It Had to Be You Read Free

a soup of the day. ‘Too tough.’
    There was more laughter.
    ‘Too expensive,’ added a chicken liver pâté, and there was yet more laughter.
    All this laughter hit the man in the white linen suit like a punch in the stomach. He was in a state of anxiety that no laughter could penetrate. Suddenly he was convinced that something serious had happened.
    He still didn’t think of an accident, though. He certainly didn’t think of death. It was the third day of Wimbledon. The day smelt of strawberries and cream. It wasn’t a time for accidents.
    His first thought was that she had fallen ill, was in hospital, couldn’t phone, hadn’t dared to reveal their secret plans. That would be surprising, though. She was very fit.
    He shook his head, to rid it of these speculations. A rather plump, middle-aged woman, lunching with a woman of similar age, caught his eye, and he tried not to look as if he was waiting for someone who hadn’t turned up. This irritated him. Why should he care? No wonder she hadn’t come, if that was the amount of confidence and poise he had.
    No … on second thoughts … on second thoughts that was exactly what he thought she had had … second thoughts. She had seen the road ahead. The clandestine meetings. The lies. The deceptions. The hurt. She had decided that she didn’t want to have to be Mrs Rivers, of Lake View, 69 Pond Street, Poole.
    He wasn’t worth it.
    This was ridiculous. There was some utterly trivial explanation. Any minute now she would breeze in, smiling her apologies with that memorable wide smile of hers.
    But she didn’t.
     
     
    The Pizza Express was like … well, it was like every other Pizza Express. Just about Italian enough to be acceptable to the sophisticated, not so Italian that it discomfited the gauche. Warm enough to be pleasant to enter, cool enough to discourage a long stay.
    A Polish waiter approached, trying to look Italian, trying to pretend to be really rather excited to see them. His insufficiently practised Eastern European smile foundered on the rock of Dwight Schenkman’s face.
    ‘Anything to drink, gentlemen?’
    God, I could sink a Peroni.
    ‘Just a small sparkling water, please,’ said Dwight Schenkman.
    Maybe a glass of the Montepulciano, thought James. A large one. But the words died in his throat.
    ‘Still water, please.’
    James studied the menu. How, when the main course was mainly pizza, could there be dough balls as a starter? How much dough could a man consume?
    ‘How’s the lovely Deborah?’
    ‘Very well. Very well indeed.’
    ‘You’re a lucky son of a gun.’
    ‘I know I am. More than I deserve.’
    ‘And Max?’
    ‘Great.’
    ‘And Charlotte? The absent Charlotte?’
    ‘Still absent.’
    The tension grew with every devastating drip of politeness. Now he had to take his turn at asking questions, and there was a problem. The names of Dwight’s wife and family escaped him entirely. He had once begun a correspondence course to improve his memory. ‘That’ll be a futile gesture,’ Deborah had predicted, and she’d been right. Halfway through the course he’d forgotten all about it.
    ‘Everything all right with your family?’ he enquired.
    Pathetic. The lack of detail was blatant. But the BWC didn’t seem to notice. He took a photograph from his wallet.
    ‘We have our very first grandchild.’ He handed James a photo of an ugly, podgy baby being held in the excessively ample arms of an unrealistically blonde lady with slightly stick-out teeth. In the background was a bungalow of quite spectacular dreariness. ‘Who do you think that is?’
    Inspiration, that rare visitor to his life, struck James.
    ‘Dwight Schenkman the Fifth?’
    ‘Yessir!’ This was said so loudly that several people in the vicinity turned to look.
    ‘Lovely,’ said James. ‘They make a lovely couple. And is that their home? It looks … cosy.’
    ‘James, that is exactly what it is. Dwight’s very New York, but Howard’s a real home bird.