small glass of wine was fifteen pounds. Fifteen pounds. She almost gasped. She couldn’t pay fifteen pounds for a glass of wine. In the Duck and Cherry a small Pinot Grigio was three pounds ninety-five.
‘What can I get you, madam?’ The barman asked.
‘A small glass of white wine, please,’ she said immediately, nervous under his cool scrutiny, trying to seem au fait with it all, as if the price didn’t startle her one bit.
He nodded and took down a glass from the shelf.
Jane glanced around behind her, surfed the tables to see if any of the occupants might be William. It was like she was on a blind date; she should have told him she’d be wearing a rose.
‘Ms Williams?’ a voice said from behind her, making her jump. ‘William Blackwell,’ he said as she turned to face him.
There he was, hand outstretched to shake. Cool, slick, confident. Of course he’d just know exactly who she was. Jane in contrast felt completely off guard, fumbling to put the menu down at the same time as saying, ‘William, Williams,’ with a little laugh as if their matching names was a hilarious coincidence.
His mouth moved into the tiniest smile.
‘Sorry, hi,’ she said, composing herself, pushing her stupid new fringe out of her eyes and standing up off the stool. ‘Jane.’
He took hold of her hand, his grip hard against her fingers. Then sat down on the high stool next to hers and, as the waiter put the glass of white wine down, he said, ‘I’ll have an Old Fashioned,’ and Jane wanted to shut her eyes and add another little funny aside into the black hole that already held the news about the chandelier in the bathroom.
Her mum would have loved this. She would have wanted it all reported back in minute detail. On her good days they’d lie on the top of the boat and her mum would weave tales about every passer-by; every rower, every fisherman, every tourist, every walker. And Jane would egg her on, encourage her, buffeting the daydream, keeping it in the air like a balloon, all the while praying that the moment wouldn’t come when the mood would flip and her mum would roll onto her back, her eyes closed, her face long and say flatly, ‘That’s enough.’
Jane watched as William picked the exact bourbon he wanted in his Old Fashioned; looked at the clean-shaven line of his jaw, the long, straight Roman nose, the clipped black hair, the perfectly starched white shirt, the grey tie loosened a fraction enough to undo the top button, and wondered what story her mum would have spun about him. She didn’t have to wonder too much. Every man in a suit who strode past she would have down as a dashing Prince Charming hiding a stormy past, just as any loafing hippy was a passionate deep thinker with an untameable heart. Jane would watch her mum’s face as she spoke for clues as to which type her dad might have been.
‘So, these pages.’ William reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out the pristinely folded diary pages that she had emailed over. ‘It’s interesting reading.’
‘Isn’t it just? I thought you’d want to know—’
He cut her off. ‘I’m wondering what you want to do about it?’
The Old Fashioned arrived. He stirred it and looked around for the waiter to ask something about ice.
Jane frowned. ‘What do you mean what I want to do about it?’
The waiter took the drink back.
He opened the diary pages. ‘Probably easiest if I name what I think is an appropriate fee.’
Jane looked at him, confused. ‘What do you mean fee?’
William did an incredulous snort. ‘Ms Williams.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘This is sensitive information about my family, we’d like it to remain within our control.’
The Old Fashioned with a fraction more ice appeared on the counter.
Jane looked down at her fifteen-pound glass of wine and felt all her nervous excitement trickle out of her. He was offering her money. To what? Keep quiet? She didn’t say anything for a moment as she considered his words. Then she turned back to William and said, ‘Didn’t you find it interesting? Didn’t you find it interesting learning about this story that had your grandfather in it? It’s beautiful, sad and…’ She paused and frowned at him. ‘Have you read all the pages?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Not your secretary or your lawyer. You. You’ve read all the pages?’
‘I’ve had a skim through.’
She made a face. ‘A skim?’
She’d read them over and over. The idea that he’d just had a casual flick and passed them over to his lawyers made her furious. ‘This is your family,’ she said. In all her run-throughs of this part of the evening, it had never gone like this. There had been stilted chat about how fascinating the past can be, there had been him telling her all about what happened after the Blackwells’ part in the diaries ended. Like an episode of the Antiques Roadshow, there had been him maybe asking about her connection to Enid but there had never been this.
‘Yes it is my family,’ he replied. ‘And, interestingly enough, not yours. So I’m left to assume—’ he was about to continue, possibly to say something about the money again, but this time she cut him off.
‘Just so I’ve got this straight, you came here just with the intention of buying me off?’ she asked at a volume that made him flinch in his jacket and glance behind him to see if anyone was listening. Jane saw a couple of women in the corner give him an appraising once-over.
The barman had edged closer as he dried some glasses.
William did an awkward cough.
‘Are you going to answer my question?’ Jane could feel herself fuelled by annoyance. She wasn’t someone who raised her voice often, but she hated being talked down to, being made to feel small and insignificant. She’d felt it every time she went to hospital with her mum and was told that there was no more help available. That she would have to do herself harm before they could step in. And Jane would question how her mum was ever going to do herself harm while Jane was looking after her twenty-four/seven. And they would look pityingly at her.
‘I, er…’ William seemed embarrassed. Like he wished he’d sent his secretary to meet her and was still sitting at his desk in the office.
Jane, who’d been sitting perched upright, shoulders back so she looked her best in her dress, shuffled backwards into her seat, leant against the chair rest, picked up her wine, and said, ‘Read them now.’
‘I’m sorry?’ He coughed into his Old Fashioned.
‘Read them now,’ she said.
‘I really don’t think…’
‘From the moment you sat down, you’ve treated this meeting like an inconvenience and you’ve insulted me. I would never have dreamt of taking this story to any journalist. All I thought would happen is that we’d have a quick chat about how interesting it all is and go on our separate ways. Had you taken the time to get to know me and talk to me about what’s written here you would have known that. But…’ she swallowed. ‘A better
