Again there was the smile – even more than his good looks it was this that made the man appealing. ‘I’ll meet you in front then,’ he said, as the last bell rang before the second act.
When the play ended, Hannah half-expected to find that Danny had disappeared; why would someone his age want to take a woman half as old again out for dinner? So she was pleasantly surprised to find him standing on the edge of the pavement, looking out for her.
They went to a restaurant in St James’s – a large, modern place with a high ceiling, bright pastel columns and mirrors on the walls. Danny proved an easy conversationalist: amusing, entertaining, yet willing to talk about serious things. And to listen – he seemed to take a real interest in what Hannah had to say, which after thirty years of Saul was a refreshing change. Their conversation ranged widely: the theatre, music and the strange ways of the English. When he asked for her impressions of London – he said he had been there two years himself – she said, hoping it didn’t sound too banal, ‘It feels very different here. It’s almost as if something’s absent.’
He looked at her as their starters arrived. ‘You know what’s missing, don’t you?’
‘Halva?’ she asked playfully.
Danny laughed out loud and Hannah noticed how white his teeth were, in contrast to the walnut colouring of his skin. He was probably Sabra, a native-born Israeli. Who knew where his parents had come from? It could have been almost anywhere.
Suddenly Danny’s face sobered and his expression grew serious. ‘What’s missing here is
‘Spoken like a true Israeli,’ she said. It was true; life in Tel Aviv was constantly tense. It was the one thing she didn’t like about living there. Danny nodded and she went on. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t see the situation in Israel changing any time soon.’
‘Not while the two sides are at such loggerheads,’ he said, and she was gratified that at least he understood that there were two sides to the issues. Mr Teitelbaum would never countenance that; he was a hawk through and through.
She said tentatively, wondering if he would disapprove, ‘I’ve joined the peace movement.’ But far from disapproving, it turned out that he knew some of the people involved well and was sympathetic to their ideas. He even allowed that yes, he was related to Teddy Kollek, the late Mayor of Jerusalem and a famous dove, though he stressed that he was a distant relation.
‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘Yes,’ he said, looking down modestly. ‘But only once or twice. He was very kind, but I was just a boy then.’
Dinner seemed to pass in minutes and when Danny called for the bill, he raised his wine glass and proposed a toast. ‘To the genius of Mr Stoppard, and to my elbow.’
‘Your elbow?’
‘Yes, for inadvertently spilling your glass of wine.’
She laughed and he added, ‘And thus for providing me with your company this evening.’
As she smiled at him he asked, ‘I wonder if by any chance you would be free two evenings from now. I am sure you are very busy with your family, but a colleague at work has given me two tickets to a chamber concert at St John’s church in Smith Square. I am told the acoustics are marvellous.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ she said, this time without hesitation.
Outside Danny hailed a taxi, and Hannah gave the driver the address in Highgate. Danny said goodnight and shook her hand formally. As the taxi drove off, Hannah found herself thinking what a nice man he seemed, and how pleasant dinner had been.
But she was not naive – not after thirty years of life with Saul – and inevitably part of her wondered what Danny Kollek was after.
Her body? she wondered, then suppressed a giggle at the thought. It seemed most unlikely; Hannah was flattered by the attentions of this good-looking young man, but she had too little vanity to think he was really interested in her sexually. Could it be her money, then? She thought not. She wasn’t dressed expensively this evening, or wearing any jewellery, and nothing she’d said would have indicated personal wealth. And Danny had picked up the cheque for dinner at once, refusing her offer to share.
No, it couldn’t be money attracting him – a conclusion confirmed beyond doubt when the taxi arrived at her son’s house. As Hannah got out her purse to pay the driver he shook his head. ‘It’s all been taken care of, luv,’ he said, waving some notes that Danny Kollek had given him as he said goodbye to her.
So neither gigolo nor gold-digger, thought Hannah contentedly as she entered the Highgate house. Just a companion – and a very amusing one at that. Best of all, he hadn’t asked her one blessed thing about Saul.
FOURTEEN
It was a very small house for Hampstead, a cottage really, single-storey with one Gothic gable. Nineteenth- century, perhaps even older, and Liz wondered if the roof had once been thatched. The cottage sat behind a tall, shaggy yew hedge. The wooden entrance gate moved slightly in the breeze, its hinges squeaking mournfully; when she gave a push, it swung wide open.
Liz took two tentative steps and found herself in a small front garden hidden from the street by the hedge. A path of old paving stones led to the front door of the cottage, which seemed to be badly in need of repair: several roof tiles were slipping, and the window sills on either side of the front door looked rotten.
She rang the bell and heard it echoing loudly. No sound of movement inside. She peered through the letter box but couldn’t see any post lying uncollected on the mat inside. She waited a little while, then rang again. Still no response.
It was while she was wondering what to do next that some second sense made her turn round and see the man standing in a corner of the garden, next to a small circular rose bed. He was over average height and wore a baseball cap, tilted down, making it hard to see his face or tell his age – anywhere from thirty to fifty, Liz decided. Around his waist a gardener’s apron was wrapped, and in his right hand he held a pair of secateurs. He waved them casually at Liz, before turning to prune one of the tall roses.
‘Excuse me.’ Liz raised her voice as she crossed the lawn.
He turned around very slowly, but didn’t look her in the eye. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m looking for Mr Marcham. Is he in?’ She wondered if this could be Marcham himself, tending his garden, but no – Marcham’s photographs had shown an angular English face. This man looked slightly foreign; dark-skinned, Mediterranean.
The man shook his head, turning away from her. ‘I haven’t seen him today. Did you ring the bell?’
‘Yes, but no one answered. You don’t happen to know where I might find him?’
The man now had his back to her. ‘Sorry. He’s not often here when I am.’
‘Right,’ said Liz, wondering if she should leave Marcham a note. ‘Thanks very much,’ she said, and the man merely nodded, continuing with his pruning. I hope you’re a better gardener than communicator, she thought as she left.
She walked out and looked both ways along the street, as if willing Chris Marcham to appear. Where could he be? The source at the
But he couldn’t be doing too badly, she concluded as she started the long walk back to the Underground. His house was small and pretty run down, but it was in Hampstead, and right on the edge of the Heath. It should provide a handsome pension in his old age. And he could afford a gardener, though from the look of the ragged flower beds this one didn’t seem to be much cop. A funny bloke, thought Liz, suddenly realizing the man hadn’t even been wearing proper shoes for the job – they were slip-ons, shiny-looking ones, more at home in a wine bar than a flower bed. What had he been doing anyway? Pruning the roses, that was it.
