crossed the lobby and entered the Roman section of the museum, hardly noticing wall paintings in eidetic colours over which, in normal circumstances, she would have lingered and exclaimed. In the restaurant she joined a short queue, was shown downstairs to a table and ordered the lightest dish on the menu, pasta with a simple sauce, her appetite deserting her even though sheâd only had a cup of tea for breakfast. She couldnât stop thinking about her narrow escape, what would have happened if sheâd actually
accused
him âalways assuming, of course, that the thickset figure whose reflection she had seen looming behind her in the glass and the sick man were one and the same. Doubts set in: wouldnât she have noticed the marks on his face, even subliminally? The fact that he needed a stick? Loretta leaned back in her chair, wondering if sheâd somehow been fooled ...
After a moment she leaned down and reached inside her bag, pulling out a paperback, the American edition of her biography of Edith Wharton. She had brought it with her because she was due to meet a journalist from
New York
magazine that afternoon. The woman had been vague on the phone but she seemed to be writing an article on Edith Wharton, Martin Scorsese,
The Age of Innocence,
literary adaptations in general ... It seemed a bit late in the day to tackle the subject, the film had been out for months, but Loretta opened the book at the introduction and read the first few lines, taking comfort in their familiarity.
Her food arrived and she ate it mechanically, refusing pudding and asking for a cup of hot tea. She rarely ordered it in American restaurants, they were brilliant at coffee but had a tendency to produce a tea bag dunked in a cup of stale hot water from an
espresso
machine instead of a properly warmed pot of Earl Grey or Darjeeling. Today was no exception and she stirred the teabag violently, still preoccupied by what had happened upstairs. Someone, she was sure, had done research into minor sexual offences like flashing and dirty phone calls; the consensus was that they didnât move on to other, more threatening activities like â well, like following their victims or harassing them in public places. Loretta moved uneasily in her chair, thinking there was always an exception to every rule and if Michael actually knew Toni, rather than dialling her number at random, he would also know her address and where Loretta was staying. She wished sheâd brought Donellyâs number with her, she had passed a couple of payphones on her way in to the museum, but she had left her notebook at the flat, not thinking for a moment that she might need it.
She had been turning the pages of the introduction with her left hand, not really seeing them, and now she came to the end and read her own name, followed by the date and place she had been living when she revised it for this edition: âOxford, 1991â. She was still clutching the teaspoon in the fingers of her other hand even though she had long ago given up stirring.
Four
The journalist was waiting when Loretta arrived at the Café Noir, rising from a corner by the window and waving to attract her attention. âDr Lawson? Over here.â
Loretta skirted her way between the circular tables, accidentally hooking her bag over a chair back so she had to stop and disentangle it. She shook the journalistâs outstretched hand, thinking she looked quite a lot younger than she sounded on the phone. âCarole Coryat? How did you recognise me?â
The woman picked up a copy of the book Loretta had been looking at in the museum restaurant. âFrom your cover photo,â she said, even though the picture of Loretta was not a particularly good likeness. She smiled shyly. âI canât tell you how pleased I am to meet you. Do you mind sitting alongside me? I usually tape interviews ... Can I get you a drink?â
Loretta glanced at the menu, taking in
accused
him âalways assuming, of course, that the thickset figure whose reflection she had seen looming behind her in the glass and the sick man were one and the same. Doubts set in: wouldnât she have noticed the marks on his face, even subliminally? The fact that he needed a stick? Loretta leaned back in her chair, wondering if sheâd somehow been fooled ...
After a moment she leaned down and reached inside her bag, pulling out a paperback, the American edition of her biography of Edith Wharton. She had brought it with her because she was due to meet a journalist from
New York
magazine that afternoon. The woman had been vague on the phone but she seemed to be writing an article on Edith Wharton, Martin Scorsese,
The Age of Innocence,
literary adaptations in general ... It seemed a bit late in the day to tackle the subject, the film had been out for months, but Loretta opened the book at the introduction and read the first few lines, taking comfort in their familiarity.
Her food arrived and she ate it mechanically, refusing pudding and asking for a cup of hot tea. She rarely ordered it in American restaurants, they were brilliant at coffee but had a tendency to produce a tea bag dunked in a cup of stale hot water from an
espresso
machine instead of a properly warmed pot of Earl Grey or Darjeeling. Today was no exception and she stirred the teabag violently, still preoccupied by what had happened upstairs. Someone, she was sure, had done research into minor sexual offences like flashing and dirty phone calls; the consensus was that they didnât move on to other, more threatening activities like â well, like following their victims or harassing them in public places. Loretta moved uneasily in her chair, thinking there was always an exception to every rule and if Michael actually knew Toni, rather than dialling her number at random, he would also know her address and where Loretta was staying. She wished sheâd brought Donellyâs number with her, she had passed a couple of payphones on her way in to the museum, but she had left her notebook at the flat, not thinking for a moment that she might need it.
She had been turning the pages of the introduction with her left hand, not really seeing them, and now she came to the end and read her own name, followed by the date and place she had been living when she revised it for this edition: âOxford, 1991â. She was still clutching the teaspoon in the fingers of her other hand even though she had long ago given up stirring.
Four
The journalist was waiting when Loretta arrived at the Café Noir, rising from a corner by the window and waving to attract her attention. âDr Lawson? Over here.â
Loretta skirted her way between the circular tables, accidentally hooking her bag over a chair back so she had to stop and disentangle it. She shook the journalistâs outstretched hand, thinking she looked quite a lot younger than she sounded on the phone. âCarole Coryat? How did you recognise me?â
The woman picked up a copy of the book Loretta had been looking at in the museum restaurant. âFrom your cover photo,â she said, even though the picture of Loretta was not a particularly good likeness. She smiled shyly. âI canât tell you how pleased I am to meet you. Do you mind sitting alongside me? I usually tape interviews ... Can I get you a drink?â
Loretta glanced at the menu, taking in
Similar Books
