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The phone rang and Lindsay picked it up, listened, then handed it to Chris. 'Charles,' she mouthed.
He cradled the phone oil his thin shoulder. 'Hi, Charles,' he murmured. Lindsay shuffled through the photographs again, her eyes almost blurring with boredom. The girls were all so beautiful, so perfectly packaged, so plastic—when you had seen one you had seen them all, she found it hard to distinguish one from another. Vivons did not a want a girl people couldn't remember, they wanted someone whose face made people rush out to buy their cosmetics.
'Not yet,' said Chris. 'But we'll find her, don't worry.'
Lindsay slid off the desk and went over to the window to stare down at the street below. London hummed and roared all around them, the roads thick with traffic, the buildings throbbing with noise and people. Somewhere out there was the girl they were looking for, but how could they find her when the agencies kept coming up with the same girls everybody used? They wanted someone new, someone with immediate impact, someone so special she focused the eye and held it.
'Don't flap,' Chris said lazily. 'Charles, just leave it with me—I'll come up with the right girl in time.'
A moment later he put the phone down and Lindsay turned to look at him wryly. He smiled and closed his eyes.
London was sweltering in heat all day, Lindsay found it hard to concentrate, her thin yellow cotton dress was sticking to her and every time she moved she felt perspiration trickle down her spine. Chris was in apparent hibernation, whenever she went into his office she found him in the same position, eyes shut, body limp. For once she felt like following suit, it was much too hot to work, but somebody had to keep the routine jobs going and from the start Chris had made it plain that that was what she was there for; he needed a girl who could carry his workload as well as her own. At times she had resented doing two people's work, but now she realised that in his way Chris was a genius; his methods were his own, but they succeeded, which, in that business, was all that counted, so Lindsay worked on without complaining.
By the time she left the office that evening she was exhausted, her spirits as flat as a pancake. She took the tube to Stephen's neatest station, feeling sticky and grubby and dying for a long, cold shower. First, though, she must talk to Stephen.
Alice opened the door to her. She was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a printed plastic apron, and her face was flushed.
'Oh, it's you,' she said, moving back to let Lindsay walk past.
'Hot, isn't it?' Lindsay could hear the children playing in the garden, their voices cheerful. She walked into the kitchen. Alice had been chopping cucumber, the smell of it filled the air. 'How's Stephen?' Lindsay asked, lowering her voice as Alice joined her and closed the door.
'He's in the garage working on
his car,' said Alice.
'Is he okay?' Lindsay wasn't sure how to talk to Alice, her sister-in-law seemed rather aggressive today, it wasn't like her.
'I wouldn't know,' said Alice, picking up her small kitchen knife and chopping with noisy conviction.
'Oh,' Lindsay said, watching her in dismay. People were acting out of character all round her, she didn't know this Alice whose face had set like concrete and who was slicing the cucumber as though she was guillotining an enemy.
'I'm not talking to him,' Alice told her, chop, chop. 'If you want to know how he is, better ask him.' Chop, chop. 'He doesn't confide in me, I'm only his wife.' Having despatched the cucumber she looked around for something else to use her knife on; so Lindsay decided to leave and talk to Stephen. It seemed wiser.
He was inside his car bonnet, only his legs visible. 'Hallo,' Lindsay said to them, and Stephen turned his head to peer.
'Oh, hello, Lindsay, when did you get here? Have you been into the house?'
'Alice is getting the supper,' Lindsay told him. 'I think.' Either that or the cucumber-chopping was therapy, she thought. Stephen extricated himself from the bonnet, wiping his hands on a filthy piece of rag. She watched him, trying to read his expression, which wasn't difficult, he looked drained and pale and quite hopeless.
'I wanted to talk to you,' she told him, and he nodded.
'I'm sorry Alice dragged you into all this…'
'Don't be silly, you're my brother, of course I'm concerned. I'm glad she did ring me.'
'I should have rung her earlier, don't think I don't know that, I just couldn't think of anything to say to. her.' Stephen kept on wiping his hands as though trying to erase more than the stain of black oil, and Lindsay felt like crying. He looked so defeated.
'How bad is it?' she asked tentatively, and he grimaced, his eyes down.
'I'm wiped out.' He flung the rag into the back seat of the car and closed the bonnet, still without looking at her.
'Have you tried…' she began, and Stephen turned those weary eyes on her, their rims pink as though he had been crying. Her stomach turned over and she bit the inside of her lip.
'I've tried everything I can think of,' he said. 'Short of a miracle, I've had it—know any good miracle-workers?'
'Daniel,' she began, and Stephen laughed curtly.
'Has too much hard-headed business sense to be bothered with me. Do you think that didn't occur to me? No, I'll have to declare myself bankrupt, sell up everything and get a job.' He paused, his body wrenched by a deep sigh. 'If I can, if anyone will employ me—I know I wouldn't.' He walked round the car and Lindsay followed slowly. She had never expected to feel so deeply worried about Stephen, he had always been the one who worried about her; now their positions had been reversed and it made her feel uncertain of herself, she wasn't sure how to handle the situation, how to talk to him.
