and the stal s sel ing cheap cotton plimsol s and huge packs of batteries. (It’s a sign that Brick Lane is going too far upmarket, in my opinion, that you can take your pick of stal s to buy beautiful y branded Brazilian
‘Hel o,’ I say slowly.
‘Natasha? Hel o. It’s Guy.’
‘Guy?’ I struggle for a moment. ‘Guy – oh, hel o,’ I say. My hand is on the door of the bookshop. ‘The Bowler Hat’s brother.’
‘Yes, that I am,’ he says, sounding faintly amused. ‘Listen, did you get the invitation?’
‘The invitation?’ My mind is blank. ‘To the launch of your grandmother’s foundation.’
‘Oh, of course . . .’ I’m embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t done anything about it – I’ve been – busy,’ I say. ‘It’s been—’
‘Don’t apologise.’ He sounds unruffled, as ever. ‘I know you’ve been having a rough time of it.’ His voice is kind. ‘Look, I almost cal ed again to say don’t worry about the foundation if things are hectic for you. I know they are. In fact, I even tried to text you. But I’m not much cop at texting, so that rather fel by the wayside.’
‘It’s a skil , texting,’ I say. ‘One I don’t have. Like so many things these days. I despair, when I think what a forward-thinking young man I prided myself on being, and how I despised the older generation for being so complacent. Now I’m the old duffer who got an iPod for Christmas and can’t work out where the on button is, let alone the rest of it. The iTunes, and so on.’
‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘Can’t someone help you with it?’
‘Wel , my daughter would, but she’s gone back to university. That’s my youngest daughter.’
‘Right.’ I didn’t know you had any daughters, I want to say. And, Why are you cal ing?
There’s a silence, and Guy suddenly stops, as if he’s remembering himself. ‘Anyway, Natasha, look, I wasn’t ringing to get you to explain my mobile phone to me. I was ringing to find out where you are this afternoon? I have something I’d like to talk to you about, and I’m not far from East London – I seem to remember that’s where you live.’
‘Oh.’ I’m flummoxed. ‘Sure. I’m off Brick Lane – but where are you?’
‘I’m in Islington,’ he says. ‘I am the antiques servant of the left-wing middle classes. Can I come and see you now?’
‘I’m just on my way to lunch,’ I say. ‘Why don’t I come and see you, are you around this afternoon?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, I am. That would be a great pleasure. It is quite important we talk. Thank you.’
He gives me the address – in fact I remember I have his card already, he gave it to me at the funeral. I ring off just as I arrive at the pizza place.
‘Darling!’ Cathy throws her arms around me, her head on my bosom. She has my arms in a straitjacket; I release myself gently from her grasp.
‘How’s tricks?’ I say. ‘Great, great, great,’ Cathy says, pul ing out a stool for me to sit on. ‘I lost two pounds last week,
‘Weird,’ I say, pul ing the menu towards me. ‘Bloody weird.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Guy’s shop is like something out of a fairytale. Just off the increasingly corporate Upper Street is Cross Street, a higgedlypiggedly smal road of shops, and Guy Leighton Antiques is halfway down. It is painted a kind of dove-grey, and in the pretty bow window is a Rococo mirror, an old teddy bear sitting on a smal wicker chair, and a heavy crystal engraved vase with a single dusky rose in it. I stare at the window, longingly. I want everything in it.
When I push open the door, an old bel jangles in a pleasing way. Inside, it’s empty and silent. The distressed white floorboards glow in the late-afternoon light, and as I look around, wondering what I should do next, I hear a voice say, ‘Hel o? Natasha?’ From a back room Guy emerges, pushing a pair of half-moon spectacles off his nose. They hang on a chain around his neck. He blinks, rather blearily.
‘I’m not early, am I?’ I seem to have caught him unawares. ‘Sorry,’ he says, looking embarrassed. ‘I was having a nap.’
‘Oh.’
‘Quite nice in the afternoons, when it’s quiet, you know. Put the radio on and have a doze – there’s an original Eames chair out back I can’t bear to part with, it’s too comfortable.’ He catches himself. ‘Good grief. I sound like I’m ready for the old people’s home.’
This reminds me of something. ‘That’s funny. I literal y just left a message at the home for Arvind on my way here,’ I say, more to myself than to him. ‘He was out for the afternoon, they said. Do you know, is Louisa down there?’
‘Yes, she is. She went down yesterday.’
Archie was going to see him around now, too. I’m not even sure Mum’s been down since the funeral. ‘On her own?’
He misunderstands me. ‘Oh, yes. My brother likes an easy life.’ He smiles, rather sadly I think. I think of the indolent, good-looking Bowler Hat, so often to be found sleeping in an armchair or deckchair while Louisa brings him tea. I frown at the thought. ‘She’s a kind soul, Louisa, she loves to help.’ He scratches his chest and yawns. ‘She loved your grandmother, Natasha, Frances was like a mother to her. They were very close.’
