A Hopeless Romantic Part 34

"I'm merely expressing-trying to say that-it's of no importance," Marcus said.

"Sorry," said Laura quietly, looking at the table. She felt sad again. "I didn't get it."

"I was just thinking aloud," said Marcus after a pause. "You know. If one were married. Where would one live. Have to think about that kind of thing these days."

"Even if you're not going out with someone?" Laura said, then regretted it.

But her companion said, after another pause, "Well, yes." He smiled, for the first time that evening. "Bit tragic, isn't it."

"What?"

"Planning where I'd live if I were married. With children." He cleared his throat with a long, drawn-out sound like rounds on a firing range. Laura looked at him, smiling self-consciously. She saw his large fingers mechanically clutching his cuff links, his large, normally expressionless face now wearing a rather anxious mask. His beautifully pressed dinner jacket, the studs of his shirt perfectly done up except for one missing, just visible if you looked, hidden by the jacket. Her heart contracted with sadness as she looked at him. He needed a wife; he needed someone to love him and look after him, a nice girl to move to Balham or wherever with him, who would think he was absolutely marvelous. In his way, he was a hopeless romantic, too.

"You look beautiful tonight," Marcus said, as if he were talking about the weather. He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, rather heavily and clumsily, almost defiantly, and sat back again. "Thank you," he said formally.

"Hey! Ah," said Laura, rather fl.u.s.tered, feeling she should thank him, too, or write him a formal letter.

Now that he had staked his claim, as it were, Marcus seemed to relax visibly. He stood up and offered Laura his arm. "We should be on our way, if that's okay," he said, and picked up her cape and put it round her shoulders.

"What kind of people are going to be there?" asked Laura, as he opened the door for her. He took her arm.

"Oh, all sorts," said Marcus, smiling rather indulgently at her, as if she'd asked an adorable question.

They were opposite the Royal Courts, and Laura could see black ties and evening dresses trickling in through the elaborate stone gates, up the steps. She said, "No, I mean-tell me a bit about it. Are the guests your company's clients or the bank's?"

"Sure. They're our clients. The sponsor is a fairly big German bank-they have investors of their own there, too. They have a lot of very rich private clients, so it's a formal affair and there are often some pretty important people there. But, yeah, they're all good guys. Should be fun."

He took her arm as they crossed the road. "Right," said Laura, thinking that sounded like anything but fun, and already so confused by the progress of the date so far, her role therein, and the evening ahead of her that any action on her part would be pointless. She squeezed his arm. "G.o.d, Marcus-who's that?"

A tall, blond man, maybe in his late fifties, had got out of a car that had pulled up in front of the building. He was opening the other pa.s.senger door, from which emerged a woman so overly made-up, so wholly encrusted with jewelry and sparkle, that she looked like a blow-up doll. She took her companion's arm and looked around impa.s.sively, disdain writ large on whatever part of her face still held expression.

"My G.o.d," said Marcus, grinding to a halt.

"I know," said Laura. "She looks ridiculous."

"No," said Marcus. "I didn't think they'd come. That's-Lars Thorson."

"Who?" said Laura.

"Lars Thorson. Don't you know who he is? He's-well, he's the richest man in Sweden. Invested in tech stock when it was still geek territory. That's his wife, Tania. Right old slapper," said Marcus with relish, pulling away from Laura to get a better look.

Thorson. She knew that name. She knew that name. Laura looked at Marcus in panic, trying to rea.s.sure the inner voice of warning in her head. "Good G.o.d, look at her," Marcus continued, his eyes lighting up. He stared openly at the couple in front of them as Tania Thorson rearranged her shawl, then turned to Laura. "G.o.d, can't believe it. Tania Thorson. She used to be a bit of all right. Look at her. She looks like a-"

"Right, right," Laura said, steering him toward the revolving doors. "Right. And," she said, not wanting to ask the question, but knowing she was going to, "don't they have a daughter?"

"Yep, they do. Cecilia. Very fit. Used to come to presentations with her daddio. Funny, that," said Marcus, squeezing into the door behind her and practically propelling her round, his hand on her back. "Just remembered."

"What?" said Laura as they emerged on the other side, feeling slightly dizzy.

"She's going out with Nick now, you remember old Nick? Ranelagh. Yeah. She's called Cecilia. Mate told me he was giving her one these days. Hope she doesn't take after her moth-Hey! Hey! There he is!"

"There who-" Laura said, her brain spinning, as the doors behind them kept spinning, spilling out people who pushed past her, swarmed around her. She couldn't see Marcus, he had vanished; she could hear his voice, but where was he?

"Nick! I say!"

The sea of people cleared, the way parted, and there was a newly invigorated Marcus, patting someone on the back, someone who turned to face her as Marcus was saying, "Good one! Good one! Let me introduce you, old chap, this is my gorgeous date for this evening, Laura. Hey, Laura. This is the Marquis of Ranelagh, my dear. You've visited his place, you know. You told me."

"Yes," said Laura, mechanically holding out her hand, looking up into Nick's face. "h.e.l.lo."

"h.e.l.lo," said Nick, meeting her gaze. His short dark hair was combed and neat, his evening dress immaculate, his expression remote. His other hand was in his pocket, and he squeezed her hand, then dropped it, looked from one to the other of them. Laura's arm felt numb, as if it were something sewn onto her body. It fell by her side, a deadweight, as she watched him, not knowing what to say.

"Nice to see you, Laura. Marcus-great to catch up. Maybe later. Excuse me. I should say h.e.l.lo to the Thorsons, they've just arrived."

"Course you had, mate!" Marcus winked at him, hugely gratified at being present for this. He put his arm proprietorially around Laura, as if to say, We're all in the same boat, aren't we? Laura rocked against him, feeling like a deadweight, realizing that, for Marcus, this was shaping up to be a great evening, whereas for her, it was probably one of the all-time lows, down there with her other grandmother, Deidre's, funeral and the time Simon was sick over her brand-new Levi's 501s just before her first date with Sean Phillips when she was fifteen.

"See you later," Nick said politely. He smiled briefly at both of them. "Have a good evening. Good to see you both."

He walked off toward Tania Thorson, who was walking stiffly toward the hall, and Laura watched him put his arm round her fondly, kiss her, make some joke. He hugged Lars and shook hands with a couple of other people who'd arrived, all serious, slick, wealthy-looking. Marcus gazed at them almost hungrily. Laura gazed at them, back at him. Her hand stole up to the necklace, and she stroked it gently.

chapter forty-two.

T he next two hours were two of the loneliest of Laura's life. The rain began soon after they arrived, and all evening it thudded on the roof of the hall. All through the drinks at the front of the hall, she stood mutely by Marcus's side as he roared with laughter and slapped backs with a succession of identical-looking, identically dressed men. He was happiest, she soon realized, in the company of other men. The blokes, the guys, the chaps he worked with, who moved vast amounts of money from A to B and then made it into C.

She hung back as he networked, tried to do her bit as The Date, a polite smile plastered to her face, tried not to scan the crowd, until they were ushered farther back along the huge, echoing, vaulted hall for supper. The moment they were seated and had each been presented with a laminated cardboard folder describing the achievements of the German bank over the last year and going forward, Marcus turned away from her to the man on his right, with whom he proceeded to have a similarly raucous conversation. He would turn to her occasionally and ask her if she was okay, and then almost immediately turn back with enthusiasm to a long discussion about the rise of the hedge fund.

"Sure you're okay?" he said to her on his third swivel round.

"I'm absolutely fine," Laura said, lying through her teeth. Marcus smiled at her. "Marcus," she began determinedly, "I wondered, by the way-about the donation we discussed-"

"What's that?" said Marcus.

"The sponsorship program," Laura said, putting one finger on his arm.

"Oh, absolutely," said Marcus. "Absolutely."

"Can we-should we talk about it at some point? Firm up the details?"

Suddenly, Marcus's hand shot out and clamped itself around her leg. All at once Laura felt totally like a prost.i.tute touting for business, or some kind of dodgy honeytrap, as Marcus's fingers clumsily patted her skin and he turned toward her, gulping his wine greedily.

"Have you..." she faltered, and looked down at his hand, high up on her thigh. He squeezed her leg, and smiled at her amicably.

"Great," said Marcus. "Remind me about it later. Just got to ask this chap-" And he turned away again.

Laura sank back in her chair, dispirited. Apart from the hand on her leg, she might as well have been invisible, she thought wretchedly, and outside the wind whistled along the gla.s.s, rattling it as the rain beat down.

Periodically Marcus would squeeze her thigh; and it reminded Laura of when she and Simon were small, on the sofa in the lounge at Heathcote Road watching TV after school, and Simon would suddenly poke her viciously in the ribs. She would poke him back. They would sit there in huge tension, not knowing who would dare to poke next, and when it came each would scream with the recognized shock of it. So Laura felt as she gazed around her table, around the room, trying not to look bored, waiting for Marcus's next hard, crablike squeeze on her thigh. It did not make for a particularly relaxed dining experience.

The man on her left was a kind, polite German banker who tried his best to engage her in conversation; but the rest of the table was fairly loud, his English was not great, Laura's German was nonexistent, and the noise in the rest of the hall grew ever louder, with guffaws and shouts echoing out, a bit like the last day of term at a particularly muscular boarding school, and so it was a little hard to hear what he was saying. Besides which, Laura's knowledge of German banks was not all it might have been; and what with Marcus's hand periodically making her jump, and the nice German man-whose name she had, of course, instantly forgotten-trying his very best but failing to sustain conversation, the first two courses inched by in what seemed to be an eternity, during which the hands on the huge iron clock high up in the vaulted ceiling barely seemed to move, the noise seemed to grow louder, and the food-especially the watercress mousse-felt like slimy slabs of sponge in her mouth.

Was it that Nick was there, over there, past the next table, just visible if she tilted her head very slightly? Was it that? Was it true that she could really look over and see him anytime she liked, after more than two months, remember all those things about him that she'd forgotten, the cast of his jaw, his shoulders, his expression when he smiled? Or was it that she had finally realized she didn't know him, would never know him; that this was the world he lived in, not the one he had pretended to show her over the summer?

She stared at him through the sea of black-jacketed shoulders, and just once allowed herself to wallow a little. To remember dreamily how unreal, how fantastical that time at Chartley had been. Like a favorite film or a childhood holiday that takes on the golden-hued appearance of a fairy tale, every day long and sunny, every event magical. Here he was again, and she could see him out of the corner of her eye, whenever she wanted. She realized now that, during the past two months, she had got so used to thinking she saw him everywhere-on the street, in the pub, on the Tube-that she was always turning her head to see if that tall, dark man in the corner was, in fact, Nick, come to find her. And now, that tall, dark man in the corner was, in fact, Nick. But he was with someone else, and she- As Lars Thorson leaned forward to say something quietly to Nick, and he looked blankly into s.p.a.ce as he listened, nodding, she remembered with a stabbing agony the last time she'd seen him, how the holiday had come to an end. She took a deep breath. Could Nick really be enjoying this totally dire evening? Was he really the person who could get satisfaction from smarming up to some rich industrialist and his blow-up doll of a wife? And their thin, bloodless, humorless daughter?

For Cecilia Thorson was there, very much there, sitting up straight next to him; and that was really the only interesting thing about this evening, except Laura wished she could stop staring at the two of them, so poised, so glamorous, so-grown-uplooking. They reminded Laura of effigies from medieval tombs she had seen on a school trip to France years ago-side by side, she with straight hair, straight nose, long thin face, elegant pursed lips; he taller, prouder, statesmanlike. Not someone she knew or remembered at all. Laura shook her head.

"Okay there?" came Marcus's voice suddenly, close to her ear. His rather large nose brushed unexpectedly across Laura's neck. She jumped, realizing she was staring at Nick, and she saw him turn instinctively, his gaze meeting hers across the room. She swiveled round to Marcus, who was making a kind of guzzling, gurgling sound in her ear, which surprised her until he said with an effort, "You do look-gorgeous, you know, L-Laura."

"Thanks," said Laura, who was never sure how to respond to compliments like that. "Yes, I know. No, I don't, what are you talking about?"

"I-I just want to...grrr." Marcus shook his head, and made a sound like a small bear.

Oh, dear, thought Laura. Please, let this be an upset stomach, rather than a prelude to s.e.x. Because, Marcus, if you seriously think you're getting some tonight, you are Wrong Wrong Wrong.

"Having a good time?" his voice murmured heavily in her ear, sounding rather like an unskilled Barry White impersonator. Laura had to fight back the urge to reply in kind: "I sure am, baby, how you doin'?" She bit her lip, and Marcus, taking this for an encouraging sign, squeezed her thigh again.

"Oh, Marcus-" said Laura feebly. "Don't-don't do that. It's...you know."

"Oh," said Marcus, sitting back in his chair suddenly. "Sorry." He looked mortified, his hair flopping sadly on each side of his head like a bunny's ears.

Laura felt mean. "Sorry," she said. "It's just-anyway. Are you having a good time?"

"Yep, absolutely," said Marcus. "Really interesting bloke next to me, used to run the Singapore arm of this startup we invested in couple years ago."

"Oh. Hey. That's so...cool. Cool!" said Laura, unsure of the correct response. She was even more aware of the conversational gap between them. "So you-"

"Anyway, how about you?" said Marcus enthusiastically. Laura realized he was a little drunk. His mouth was slacker, his eyes duller. "You having a good time?" He leaned forward again. "Sorry haven't had time to talk," he said. "Very glad you came. But must talk to people. You sit there." He patted her thigh again, as if she were a tiny leprechaun who might hop off her seat and run wildly among the guests throwing gravy around and causing havoc.

"Right," said Laura, picking up her fork to push an uneaten pile of chocolate mousse across her plate. She wanted to hate Marcus, be furiously cross with him, blame him for Nick being there, for how c.r.a.p a time she was having. Yorky had gone for drinks with Hilary tonight after work in Shepherd Market; she could be there, too, dressed normally, sitting there having a laugh, instead of here, feeling this awful; and she wanted to blame Mareus for it, but she couldn't. No, she had to go through with it.

This was a sort of watershed evening for her, she realized. Perhaps the presence of Nick was a sign from the G.o.ds, a symbol of how strong she had to be, of what she had to pull off. She was on a date, and she was going to get Marcus to give the schools sponsorship program a big donation or die trying. She could still do it. She had to. Wasn't this what she'd been at work early trying to sort out during the endless weeks since she'd come back from Norfolk? Building up contacts again, putting together information, cajoling, flattering, skirting around the issue like a gavotte-and nothing, nothing from any of the other companies so far, and Rachel was depending on her. More than that-she had to pull it off, or else her job was in jeopardy again. And even more than that, perhaps, she had to do it for herself.

Laura took a deep breath, set her face in a stern expression, and said firmly, "Marcus. Can I get you a coffee? And then can we talk about the sponsorship program, before we have too much to drink and forget?"

"George! Hi! Good to see you, mate. Listen, about the liability claim," said Marcus suddenly, turning his back on her to address a man standing behind him. His left hand shot out and clamped down on her leg again.

Laura snarled to herself, and realized she had to calm down. Time to while away five minutes in the loo, I think, she told herself. She took her bag and made to stand up, but just as she gingerly put her hand on Marcus's to remove it, she noticed Cecilia Thorson standing up with her bag and heading across the room. Laura shrank back in her seat. No, thanks, she thought. I don't want to be loo buddies with her. Cecilia sailed gracefully past, her expression proud, unruffled. Laura watched her from under her eyelashes, her hand clutching Marcus's in a frenzied grip. d.a.m.n it.

She looked up at the clock and then around the room. It was nearly ten o'clock; she'd been there for two hours. The rain was still pounding relentlessly on the gla.s.s roof. The tables were breaking up; coffee was being served, but people were moving around, men and women nonchalantly leaning against chairs chatting to each other. The polite German man next to her had disappeared. It was getting late. She had to rescue this situation-but how? Perhaps she should just go, she thought hopelessly. Face Rachel's hopeful face on Monday and admit failure.

As if answering her thoughts, she turned to find Marcus's hazy stare fixed on her. He half licked his lips, a tiny, unconscious movement. Laura realized he had pa.s.sed from being a bit intoxicated to properly drunk.

"Laura," he said. "Witchu. Wouldchu like-what are we doing later?"

"Er-" said Laura uncertainly. "It's not over yet, is it? Oh, no. What a great evening. Perhaps-"

"Come back to mine," Marcus urged, hedging his bets with the optimism of the drunk. "Go on! You'd like it." He patted her arm, his hand sliding heavily down her skin. "Please."

"Well, thanks," said Laura, feeling a bit like she was wrestling with an octopus, only a drunk octopus in a dinner jacket who was head of some important league under the sea. She removed his other hand, which was making its way between her knees. This was silly. Time to admit defeat. "Look, Marcus, I think I'd better head off. We can talk on Monday," she said flatly.

Marcus sat up and said, "C'mon, Laura. You really shouldn't go, you know. Really should stay."

"Why?" said Laura, not looking at him. She picked up her cape.

"You should...be being more nice," said Marcus, lolling softly forward so that he was propped up by the table. "Be nice. I've taken you out and everything. Wanted to discuss the-the, erm, the thing-the thing with the schools. Them. And now you're not even being very nice. Are you?"

"Oh, my G.o.d," said Laura, freezing with one arm in her cape and one arm out of it. This was what it must have been like to be Michael J. Fox's mum in Back to the Future, being forced to make out with the boorish villain in his car at the prom.

Everyone else had left their table, and the majority of the crowd was moving back into the front of the hall. Marcus looked up at her resentfully. "G.o.d, Laura. Don't you like me? Am I...ugh."

"I'm sorry, Marcus," said Laura, not sure how much of this was drunk Marcus talking and how much was potential date-rape Marcus talking, and not willing to hang around to find out.

"Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are?" Marcus's voice was slurred. She couldn't see his face; he was staring at the tablecloth. His hand was still on her arm; it slid off onto the table. "You can whistle for it. The money. b.l.o.o.d.y sorry I ever asked you."

"Fine," said Laura. "Look-I'm sorry," she said again, and suddenly it made her furious that she was saying sorry, and a sense of impotent anger at her own failures-all of them, all alive and present and jogging into each other in this b.l.o.o.d.y huge room-made her stand up. She pulled her arm through the cape in one almighty wrench, feeling the lining tear slightly. "I'll..." She looked down at Marcus, who was gazing up at her with the vacant, uncertain look she remembered from before, but it wasn't enough to stop her. She turned on her heel-she'd always wanted to know exactly what that was like, and now she knew-and strode toward the door without looking back, not knowing whom she despised more at that moment: herself, for getting all excited about the evening, stupid girl, for trying to mix business with-pleasure, if that's what this was. Or b.l.o.o.d.y Marcus, for-well, being a fruit loop. Hopefully, just a drunk fruit loop.

As she reached the first set of doors, a voice behind her said, "h.e.l.lo, Laura, how are you?"

Laura spun round, her heart in her mouth, but standing there was Charles. Lovely, dependable Charles. Relatively normal (relative to the rest of the room, that is). She looked up at him, and he smiled at her with his kindly smile and said, "You have a face like thunder. Is everything okay?"

"Yes," said Laura, nearly laughing. "Charles. It's so nice to see you! How are you? You're here-with..." She trailed off.

"Nick's just saying goodbye to Cecilia," said Charles, looking at her carefully. "I'm sure he'd love to know you're here, though, Laura. I should-" He looked around.

"No! No," cried Laura insanely. "I've seen him already, we've said hi! Don't worry."

"Oh," said Charles, and an expression of-what it was, Laura didn't know-crossed his face. He shifted a little. "So, who is he? The chap you were with tonight?" Laura bit her lip. "The one I saw you shaking off? I was about to come over, actually, see if you were okay, but just as I started over, you were up and away."

"Ha," said Laura, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. "Just-oh, some bloke."

"Are you leaving?" said Charles, gesturing toward the main doors. Laura nodded. "Some bloke, eh?" he said, falling into step beside her.

"Yep. It's a work thing. Oh," Laura said rather brokenly, "never mind."

"Oh, go on," said Charles, his voice warm. "I've spent the evening between one woman moaning about her interior decorator in Chamonix and a really attractive girl from the bank who asked me if I was gay. Can't get worse than that, can it? What's up? Tell me."

They were in a human traffic jam as people clogged the doors, hesitating as the rain lashed the pavements. Laura laughed softly and looked at him, remembering how easy he was to talk to.

"Well," she said, and briefly outlined the reasons for her presence there. It was all rather tangled, and as she finished with "And now I don't know what to do. I said I'd get the money, I promised I'd be better at my job," she realized she was sounding like a five-year-old who isn't allowed a pet rabbit. But she couldn't help it-she felt stupid, standing there all dressed up, having danced out of Mary's flat looking forward to a date and the chance to make things right at work. Why, oh, why? But there was something hugely comforting about Charles, he was so easy to talk to; and as they inched forward in the queue for the exit, she said, "I'm sorry. G.o.d, I keep saying that tonight. But I am."

"For what?"

"For being so boring. It's so stupid," said Laura. She shook her head. "Forget about it."