Chapter 8

Nerissa was having a party. None of her own friends was invited, not Rodney Devereux or Colette Gilbert‑ Bamber or the model whose ankle had ended up thicker than the other one, but only her own family and all its extensions. The onlyoutsiders she asked were the Joneses from next door to her parents. She sent one of her beautiful purple cards, lettered in gold, to Mr. and Mrs. Bill Jones and Mr. Darel Jones, and at the foot she wrote in white ink: Do come, love, Nerissa.

A nice enough, but rather cold, letter came back from Sheila Jones. It said they couldn't come and that she was sorry, but not why they couldn't. Nerissa had no very high opinion of her own intelligence but even she could read between the lines that Mrs. J ones thought the party would be too grand for them with too many smart people attending, too much fashion on show and too much talk about things they wouldn't understand. Nerissa was disappointed and not just because the refusal included Darel. The senior joneses were the sort of people she liked, straightforward, unassuming, and down‑ to‑ earth.

If only they understood the sort of party it really was, given for her dad's birthday (which she'd said on the invitation) and that his brothers would be there with their wives, the seven children they had between them, his cousin who was a leadinglight in the Transport and General Workers' Union, her mum's younger sister, elected last year to Tower Hamlets Council, her mum's elder sister who met and married the sweetheart she hadn't seen for a lifetime, her mum's auntie from Notting Hill, her three baby nieces and her three‑ year‑ old nephew, and her grandma, the matriarch born just ninety‑ two years ago inAfrica.

It was the Joneses' loss, Nerissa said defiantly to herself as she and Lynette handed round cups of tea to those who didn't want champagne cocktails. But she admitted silently that it was her loss too, and when Lynette and the TGWU cousin had moved some of the furniture back and dancing began, she imagined the happiness she might have had in Darel's arms, drifting gently round the floor. To make things worse, just as her grandma was telling her an enthralling tale about her own mother and a witch doctor, the phone rang. It was Rodney. Nerissa took the phone into the study and listened impatiently while he asked her why he hadn't been asked to the party and was she mad, entertaining all those relations?

" It's a well‑ known fact that everyone hates their parents, " said Rodney. " You know what what's‑ his‑ name said. 'They fuck you up, your mum and dad. ' "

" Mine didn't. And whoever it was said it, they were sick. "

" For God's sake, leave them to it, and I'll pick you up in five minutes. "

" I can't, Rod, " said Nerissa. " My dad's just going to cut the cake. "

She went back to the party and fed the little ones chocolate biscuits and ice cream because none of them liked fruitcake.

" You'll have one like that yourself in a couple of years, " said her Tower Hamlets auntie.

" I wish. " Nerissa thought of Darel, out somewhere with his girlfriend, no doubt. Maybe even getting engaged to her now, while she spoke. " I'll have to get married first. "

" Most of them don't bother anymore, " said her auntie from Notting Hill‑ well, great‑ auntie really.

" I would, " said Nerissa, wiping a small mouth, open, birdlike, for more.

She put on Johnny Cash singing " I Walk the Line, " turned up the CD player, and went to dance with her dad.

Gwendolen would have been horrified and deeply shocked had she known the fantasies her tenant created about her past life. But she had forgotten the brief conversation they had had in the hall on the subject of her visit to 10 Rillington Place. That Mix Cellini had come to believe she had known Christie as well as Ruth Fuerst or Muriel Eady had known him, that she had been a frequent visitor to his house and that he had come here because she needed an abortion, would have humiliated her beyond words. He had gone further, concluding that because she was still alive, she must ultimately have refusedChristie's offer of an illegal operation because she couldn't afford to pay for it, and therefore given birth to a child. A middle‑ aged man or woman by now‑ did he or she ever come here, had he, Mix, ever seen this mysterious person? But Gwendolen, mercifully for her, knew nothing of these feverish workings of his mind.

She had been humiliated enough by her visit to the Internet cafe, where for a time she received no help from anyone. And she was utterly in the dark. Whether other people, all of them very young, expertly using the machines, found her bafflement absurd, she couldn't tell, but she felt they did, interpreting the half‑ smile on a face and the turning away of a head as signs of amused contempt. Although she had paid and she hated wasting money, she would have got up and left, abandoning foreverthese means of finding Stephen Reeves. But just as she pushed back her chair in despair a young man who had just come in asked her if she had a problem.

" I am afraid I can't seem to make it… "

" What is it you want to know? " he asked.

Would there be any harm in telling this stranger? She would never see him again. And surely he couldn't guess her reasonfor searching for Stephen Reeves? Deciding to confide in him was one of the biggest decisions of Gwendolen's long life.

" I wish to discover the‑ er, whereabouts of a Dr. Stephen Makepeace Reeves. " She sensed that giving Stephen's age would rouse incredulity in this twenty‑ year‑ old, but she couldn't help that. " He would be eighty years old. He's a doctor of medicine and he once practiced here in Ladbroke Grove‑ oh, a long long time ago, fifty years ago. "

If her helper found the request an odd one he gave no signof it. In spite of her shyness and her very real fear of the computer and what it might do, she was fascinated by the quick sure way he conjured up one picture after another on the screen; columns of text, squares of printing, and boxes of information followed one another, unfolding and rolling, and in somany different colors. Then, there he was: Stephen MakepeaceReeves, 25 Columbia Road, Woodstock, Oxfordshire, with a phone number and something the young man said was an e‑ mail address, and then a kind of biography of him, telling her when and where he was born, where he took his medical training, that he had been married to Eileen Summers and they had ason and a daughter. He had left Notting Hill and become apartner in a practice in Oxford, where he had remained until his retirement in 1985. In the years that followed he had written several books on the life of a doctor in a famous university town, one of which had been the forerunner of a television series.

His wife, Eileen, had sadly died recently, aged seventy‑ eight. Gwendolen sighed happily and hoped the young man didn't notice. All she wanted now was to be alone, but curiosity remained and she had to know.

" Does everyone have something like that in there? " She pointed with one finger close to the screen, half afraid, half hopeful, that her own history might be concealed in its depths.

" Not like that. He's got a website, you see. On account of writing those books, I guess, and getting that stuff on TV"

Gwendolen hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about, but she thanked him and left. She had shopping to do but not just at present, she couldn't do anything now but think. Mr. Cellini's car, which had been parked outside when she left, was gone. She was relieved. Although she and he had little contact, the fact that he was in the house, though all the way upthere in what her mother had called the attics, slightly interfered with the absolute peace she needed to think in and remember and plan.

For a while she sat in the drawing room where the dusty atmosphereand the smells of fabrics uncleaned for half a century, damp, mildew, flaking plaster, and dead insects combined to remind her comfortingly of distant happy times. But something that hadn't been there half a century before, the grind and screech and throb of traffic passing outside the window, sent her upstairs to her bedroom, where things were marginally better.

Otto was eating a mouse in front of the fireplace, where ashes from a fire lit in 1975 still lingered in the grate. He never brought mice to her as a gift, as most cats would to their owners, but took them to his favorite places, bit their heads off, and ate as much of the rest of them as he fancied. Gwendolen took no more notice of him than she had ever done, apart from putting his food down, since he had walked into St. Blaise House from nowhere a year before. She kicked off her shoes, lay on the bed, and pulled the pink silk eiderdown over her feet and legs.

Perhaps she would go to Oxford. Perhaps even, daringly, spend a weekend there. At the Randolph. That was where Papa always stopped if he wasn't invited by the master of some college to stay in a set designated for distinished guests. While there she would take a taxi out to Woodstock, though perhaps there was a bus. Taxis were very expensive. Or write a letter. It was usually best, in these circumstances, to write first. On the other hand, she had no previous experience of these circumstances…

The music she had been vaguely aware of since she came into the bedroom seemed gradually to increase in volume. It wasn't coming through the wall but through the ceiling. So Mr. Cellini must be at home in spite of the absence of his car. Perhaps it had gone to be mended or whatever one did with cars. She went to the door and opened it, annoyed but at thesame time rather gratified that her tenant liked real music, afterall. Whatever he said, that must have been he playing Lucia theother day. This time it was a Bach toccata.

Gwendolen would have been incredulous if, before the arrival of Mr. Cellini, anyone had told her she would tolerate with patience, and even pleasure, sounds coming from the rented flat. But, really, classical music was another thing, and she didn't have to pay for the electricity used up in playing it. So long as he didn't fancy Prokofiev‑ she couldn't stand those Russians‑ she wasn't at all perturbed. Back on the bed, she imagined coming face to face with Stephen Reeves outside the gates of Blenheim Palace. He would know her at once, and taking both her hands in his, tell her she hadn't changed a bit. Then she would show him her mother's engagement ring she wore in place of the one he hadn't given her. Perhaps he would slip it off her finger and transfer it to her left hand. With this ring I thee wed…

At Shoshana's Spa, Mix attended to the next batch of machines. It was his fourth visit, he had finished what he was coming to call the " day job" and got here just before five. On the other occasions he had chosen morning on his day off, early morning before work, and the middle of the day in his lunch break, buton none of these visits had he seen Nerissa. Now there wasnothing left to do to these machines for at least six months andhis only excuse for coming back was to see Danila.

If Mix had his way he would never have set eyes on Danila again. Unfortunately, she very evidently felt the reverse about him. Not an analyst of character, he nevertheless understood she was a loser, a woman with little if any self‑ esteem, one who was looking for a man to cling to, love, and obey as a pet dog might. In him she believed she had found that man. Recognizing her, if dimly, as a victim and one who, seeing herself as of no account, merited being treated that way, he was unwilling to spend money on her or take her anywhere she might be seen as with him. He wasn't proud of her flat chest and skinny legs, he rweasel face and hungry eyes. Their evening at the Kensington Park Hotel was an isolated visit. Since then he had simply called around at her place in Oxford Gardens with a couple of bottles and spent the evening there.

She regarded him as her boyfriend. He wanted to know if she had told any of her friends about him and she said she hadn't really got any friends. There was Kayleigh, of course, but she hadn't mentioned him to Kayleigh. It might upset her. She hadn't a boyfriend of her own. Danila had only been in London six months. Before that she'd worked at Shoshana's Beauty Zenana in Lincoln.

" Madam Shoshana wanted me to work late, but I said I couldn't, I was seeing my boyfriend. I never said it was you on account of you having that contract with her. I thought it would look funny. "

Mix understood that he could drop her whenever he felt like it. There would be no repercussions. Meanwhile he didn'tmind shagging her, his body and mind, and hers, desirous and relaxed from the sweetish red wine. In some ways, she was a better option than Colette Gilbert‑ Bamber, who thrashed about, wriggling and biting and shouting instructions. Danila lay passive and yielding, asking nothing, receiving what she ould get and smiling as the long shudder passed through her. For such a bony girl, she felt surprisingly soft, and when he kissed her, as he occasionally did, her thin lips seemed to swell and grow warm.

But it wasn't enough to hold him, as he told himself when he returned to St. Blaise House at midnight, wrapping his darkscarf round his eyes as he climbed the tiled flight blind, in case Reggie's ghost was in the passage. He said nothing about the ghost to Danila, but asked her if she knew Ruth Fuerst had lived just down the road.

" Who? "

It was always a surprise to Mix to discover anyone living in, Notting Hill not knowing about Christie and his murders. Fifty years ago it may have been, but it was still fresh in theminds of intelligent people. What could you expect from a girlas thick as Danila?

" She was the first woman Christie murdered. She lived at number 41. " He told her about Reggie as they lay on her bed after sex. Ruth Fuerst, Muriel Eady, very probably Beryl Evans and her daughter Geraldine, several others, and Ethel Christieherself. All of them strangled and buried in the house or the garden. " If I was him and you were one of them, " he said. " I'd have screwed you the moment you were dead. "

" You're kidding me. "

" Oh, no. That's what he did. You can go and see where he lived if you like. It's not far, but it's all changed, not the same. "

He didn't offer to show her. " The old woman my flat belongs to, I mean it's her house, she knew him, they were close, he was going to do an abortion on her but she ran away. "

" You're giving me the creeps, Mix. "

He laughed. " I'm going to open the other bottle. Don't get up. "

A quarter of an hour before midnight he put his clothes on, a male Cinderella, preparing to be home at the appointed hour. A real dump, he thought, looking round the room, not particularly dirty, but an untidy mess and not a decent piece of furniture to be seen. The curtains looked as if made from a bedsheet split down the middle. " You can come to my place next time, " he said, carefully considering the implications and deciding St. Blaise House was safe and a lot more comfortable. It amused him to think how impressed she would be. " About eight onFriday? "

" Can I really? " She looked at him with shining eyes.

" What a creep, he thought, hasn't got a clue. He didn't really like her. No, that was wrong. He hated her and he realized why. She reminded him of his mother. Here, in her, was thes ame weakness and passivity, the same inadequacy‑ look at the mess in that room of hers. Like his mother, she wasn't goodlooking or clever or successful at anything, she hadn't a scrap of pride and she let any man screw her who wanted to. The first time he and she went out she'd let him. To be worth having, women should be hard to get. Not that Colette was, but she was a nymphomaniac, all the reps said so. His anger with his mother was transferring itself to Danila. That was the effect she had on a man, he thought. She made him want to strike her just as his mother did.

He was relieved none of Danila's neighbors were about, no sign of the Middle Eastern man, and he had to tell himself not to be so anxious as he emerged into the cold night air, he wasn't Reggie, he wasn't a murderer fearful of being recognized neart he scene of a crime. " What did it matter if anyone saw him? They'd forget in five minutes, anyway. Abstractedly, he fingered the cross in his pocket. These days he found he did this more and more, especially when in contact with the numberthirteen, passing 13 Oxford Gardens, for intance, or attending to the thirteenth treadmill at Shoshana's.

More deserving of his attention, he thought next day, was getting to know Nerissa. So far he was nowhere. His next move might be to put himself on the Shoshana Spa waiting list for membership. It would be a simple matter to get Danila to move him up the list, move him to the top, even perhaps let him in without his going on it at all. Then he'd be able to go there whenever he liked. And it would be good for him. He had to admit that he wasn't getting very far with his walking or cutting down on junk food. Only half an hour ago, on leaving Colette's, he'd bought a Cadbury's fruit and nut bar and a packet of crisps, all of which had mysteriously been consumed while he sat in the car thinking.

He'd ask Danila on Friday. Correction, he'd tell her on Friday, tell her what he wanted and to do it. If he went to the spa every day for a week he'd be bound to see Nerissa, and once he'd seen her… Mix told himself he was confident in his relations with women and he understood that it was because of this confidence that he managed to get the ones he wanted. Mostly. If he were strictly honest with himself, he'd admit that when it came to one he really wanted a lot, he wasn't so successful. " Why was that? He must remember that and once he'd met Nerissa, go slowly, carefully. There was no doubt he wanted her more than he ever had anyone before. For herself, ofcourse, but also for the fame she'd bring him.

All this introspection wearied him and as he drove off to his next call, his mind wandered into a fantasy of escorting Nerissa to some glittering function, say the Bafta Awards ceremonywhere they laid red carpet out on the pavements for the stars towalk on when they stepped out of their cars. She'd be wearing a wonderful see‑ through dress and her own diamonds andhe'd be in a tuxedo, beautifully fitting his new slim figure. Mixhad never thought much about marriage, beyond knowing hed idn't want it, or not yet, not till he was approaching forty maybe. But now… If he played his cards right, why shouldn't he marry Nerissa? If he was going to get married one day, whowould suit him better than her and suit him now?

A letter was decided upon. Though it was many years since she had written a letter and as long since she had received one, Gwendolen believed she wrote well. Any piece of prose sheproduced would be a joy to read and kindle in the heart of the recipient a sensation of the good days gone by when people could spell, wrote good English without grammatical errors, and knew how to construct a sentence. A missive she had been sent by some company purporting to supply her with gas had contained the sentence, " You will of received our communication. "

Of course she had replied in stinging words about the undoubted and rapid failure of any business unwise enough to employ illiterates, but had had no answer.

Now she was writing to Stephen Reeves and finding the task difficult. For the first time in her life she wished she had a television set so that she could have seen his programs about a country doctor. What a surprise it would have been to see his name come up on the screen! If she had known the series wasto be transmitted she could have stood outside the television shop in Westbourne Grove and watched it through the window. As things were, she couldn't write to him as she would have liked to, that she had seen his programs and enjoyed them. " Watching your stories brought to life on the small screen inspired ‑ no, prompted, no, encouraged? ‑ impelled me to write toyou after so many years. Although in some doubt as to the author'sidentity, I acquainted myself with your website which ‑ it wouldmake him see that she had moved with the times if she mentioned the website. Then Gwendolen remembered that ofcourse she hadn't seen the series, she hadn't got television, and she must start again.

Hearing from an acquaintance that you had ventured into the realm of television, I was moved to‑ the young man in the Internetcafe would surely count as an acquaintance. She was anxious not to begin by telling untruths. I was moved to renew oldfriendship ‑ was that too forward? Most people would say fiftyyears was a long break in any friendship‑ I was moved to get intouch with you. She would have to say why. She would have tosay she wanted to see him. Gwendolen screwed up her fifth effortand sat disconsolate. It might be best to concentrate withoutpen and paper and resolve on her words before starting towrite them down.

A serious young man, Darel Jones was handling his move to a Docklands flat with tender care for his parents. Through school and university and his postgraduate studies, he had lived at home and now, at the age of twenty‑ eight, with a new and much better paid job, it was time to leave. Knowing he must do so before he was thirty, he had been careful once he came of age to do his own washing and ironing, eat out four times aweek, visit his girlfriends' places rather than bring them home for the night, and generally be independent. Thus he trod a fine line, for his mother would willingly and happily have done everything for him, welcomed girls, and forced herself not to apply the double standard, inwardly congratulating him on his choice while condemning them for their unchastity. He had spent at least two evenings a week with his parents, taken them out, gone to the cinema with them, been charming to their friends, and scrupulously thanked his mother for performing small services for him. Now he was leaving, to live at the other end of London on his own.

Neither parent had uttered a word of objection but on the eve of his move, the new furniture installed, his clothes in twosuitcases in the hall waiting to be put into his car, he saw a tear trickle down his mother's cheek.

" Come on, Mum. Cheer up. Suppose I'd been going to Australia like your chum Mrs. What'sher name's son. "

" I didn't say a word, " said Sheila Jones defensively. " Tears speak louder. "

" What'll you be like when he gets married? " Her husband passed his handkerchief, a move he had made on an average once a week during their thirty‑ year marriage.

" I hope he will. I know I'm going to love his wife. "

Darel wasn't so sure. " That's a long way off, " he said. " Look, I want you both to say you'll come over to dinner on Saturday. I'll be straight by then. "

Sheila began to cheer up. " Tom and Hazel want us all to going next door for a drink this evening to say good‑ bye. I said wewould. Nerissa will be there. "

Darel considered, but not for long. " You go, " he said. " You can say good‑ bye for me. "

" Oh, we wouldn't go without you. There'd be no point. Besides, we'd miss our last few precious hours with you. "

If she hadn't said that model would be there he might have agreed. Nerissa Nash‑ why couldn't she have kept her father's interesting surname? ‑ was very beautiful, any man would admit that, and according to his father, a nice girl. But Darel was wary of the whole celebrity world. He knew of it only from what he read in the newspapers. Since his preferred reading was usually the Financial Times, this wasn't much of a guide, but certain emotive words suggestive of that world aroused his distaste: club, fashion, star, public appearance, designer, and of course " celebrity" itself were among them. Someone belonging in that so‑ called elite must be empty‑ headed, ignorant, tasteless, and shallow. Such people were heading for empty, unhappy lives, failed relationships, dysfunctional families, alienatedchildren, and a desperate unwilliness to grow old.

What a prig you are, he often told himself, always resolving to be less censorious. The fact remained that he had no wish to extend his acquaintance with Nerissa Nash beyond replying " Good evening" to her " Hi" and raising his hand in a modifiedwave if he saw her at a distance.