Here's Looking at You Read online

  ‘It doesn’t seem that way when I’m having to argue my case against designers?’

  ‘You’re being rather touchy.’

  ‘Maybe it’s that “stony serious” habit of mine again. Shall I tell you my favourite dessert, lighten the mood?’

  Right at that moment, James hated everything. He hated his job, he hated this superior woman, he hated himself. He hated omelettes in baps, even though he’d never tried one. He hated that his wife had left him and she was sort-of sleeping with a man called Finn. And he hated that someone was laughing at him for something that wasn’t even his fault.

  He puffed his cheeks out.

  ‘OK, look. Like it or not, we have to work together for weeks on this. I don’t understand why it has to be a nightmare. You don’t give two craps about what I do, fine. I get it. It’s a bunch of digital twattery that didn’t exist five minutes ago and now we sell it to you as essential, because unfortunately for you it is. Because everyone has smart phones and the attention span of Graham Norton after a speedball and a Red Bull, even the ones who go to museums. But this pays my mortgage and I’m alright at it, so it’s what I do. Not everyone has a passion for their work like you. We’re not all that lucky.

  ‘And you think my colleagues are dicks? Guess what? So do I, with one or two exceptions. And they all seem to have surnames for forenames. But instead of sitting here trying to get a rise out of me every other minute and make it clear how moronic you think it all is, why don’t we get on and work together? Then we can get the job done as painlessly as possible and we’ll soon be out of each other’s sight. And thank God for that.’

  Silence. Shock. Mutual shock. James had never spoken in a temper to a client before. And not any old client – he’d told a clever professor woman to stick it in her pigeonhole.

  She was going to make an official complaint and he’d be taken off this project. Or worse, Parlez would lose the contract over it. Word would go round other universities, they’d be blacklisted, and he’d be in deep shit.

  She looked startled, but said nothing. James equivocated over apologising and reasoned it wouldn’t do him any good now anyway.

  Then Anna spoke, without emotion.

  ‘Do you have enough from me?’

  ‘More than enough, thanks,’ James said, snapping his laptop shut.

  25

  After she’d finished a tutorial in the afternoon, Patrick popped his head round the door.

  ‘How did it go with your nemesis?’ Patrick asked. ‘Did he prove himself an irretrievable mung bean?’ Patrick had his own lexicon, one that could only be born of watching a lot of Red Dwarf. ‘I made myself scarce once it was properly up and running, but from what I heard at the start you sounded tremendous.’

  ‘Ta. It’s weird, but unless he’s hiding it very well, I don’t think he remembers me from school at all. Strange, isn’t it? Yet he loomed so large for me. The big people don’t remember the little people. Even when the little people were very big.’

  ‘I find it very hard to imagine forgetting you,’ Patrick said. ‘I suspect you’re being hard on yourself and were merely … voluptuous.’

  Anna couldn’t help smiling. ‘Oh no trust me, I’m not being coy. I was a proper porker. With a huge nest of Slash from Guns’n’Roses hair and a pinafore dress the size of a wardrobe.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad there was no aggravation with him.’

  ‘There was some aggro … I made a joke about his company and he had a big rant about me thinking his work was stupid and how he thought it was too. Took me by surprise. Especially with him being the unruffled superior poser type.’

  ‘Really?’ Patrick’s eyes widened, and he adjusted his weight against the door frame and scratched his chin.

  ‘But I think, if he doesn’t remember me, I can cope with dealing with him.’

  ‘I’ll send the file to you as well as this Parlez?’

  ‘Actually, send it only to them,’ Anna said, in a snap of self-consciousness, ‘I don’t need to see myself yammering away.’

  James Fraser would no doubt take the mickey out of it with his too-cool-for-school colleagues. Let him.

  Patrick nodded and made his exit, but seconds after the door closed there was a mumbled oh dear, that’s dreadful. He knocked again, and reopened the door.

  ‘I’m afraid someone’s tampered.’

  Anna followed Patrick’s eyes to her name card, which had been amended with some crossings-out of letters, and the addition of a word.

  ‘Dr Nice Ass?’ Anna read out.

  ‘Appalling that you should be disrespected. Objectified,’ Patrick said, his pale skin turning livid pink at the edges, like a crabstick. ‘Some people still can’t cope with intelligent women. How dare they … pass comment,’ Patrick’s ire was funnier than the criminal desecration, ‘on your … on your …’

  ‘Ass niceness.’

  ‘I’ll get a replacement sorted,’ Patrick said, pulling the card out.

  ‘Thanks,’ Anna said. She’d learned to let Patrick carry out his performances of conspicuous gallantry.

  ‘I’m afraid I have a fair idea who did this,’ Patrick said. ‘A pair of Beavis and Buttheads in the second year who shared their appreciation of your form and asked me if I was—’ Patrick made rabbit ear quote marks in the air, ‘hitting that. I mean, really. What contentious terminology.’

  Patrick went pinker and Anna started to pinken.

  ‘It could’ve been worse I suppose. Could’ve changed it to Doctor Anal Messy,’ she said.

  There was a pause.

  Patrick blinked. ‘I’ll get this changed.’

  ‘Yep, thanks,’ Anna said, retreating.

  She sat down at her desk again, opened her email.

  Hi Anna,

  Thanks for your help earlier, looking forward to seeing the VT. Re: the artefacts. The designers are fine using the girdle. Would it be useful to go through some of the rest of them together at the British Museum? Then you can select the ones you like best.

  Regards,

  James

  An olive branch. Anna pondered whether she’d grasp it. Being unpleasant to him was attack as form of defence, thinking he’d go on the offensive. If he wasn’t …? Hmmm.

  She decided as long as James Fraser wasn’t going to be mentioning the Mock Rock, they could lay down arms. It seemed incredible he still didn’t recognise her. Was it possible he did remember, and was merely playing it straight? Possible, but unlikely. She saw no difference in his manner from when he and Laurence approached her at the reunion.

  She’d never forgive, never forget. But given she had no choice but to be in his company, she could tough it out without antagonism. Indifference was all he deserved, anyway.

  Another email pinged into her inbox. BDSM Neil again. Oh, fantastic.

  Dear Anna,

  It’s interesting you characterise my observations as presumptuous, or egotistical – it was nothing more than honest feedback. So what does that say about your capacity to give, and receive, honesty? If I may, it was quite obvious you felt some attraction towards me during our date. Your eye contact and the way you played with your hair were classic giveaways. However, I suspect this arguing is a gambit to make me even keener to see you again …? I have to say – it’s working.

  Best,

  Neil

  Anna hit the reply button with the force of someone playing whack-a-mole.

  Dear Neil,

  Speechless. It’s obviously risky to have eyes and hair around men these days. I should’ve taken care to be bald and blind. It’s a definite NO to a second date, thanks. If you continue to insist that I’m playing the long game then by all means, pencil some action in for the afterlife. Hell, make it an orgy – invite Marilyn Monroe, Caligula and Rod Hull. Good luck in all your future endeavours!

  Anna

  26

  Anna was five minutes early and tossing a two pound coin into a toothless, hopeless busker’s cap outside Russell Square Tube station when she re
alised James was also early.

  ‘Big fan of the xylophone?’ he said, as she joined him.

  ‘It’s called philanthropy,’ Anna said, shirtily.

  ‘Oh. I thought it was “Love Me Do”.’

  She shot him a foul look before she noticed James was smiling.

  They navigated the short walk to the British Museum, making small talk about the Q and A. Once again, Anna was alert for any sign of his recollecting her, but there was nothing. Or he had the poker face of all time.

  ‘We have to wear these gloves,’ Anna passed James a cotton pair from a blue and white box, once they’d signed in. ‘Or do you know that, if you’ve been here before?’

  ‘Ah, I haven’t,’ he said, accepting them.

  Anna couldn’t help that even in such crappy company, she couldn’t entirely contain the fizz of excitement she felt at being in the British Museum’s store rooms. It was her favourite place in the whole world.

  She only asked the gloves question so she could work out how much gushing she could get away with, in the guise of showing James around.

  ‘It’s like the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, isn’t it?’ she said, as they stood in front of a vast modern warehouse of shelving units, stacked with identical manila boxes, and strewn with half-size stepladders on four wheels.

  It smelt papery – the delicate musty evocative perfume of very old things interacting with oxygen. Incredible to think they were right in the middle of the throb and throng of London, in this quiet cave full of priceless treasure.

  ‘You’ll have to hope you don’t dislodge the lid on the Ark of the Covenant then. Those Nazis’ faces melted right off,’ James said.

  ‘You’d be OK if you closed your eyes.’

  ‘Yeah. Never quite got the science there,’ he smiled, thinly.

  No, there seemed not the faintest whisper of him recalling her from school. Anna was experiencing the spiritual lightness of escaping something unpleasant. The flood of relief made her relax a little towards him.

  ‘So, Theodora is over here,’ Anna said, leading their way through the grid.

  ‘Also reminds me of trying to find the occasional table nest you picked in Ikea,’ James said.

  ‘More fun than Ikea.’

  ‘Haha. I’m one of those people who think anything is more fun than hiking round Ikea’s Miserly Landlord furniture ranges, but yes.’

  Anna thought it best not to mention how much Ikea furniture she had.

  They got to the right aisle and Anna put her gloves on, pulling the first of a set of shallow drawers out, the contents set against a dark fabric lining.

  ‘These are all earmarked for the exhibition. I’m happy to use any of them. Feel free to dig in, see if there’s anything you’d particularly like and then I can find something interesting to say about it. It’s gorgeous loot.’

  James started to pick through the artefacts. There were delicate filigree bracelets, bangles studded with gems, rings, cameos.

  Anna tried to quell the urge to gabble like a fan girl. And failed.

  ‘The thing with Theodora is trying to choose which part of her life to highlight,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘There’s so much to her. I mean, you can go with the traditional rags to riches tale. What’s more interesting than the money and power is what she did with her position. She set up safe houses for prostitutes and outlawed pimps. She worked for women’s marriage rights, anti-rape legislation. Her laws banished brothel-keepers from Constantinople. You could say she was one of the earliest recorded feminists.’

  ‘Fit, too,’ James said, looking up from a brooch, with a smile.

  If he was risking jokes like this, he must think Anna had a semblance of a sense of humour. He was so relentlessly flippant though, she thought. Nothing ever mattered, unless he was under fire.

  ‘Definitely. The Greek Elizabeth Taylor,’ Anna obliged. ‘And intelligent and spirited and courageous and all those less important things too. Justinian was no slouch either, according to the pictures.’

  ‘Though these were times when you could be executed for an unflattering portrait,’ James said, glancing up.

  ‘True.’

  ‘If only we had those rights with people who tag bad photos on Facebook,’ James said, smiling. It seemed they were both glad not to fight.

  ‘But if you try to make an unabashed heroine out of her, she’s too slippery for that. She could be utterly ruthless and bloodthirsty towards female rivals. You had to be then, I guess, or be eaten alive. You live life in the present, you don’t think of how it’ll look in the future. There should be a Hollywood film.’

  ‘Yeah … they’ll probably cast Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher, and turn it into a gross-out comedy.’

  Anna laughed. ‘I only hope that the show goes well. I have a fantasy that her story will inspire a raft of new Theodora enthusiasts.’ She paused. ‘The later stuff, not the porny floor shows quite so much, obviously.’

  James laughed. ‘Wait, I thought you were scandalised by Parker calling her origins tale smutty?’

  ‘Well, you know. I’m not judging her …’

  ‘It’s OK. This is a sign you’re going to approve of our title: ‘Theodora the Whorer.’

  Now Anna laughed. He was quick and witty with the comebacks at school, she remembered that. A sense of humour that ran as far as hilarious japes.

  ‘I don’t think we have anything to worry about with the show, it’ll be very popular,’ he said, politely, although Anna couldn’t tell if he was genuine or humouring her.

  ‘This could look fantastic in the app, actually,’ James said, turning a golden cloisonné enamel brooch around in white gloved hands, like a magician with a coin trick. ‘We could magnify it so you could see the detail in the illustration.’

  James leaned over it and Anna found herself staring into his midnight-inky hair. Despite her best efforts, in the peaceful suspended reality of the room, she weakened and admired him.

  Even if he wasn’t your thing, it would be contrarian to pretend he wasn’t easy on the eye, in a timeless sort of way.

  Some handsomeness was the fashion of its era. Her mum thought Ryan Gosling looked like ‘the result of cousins marrying, he reminds me of that Nicholas Lyndhurst’, for example. But her mother – hell, even Granny Maude, when the glaucoma had really taken hold – would announce James Fraser to be a dish.

  His face fitted age-old rules and measures and formulas for good looks, so much so, you could have dropped him into any other era with just as much success. If only they had.

  And the structure was brought alive by his skin, with that ethereal, moonstone glow … wait, what was she doing? What had possessed her to admire this pile of man-shaped villainy in a mascara beard?

  Anna remembered what she used to write about his face in her diaries, penning pages and pages of fevered adulation about what his outsides could do to her insides. And then the day she never wrote in a diary again. Yep – this was what happened with James. If there was a positive, it was swiftly followed by a negative.

  ‘Showy stuff isn’t usually my taste, but I have to concede this is beautiful. I’m finding it hard to stop gazing in wonder,’ James said sincerely, looking up from under his movie star brow, giving her a jolt of embarrassment in echoing her own thoughts. Or, some of them.

  27

  ‘We can only get to you during office hours this week, I’m afraid,’ said the bloodless eat-shit-and-die-while-I-study-my-manicure female voice on the other end of the phone line.

  ‘Guess where I am during office hours?’ James said. ‘There’s a clue in the question.’

  ‘Sorry, that’s all we have. Do you want the Thursday appointment?’

  ‘I think I’ll see what Foxtons can do, actually. Thanks,’ James said, tartly, ringing off.

  He paid for his pride: he was having to make these calls to estate agents outside on his mobile, so nosy sods in the office didn’t listen in. After more inquiries, hand on phone turning to a block of ice, it was obviou
s that late afternoon was as good as he was going to get. He gave in and booked one for the same time and day he’d rejected two conversations ago.

  Hmmm, mind you. It was welcome time out of the office. He’d claim he was getting his washing machine fixed or something. He didn’t want questions about where he was moving to.

  It was pretty shabby that he merely wanted to scare Eva into returning. He was trying to ignore the question, bubbling under: and if she comes back because she doesn’t want to lose the place, what sort of victory is that?

  He remembered what a surprisingly emotional trial house hunting had been and felt bad that he’d be inviting other people to imagine themselves installed at his address, when it had scant chance of becoming reality.

  However, if Laurence was right and he needed to do something provocative, metaphorically flexing his muscles to sharpen Eva’s attention, then the Crouch End Castle was it. He figured it was either house, cat or him. He didn’t want to hold Luther hostage, nor did he want to climb into bed with someone else for the sake of it, as Laurence advised.

  There was no greater passion killer than your new wife leaving you, it turned out. It was as if Eva had inflicted wounds to his head, chest and stomach, shutting off certain functions below. The thought of this notional affair, using another human being like a CPR dummy, made him feel slightly sick and sad.

  Returning to the antics of his twenties now, as a broken impending-divorcee, who was liable to feel teary about his lost spouse after he’d shoved the shag-piece in a cab? Nein danke. This kind of misery liked no company.

  James pocketed his phone, returned to his desk and flipped through his diary. He was going to have to cover this with a meeting. What could he move to a meeting at home? Not much, as it turned out.

  He needed a good excuse though as Harris was on the warpath, looking for things to complain about.

  Harris wasn’t senior as such, but he had the ear of Parlez’s owners, a luridly rich fifty-something couple, Jez and Fi (never Jeremy or Fiona), currently making alterations to an eco-home in Umbria that had been featured on Grand Designs. Though given it was wildly over budget and the locals wanted to have them killed, Grand Follies might be more apt.