In my shocked silence, in my familiar, cosy Bayswater cafe, so far from Zanzibar, it took me a moment to hear the echo of David’s words and then place them: Mrs F’s dismissive words when Geoffrey was the one hit over the head. “It might have been ... It might have been just something between the Europeans. Maybe he just tripped and banged his own head. He’s foolish enough for that.”
My eyes tried to relieve my mind by following one of the owners of Le Cafe as he gently removed trays of pastries from the back seat of his Toyota and carried them inside. I remembered he had been a doctor back home in Iraq.
David continued to wait attentively while I tussled with my thoughts, among which was the one that was against a surrender to his broad shoulders and the unguarded gush that might come with it.
At last, gathering myself, I asked, “Do you remember when Geoffrey Sutton was hit over the head? I’ve always wanted to ask you—it was you, wasn’t it, who got me my passport? Not Geoffrey.”
“I think I have to admit to that. Actually, I have a question I’ve always wanted to ask you too, about that time. It doesn’t matter now of course. Was Dr Sutton a spy?”
“Geoffrey?” I was caught by surprise and laughed in spite of myself. “No. He was just doing research. I can’t imagine him doing anything like that. He’s too timid.”
“No, I thought not. I told them at the time they were mistaken. Well, I have to go, Marcella. I’m so sorry it has been an occasion for bad news. But it’s wonderful to see you doing so well.”
I rallied, not wanting him to leave. “David, you haven’t said anything about yourself. What are you doing in London? You’re still in the army? Oh, I see now. You were the spy.”
“Intelligence. In your own country, it’s intelligence. It’s respectable.” David stood and draped his coat over his arm. “I’m retired. A little young, don’t you think? No, I’m here on business. Semi-official, I suppose. Some people to the south of us—well, Mozambique in fact— need our help. Actually, I believe we have acquaintances in common. It seems we move in the same circles. You never know with connections, do you? A woman named Yvonne who is working with the liberation groups there told me she knew you. She asked me to say hello. She told me to ask you to put me in contact with someone called Adnam, but actually it’s not necessary. He’s already found me.”
It must have been soon after this when I had dinner with Geoffrey and he added his own bit of gratuitous connection. I arrived late at Etty’s, where the Syrian owner’s red-haired little girl ran up to me and clung to my leg. The Spanish waitress greeted me by name and led me to the table by the window where Geoffrey waited. Before I could properly say hello, I required rescue from the owner’s daughter by his English rose of a wife, who then told me her husband needed my advice on property, which I said I would gladly give. “He was an architect at home,” I explained to a bemused Geoffrey. “All my foreign business friends here are professionals. They just prefer to do business. I’m sorry, how are you?” I leaned over to peck him on the cheek. Dinner was starting well.
After we had settled, and established that we both looked well and that I seemed to be a local celebrity, I asked, “How did the interview go? I like the suit.”
Geoffrey was more thoughtful than I expected. “I don’t think it’s going to work. I thought that the Third World Foundation was something independent, or owned by The Guardian since they have a supplement in it, but it turns out it’s owned by a bank with its own interests. I think I’m better off doing my research at the university.”
“Sorry, Geoffrey. 'You must be disappointed. So, you won’t be coming to London?”
“Doesn’t look like it. Do you know anything about the BCCI?”
“The BCCI? That’s my bank.” I was tempted to add, I’ve got five million in it.
“Your bank?”
“Absolutely. We all bank there. Yau’re behind the times, Geoffrey.”
“Well, it seemed a bit shady. And I don’t think they liked me anyway. They’re very pro-Pakistan. That’s a military dictatorship!”
“I don’t know about that. They call it ‘the immigrants’ bank,’ that’s why we like it.”
“Well, maybe it’s OK. I’ll keep an open mind.”
“I wouldn’t recognise you, Geoffrey. Anyway, you’re here to enjoy dinner. Shall we order?”
By dessert, Geoffrey’s low spirits had softened me. We had gone over the time at Reading and we’d reported on our work. I said, “Remember the first dinner we had at a restaurant? In Zanzibar? This is the second. You never took me out to eat once in Reading.”
“I remember the crows.”
“And the banging door.”
“That was creepy.”
“We didn’t mind. You know, Geoffrey, you’re the only person in England who knows me from Zanzibar. You’re the only person who knows where I came from and has met my family. That makes you almost family.”
He nodded, looking down, but I could tell he was pleased. “So,” he said, “as an old family member, can I ask you about your personal life? Still with the same man?”
“With Benji? Yes.”
“Happy?”
“Oh, yes. We’re happy in our way.”
“Which is?”
“He’s away on business a lot. More than I’d like.”
“Not married?”
“I promise I’ll invite you when that happens.”
“So, what sort of business is
