Past Imperfect

‘About four years.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘He’s a producer. In television,’ she added quickly, to differentiate this man as a working producer as opposed to simply a resident of L A. ‘I make these programmes where we discuss what’s on the market-’

‘I know. Infomercials.’ I smiled, thinking to show how up I was in the jargon of modern television.

Instead, she gave me a look as if I had slapped her across the table. ‘I hate that word!’ But the restaurant food wars had tired her out and she wasn’t looking for another fight. Instead she just sipped her drink and then said in all seriousness, ‘I prefer to think of myself as an ambassador for the buyer.’ She spoke the words with great gravitas, so I can only suppose she expected me to take them at face value. After a suitable pause she continued, ‘I went out with Do

‘Here’s to you,’ I said and raised my glass. ‘I hope you’re very happy.’

She sipped again, leaning back against the cushions. Predictably, her relaxation had brought down her guard and soon I learned that, as I had already surmised, she wasn’t very happy. In fact, I would be hard put to it to testify that she was happy at all. Do

‘In what way?’

‘They keep ringing him up, they keep wanting to see him. I know they’re after his money when he goes.’

This was quite hard to respond to. There was nothing unreasonable in their desire to see their father and of course they expected his money when he went. It didn’t make them unloving. ‘At least they don’t want it before he goes,’ I volunteered.

She shook her head fiercely. ‘You don’t understand. I need that money. I’ve earned it.’ She was extremely drunk by now, as she ought to have been, given how much Chardo

‘Well, I’m sure he’s pla

‘He’s pla

What made this odd was that it was delivered as if she were describing a crime against nature, when it seemed eminently sensible, even generous, to me. I didn’t dare go that far, reasoning that while I knew Terry, Do

‘Damn right!’ She reached across me for the bottle and filled her glass. As she did so, she caught sight of a framed photograph among a group of them arranged on the shelves behind the bar. It was of an elderly, white-haired man with two young women, one on either side. They were all smiling. ‘Those bitches,’ said Terry with soft malignity and reaching out with the hand that was not holding the glass, smashed the picture forward, face down. It hit the wood with a loud smack, but I couldn’t quite tell whether the glass had broken.

‘And you’ve been married four years?’ I asked tentatively, attempting to row for shallower water, but unable by the very nature of my task to leave her private life alone.

‘Yuh.’ More Jack Daniel’s poured down her ever-open gullet.

‘Then maybe he’ll alter things when you’ve been together for longer.’

‘Four years with Do

My ruminations were interrupted when Terry’s shrill voice brought me back to the present. ‘Get this!’ she shouted by way of introduction. Clearly, I was going to be treated to another example of Do

I was starting to like Do

‘That’s fu

‘Where is Susie? Is she in Los Angeles?’ With this question, as I should have seen, I had overplayed my hand. It was late and I was still faintly jet-lagged and perhaps, by this stage, a bit drunk and, anyway, I just wanted to get on. My words seemed to echo in the room, altering its atmosphere.

Terry was many things, but not stupid. ‘Why are you here?’ she said, and her voice suddenly sounded completely sober and absolutely reasonable.

You must understand that I was nearly at the end of my search. There were only Terry and Candida left, and so there had to be a fifty per cent chance that Susie was the Holy Grail Baby. In a way, I confess to hoping, for Damian’s sake, that it would be Candida Finch’s child, but there was no reason why it shouldn’t be this one. I felt I might as well just ask the question, far away from home as we were. I had no intention of telling Terry about the list and after all, Damian wouldn’t be especially newsworthy in this neck of the woods if Terry wanted to make a story about her infidelity to her first husband, which I doubted. ‘You said you’d been with Greg for quite a while when you got pregnant.’

‘Yes.’

‘Damian remembers that he had an affair with you around that time.’

She smiled, not immediately making the co

‘Anyway, the point is’ – this was it – ‘he wonders if Susie is really Greg’s daughter.’

I had expected at least token indignation but, unpredictably, Terry threw her head back and roared with laughter. This time it was completely genuine. For a while she was quite unable to stop and she was still wiping her eyes before she could answer. ‘No,’ she said at last, shaking her head, ‘she’s not Greg’s daughter.’ I said nothing. ‘You’re right. I had been sleeping with Greg for a long time by then, for quite a long time since I decided to get pregnant. I was taking no precautions and I began to wonder if he could have children. If he was, you know, fertile.’