Jerry watched through the steam-slick glass as her mother paused at the door of the café to snap on her gloves before walking briskly into the haze. She had always been this way, for ever suggesting the path of least resistance. Didn’t Geraldine realize how lucky she was, to have been born into a family with social standing and respect in the community? Did she understand how generous her parents had always been to her? And how ungrateful she’d been in return?
The coldness that had arisen between them was the result of her nightmarish fourteenth year—an unendurable sequence of fights and hospitals. After this there had been a reconciliation of sorts, but with it came a realization on both sides that the older Jerry grew, the less like her parents she became.
She was increasingly uncomfortable with her mother’s ostentatious displays of wealth, and felt unworthy of her cushioned life. It was as if the three of them shared a secret: that she was a common foundling, a usurper to the throne of commerce and society, whose presence would be tolerated for the benefit of both sides.
For a while Jerry had failed to see how the arrangement could possibly benefit Gwen, who had shown her scant attention in the first fourteen years of her life. Jerry recalled an aimless, bored childhood spent in the old house at Chelsea, sprawled out on the untrodden pile of the midnight-blue carpet in the drawing room, reading for hours on end, minded by a slow-witted nurse, waiting for her parents to return home. She remembered exploring the floors above, creeping about as if any minute now her parents would discover the scruffy cuckoo in their midst and throw her into the street. But of course there had been times when they fussed and fawned over her, Gwen especially—and finally Jerry had come to understand.
Jerry was the final piece in the creation of her mother’s image. She was there to help Gwen show a caring side to the world. Gwen’s friends gathered to watch in warm indulgence as mother and daughter played happily together. Look at them, they seemed to say, what a perfect, loving mother she is. How does she manage it with all of her charity commitments?
‘Hey, fancy meeting you here.’
She turned in her seat and looked up.
‘Remember me?’ said Joseph Herrick, smiling slyly. ‘I mean, how could you forget?’
Jerry was stumped for a reply. She was suddenly thankful that Gwen had left.
‘You’re the receptionist at the Savoy, right? As I’m staying at your place, so to speak, I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality. Do many guests drop dead in your foyer? Is this some kind of regular occurrence I should know about?’ He lowered himself into the opposite seat and set down his coffee cup without waiting to be asked. He seemed to be wearing some kind of leather biker’s outfit more suited to a science-fiction convention than the NFT cafeteria. His dreadlocked hair was an odd look, but suited him.
‘Actually, that was the first corpse this week.’
‘I heard you found him. I’m sorry.’
She smiled uncomfortably, not really wanting to talk about it. The true effect of the death was impossible to share. ‘How do you like the Savoy?’
‘Well, I’d have chosen something a little closer to the street, if you know what I mean, but it’s cool. I can’t believe what you charge for a coffee. I’m glad I’m not paying the bill.’
‘So you’re here on business.’ She watched as Joseph emptied four packs of sugar into his coffee. He was a little older than she had first thought, twenty-five or thereabouts.
‘I’m preparing to start work on a show, set designing. This is my first big commission. They put me in the Savoy while we’re meeting with the backers. You’ve got a bunch of Japanese guys checking in tomorrow. They’re the ones putting up the money. Tasaka Corporation. Their boss is a man called Kaneto Miyagawa. In Japan he’s considered to be a great patron of the arts, and now he’s coming to London. That’s why I’m here tonight.’ He pulled a National Theatre brochure from his jacket pocket. ‘I’m seeing a production at the Cottesloe. It’s supposed to be kinda lousy, but the sets are good. Big dreams on a tight budget. How about you?’
‘I was having coffee with an old school friend.’ Thanks to her sessions with Wayland, lying came easy.
‘Listen, you want to come with me? They sent me loads of spare tickets.’
She laughed nervously. ‘I couldn’t, not tonight.’
‘Why not? If it’s that bad we can leave. I’m alone and friendless in a strange land, many thousands of miles from home.’
‘Don’t push it. Where are you from, anyway?’
‘San Diego. I’m the only black guy ever to take theatre design there. I figured it would get me to Europe, and it did. Ten countries in eight days, package tour. I cannot recommend it. You want to come with me to the play?’