. It had been the jiving that had finished them, a breakdown of arms and good intentions during a version of “La Bamba” that had owed more to the polka than to a bar out in the barrio.

“Don’t keep looking at me like that.”

Resnick had not steered Rachel far past the entrance before vodkas had been thrust at them, amidst cries of surprise and greeting: back-slapping and kisses and the pumping of hands. “You’re supposed to swallow it straight down,” Resnick had explained, leading by example. After the second, Rachel had, politely but firmly, refused. Now Resnick was drinking beer and Rachel white wine, but every now and again someone would pass by their table and set down another glass of vodka, close by Resnick’s elbow.

Rachel reached across and took hold of his hand. “Stop trying to make me fall in love with you.”

Marian Witczak allowed Doria to pin the corsage to the bodice of her black dress; his hands were supple and confident, but there was a flush of excitement in his eyes which she could not remember. He accepted the offer of sherry and they sat facing one another, he leaning back in the worn comfort of the armchair, Marian at the edge of the settee, running the rings round and round her fingers.

He talked about the courses he was teaching, the brilliance of one of his students-“the most striking red hair, she would have Rossetti painting in his grave”-and the dullness of the others. He had visited London and Manchester to attend the theater, exhibitions; a flight to Dubai, first-class, all expenses paid, to deliver a paper on Paul de Man. Most perfect of all had been a recital in Bath: “Faure, Debussy, of course, Ravel-I have never heard anyone achieve the sensuality of the final section of the Sonatine in such a way. A cliche it may be, my dear Marian, but I am willing to swear here and now that she did become as one with her piano during that interpretation. A perfect fusion!”

Doria smiled, finished his sherry and sprang smartly to his feet. “Now! Shall we go to the ball!”

Resnick’s suit, Rachel recalled, was the one he had been wearing that first occasion she had seen him, walking across the entrance of the courthouse. She smiled to herself, remembering the way he had stared at her, tried to hide what he was doing, disguise it, embarrassed; the way he had carried on looking at her, nevertheless, as if having no alternative.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, nothing special.”

“You were smiling.”

“Was I?”

“I hope it means you’re having a good time?”

“Charlie, of course I am. I don’t understand why you don’t come here more often.”

He grinned, boyishly. Another woman, Rachel thought, would be reaching across to push his hair back from his eyes, straighten his tie. “I can only take this much alcohol once every six months.”

“Are you drunk, Charlie?”

“Probably.”

A boy, fair-haired, no more than three or four, lost his balance playing chase between the tables and fell against Resnick’s chair. Turning, Resnick swept him up from the floor and held him at arm’s length, looking at Rachel past the child’s laughing face.

No, Charlie, Rachel thought, I’m not falling for that one, either.

“Charlie, how nice to see you.”

Resnick set down the boy and got to his feet. Marian was wearing long black gloves with her short-sleeved gown, which was tightly belted at the waist. Doria, alongside her, had on a cream suit with a loose, deeply-pocketed jacket, a white shirt and a midnight-blue bow tie.

Resnick kissed Marian lightly on the cheek.

“Charles,” Marian said, “allow me to introduce Professor Doria.”

“William,” said Doria, shaking Resnick’s hand. “William Doria.” He gave no sign that they had already met.

Resnick stood back, gesturing towards where Rachel was sitting.

“Marian Witczak, William Doria, this is Rachel…”

“Chaplin,” said Doria, making a slight bow and offering her his hand. “Rachel Chaplin, of course.”

When he straightened again, the academic’s eyes were bright but gave away nothing. “Perhaps we might join you?” he said.

Resnick glanced quickly towards Rachel before answering. Doria fetched two chairs and he and Marian sat opposite one another.

“A drink?” Doria said. And, with a smile at Rachel, “Some more wine.”

“Thank you, no.”

“But…”

“Later, perhaps.”

The muscles of Doria’s face were immobile, but his eyes were never still, never leaving Rachel for more than a second.

“Charlie,” Rachel said standing, head inclined towards the music. “Let’s dance. It’s a shame to waste Stevie Wonder.”

“Excuse me,” said Resnick, following her through to where the disco was still playing.

One dance led to another.

“You didn’t take to him, then, the professor?” Rachel had realized by now that if she covered twice as much ground as Resnick did, and let her arms swing wide, they didn’t look a bad couple.

“You’ve met him before?”

“Never.”

“You’re sure?”

“I don’t think I’d forget.”

“He knew your name.”

Rachel swung away from him through a dipping circle and then back, one hand pressed to his chest. Her skin was glowing.

“Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up and dance!”

A shout went up from across the room as the last of the winning numbers was called from the raffle. Resnick crumpled up a crocodile of salmon pink tickets.

“I had a new student in one of my lectures the other day,” Doria was saying. “A nice boy, Asian, not enrolled in the department, auditing, I suppose you would say. But it’s flattering when people know who you are, your reputation. He seemed to want to stay behind at the end, some clarification he was seeking, I don’t know. He was too shy, finally.” Doria hooked one leg over the other at the ankle. “The reverse side of reputation, I suppose, it can place others in awe of one. But, then, you must find the same yourself, Inspector?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come now. I would have thought your function depended upon it, to a certain extent at least. Dealing as you must with the public, subordinates, even.”

“I don’t think my subordinates are in awe of me, Doria.”

“William.”

“And I shouldn’t like it if they were.”

“A Detective Constable Kellogg, is she one of your subordinates?”

“She is.”

“She came to, um, to interview me-is that the correct terminology?”

“It’ll do.”

“A charming young woman, earnest. Not of the brightest caliber, possibly, but competent.”

“She’s a good policewoman.”

“She was there under your jurisdiction, Inspector?”

“As part of a routine inquiry, yes.”

“Into the deaths of two women.”

“Yes.”

“You must be relieved that it’s over.”

“Over?”

“National television, the six o’clock news, a man you previously suspected has confessed.”

“All manner of men confess, Doria.”

The academic uncrossed his legs. “A brandy, Inspector? Or are you driving?”

“I’m not driving,” said Resnick, “but I’ll say no to the brandy, just the same.”

With a nod of the head, Doria rose and went towards the bar.

A woman in a purple trouser suit sat in one of the cubicles with the door open and carefully emptied the entire contents of her handbag out on to the floor. Quietly, she was singing to herself.

Rachel combed through the ends of her hair, twisting her head round so that she could see the back of it in the mirror.

“How long have you known Charles?” Marian asked, pretending to straighten the folds of her dress.

“Not very long. A matter of weeks.”

“He seems very happy.”

“I think he is.”

Marian touched Rachel’s shoulder. “You will forgive me, but I have known him for many years, and I know he would not be pleased at my saying this, but for a long time now Charles has needed somebody.”

Rachel pursed her lips at the glass and turned away. The woman in the cubicle was picking up her belongings and replacing them inside her bag, still singing.

“Those flowers are lovely,” said Rachel, looking at Marian’s corsage. “Did your friend give them to you?”

“Yes,” said Marian.

“He has good taste,” said Rachel. “Shall we go back?”

“The taxi will be here in a few minutes,” said Resnick.

“Oh, you are not going already?” Marian protested.

“Afraid so.”

“Then,” said Doria, standing with a flourish, “Rachel must have one dance with me before you do.”

He stood with both arms extended, hands out palms uppermost, eyes shining, daring her to decline.

“Thank you,” Rachel said, “I’ve danced enough.”

“I insist,” said Doria.

“Even so,” said Rachel. “The answer’s the same.”

“On some future occasion, then?” said Doria, resuming his seat.

Rachel just looked at him.

“You don’t want to share our cab, Marian?” Resnick asked.

“No thank you, Charles. I think we’ll stay a little longer.”

He took her hands lightly and kissed her forehead. “Safe journey home.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll ring you.”

“What does a nice, intelligent woman like that see in a creep like Doria?”

Resnick lifted his hand from the switch on the coffee grinder.

“She thinks he’s charming.”

“As a snake.”

“You really didn’t like him, did you?”

“Neither did you.”

Resnick poured water into the machine. “Was it that obvious?”

She put her arms tight around him and rested her head in the small of his back. “Charlie, you’re always obvious.”

He turned to her and kissed her. “Isn’t that preferable to devious?”

“Certainly.”

“In that case,” he said with an expression that was half grin, half smile, “when the coffee’s ready can we take it to bed?”

“You see,” she said.

“See what?” Her face was inches away from his, less. “Let it happen once and straightaway you’re taking it for granted.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, Charlie.”

“I’m not taking it for granted. Or you.”

“You just naturally assumed that because I jumped into your bed the last time I was here that I would again. Evening out, dance and a drink, bed. Right?”

Resnick laughed, squeezing her. “Yes.”

She kissed him. “One condition.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want to make love.”

How could he stop the disappointment showing in his eyes?

“I think I’d like just to lay there with you quietly and cuddle.”

“Fine.”

“Then let’s have the coffee down here, before we go up.”

When Resnick rang, Marian picked up the phone almost immediately.

“Naturally I am home all right,” she said in answer to his question. “What is the matter with you? Why all of this concern, sweet as it is?”

Resnick told her he simply wanted to be sure.

“Sure of what?”

“Doria, is he…?”

“He left me after I had turned the key in my front door, Charles. A gentleman.”

“Good night, Marian,” Resnick said.

“Charles, you are a strange man.”

Rachel’s shoulder rested in the crook of Resnick’s arm. Pepper lay against her left hip, Bud had dared to find a space between the pillows and the bedhead. Miles made little snoring sounds from beyond her toes.

“I feel honored, Charlie.”

“Mmm?”

“Your cats, the way they accept me.”

“They sense that you like them.”

“They’re right.” She snuggled closer against him. “Where’s the fourth one?”

“Dizzy? Out prowling.”

“I saw Vera Barnett the other day, did I tell you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“She’s coping okay, except that she keeps scraping the bathroom paintwork with her chair and complaining when we won’t come and redecorate it for her. The kids seem fine, not a lot of bounce yet, but fine.”

Resnick was stroking her breast. “Doesn’t it bother you more than you’ll admit, not having any of your own?”

For several moments Rachel said nothing. Then she shrugged off his hand and pushed herself up in the bed until the cats had scattered and she was on her knees, facing him.

“You know what I am to you, Charlie, I mean, really? A vacant womb. A womb with a view to marriage.”

The garden was dark and in shadow. Slow and insinuating, Dizzy wound himself around the man’s legs, pressing his fur against them, in and out. The man paid the animal no heed: he allowed nothing to deflect his attention from the upstairs window, behind which a shaded light still burned.