Page 41 of The Impossible Fortune (Thursday Murder Club Mysteries #5)

Joanna and Paul have been to the theatre, and her verdict, as so often, is that David Tennant was very good, but the legroom was very bad.

They are having a post-show supper at a restaurant that throws a warm glow out onto a dark Soho alley.

The noise of the diners manages to be both a murmur and a buzz.

When she was a little girl this is what Joanna dreamed being a grown-up might be like. Paul is discussing the play.

‘The broken chair was a metaphor for grief, I think,’ says Paul.

Joanna loves him, but this sort of thing she can do without.

‘It was under the clock for a reason,’ he goes on. ‘The clock moves; the chair can’t.’

‘And the Maltesers in the interval?’ Joanna says. ‘What were they a metaphor for?’

Paul laughs. ‘You have to let me be pretentious, I’m afraid. I just need to get it out of my system every now and again. I can either do it here or at home.’

Paul loves theatre, loses himself in it entirely.

Joanna envies him. Her concentration span is simply not up to the job.

Joyce had once said to her that her favourite thing about the theatre was the ice-cream in the tiny tubs, and Joanna had, on reflex, rolled her eyes and called her a philistine.

One day perhaps she will tell Joyce that it is her favourite thing about going to the theatre too.

On one of their first dates Paul had taken her to a play called The Lehman Trilogy .

It was over three hours long, which might have ended their relationship before it began, but Paul explained that there were two intervals, and Joanna knew exactly what that meant.

Two tiny tubs of ice-cream. In fact, the moment Paul volunteered to join the ice-cream queue for the second time, without question or judgement, might have been the moment she truly fell in love with him.

There are many things she should probably tell her mum one day. But who can ever really tell their mum anything? Too much static builds up over the years.

‘How’s your grief?’ Joanna asks. There is something very specific she has wanted to talk about since Friday. Paul and Holly Lewis. Now might be a good time.

‘My grief?’ Paul isn’t sure what she’s talking about. She sees he’s not bluffing, and finds that interesting.

‘One of your oldest friends died,’ says Joanna. ‘I don’t think we’ve really talked about it. I know you’re worried about Nick, but you can talk about Holly too you know?’

Paul doesn’t want to talk, Joanna can see that. But why? Is he hiding a small lie or a big lie?

‘Why didn’t she come to the wedding?’ Joanna asks. Approach it from a different angle. ‘And don’t say, “She was working.” Come on.’

Paul has been using his knife and fork to emphasize his opinions about the play, but now he puts them down. Real life, it seems, doesn’t provoke the same emotions.

‘We had an argument,’ says Paul. ‘Well, she had an argument; I just stood there.’

A chef Joanna recognizes from TV has just sat at the table opposite them. She will tell her mum about that. ‘What was this one-sided argument about?’

‘Our wedding being on a weekday,’ says Paul. ‘A work day. She accused me of scheduling it deliberately.’

‘But I scheduled it?’ says Joanna.

‘I know,’ says Paul. ‘But, as I say, it didn’t feel like she needed me to contribute to the discussion.’

So Holly was angry that the wedding was on a work day? She couldn’t take a day off to see one of her oldest friends get married? There really is only one thing left to conclude. Joanna had concluded it anyway.

‘How long did you date for?’

‘Hmm?’ Paul, bless him, is wondering if there is a way to avoid a collision. But there is not.

‘You’re not in trouble,’ says Joanna. ‘But it would be a very unusual thing for a platonic friend to object to.’

‘Yes,’ agrees Paul.

‘And unusual that she might think it was deliberate too,’ Joanna adds. ‘So how long?’

‘A couple of years,’ says Paul. ‘On and off. A while in our twenties, then again a few years ago.’

‘How many is a few?’ says Joanna.

‘Two,’ says Paul. ‘Slightly less than two.’

‘Should we settle on eighteen months?’ says Joanna.

‘That sounds about right,’ says Paul.

‘Your last relationship before this, then?’

‘I mean …’ Paul is pretending to think. ‘It would, I suppose, yes, I suppose it would have been.’

‘So you rekindle a romance from your twenties with an attractive woman –’

‘Don’t,’ says Paul. Men can be so funny about previous relationships. There are three or four of her own previous relationships she has absolutely struck from the record, so she understands it. None of them had been murdered recently though. In one particular case she could but hope.

‘Gave it another go in your forties,’ says Joanna. ‘Split up again, and then met the woman of your dreams, that’s me, shortly afterwards, extremely shortly afterwards, and then got married within six months?’

Paul nods.

‘I wouldn’t have come to the wedding either,’ says Joanna. ‘I’d have been furious. You split up with her, I assume?’

‘It was …’ Paul is searching for words that are both truthful and also paint him in a good light. Which is the eternal struggle of all men who have ended relationships. ‘It had an inevitability by the end.’

‘So she split up with you ?’

‘No,’ admits Paul. ‘She’s umm … She’s a challenging human being. Was challenging. Nick would tell you the same. Often saw things in a different light to others. Her angles could take me by surprise at times.’

He wants to say ‘nightmare’ but refuses to. Another reason she loves him.

‘And yet you still dated?’ says Joanna, spearing some broccoli. A low blow but a fun one. She has dated a few nightmares in her time. Sometimes that’s just where you are in life. That’s the itch that needs scratching.

‘I just …’ Paul is not enjoying his turbot any more. Joanna takes his hand.

‘Paul, listen to me,’ says Joanna. ‘We found each other, I promise you never have to worry about anything like this. You dated Holly, I’m sure she had many good qualities, but perhaps it wasn’t either of your finest hours.

You moved on, perhaps she didn’t, but you’re here, with me, in a gorgeous restaurant and we both have rings on our fingers, and many, many notches on our bedposts –’

Paul cocks his head. ‘I wouldn’t say “many, many”. Would you say “many, many”?’

Joanna hushes him. ‘I couldn’t care less who you dated, when or why.’

Paul nods. He still doesn’t look delighted about his turbot, but some of the tension is leaving his shoulders.

A small lie, then, not a big lie. That’s a relief.

‘I will say this though.’ Joanna feels she should let him know, given the circumstances. ‘The police will be interested. They might want to talk to you at some point anyway.’

‘Oh, God,’ says Paul.

‘Just be honest with them,’ says Joanna. ‘People date people. Those people don’t usually get murdered not long afterwards, but that’s where we are. Just don’t lie. There’s no need.’

The TV chef has just complained that his sparkling water is too fizzy. Joanna will definitely be telling her mum that.

‘I don’t know what to tell anyone about anything,’ says Paul. ‘I know nothing about the business, nothing about who might have killed Holly, nothing about where Nick might run to. I feel like people won’t believe me. That they’ll think I must know something about something.’

‘And do you?’ Joanna asks. ‘While we’re being honest? Is there anything else you’re keeping to yourself? Because you feel guilty or embarrassed?’

‘I feel guilty about one thing,’ says Paul. ‘To answer your original question, my grief is not as deep as it should be. I’m very sad about Holly, and it’s awful, but am I grieving? I don’t think I am. Perhaps it will kick in, but it doesn’t feel like it will.’

Joanna nods. ‘We’re not in charge of who we miss. I had a dog I miss more than my grandmother, and, believe me, I loved my grandmother.’

‘A dog you had as a child?’

‘Not even that: a neighbour’s dog when I was in my thirties. We used to talk over the garden fence. He had wise eyes.’

‘Wow,’ says Paul. ‘Your poor grandmother.’

Joanna nods. There really was something about that dog.

‘You’d miss me though?’ Paul says.

‘It’s a moot question,’ says Joanna. ‘Because you’re never going to die. I won’t allow it.’

Paul smiles, and finally tucks into his turbot.

‘Here’s a question though,’ says Joanna. ‘Old friends, lovers, many years of emotional closeness. Any guesses on what her six-digit code might be? Anything she used for her bank cards or her phone?’

Paul shakes his head. The chef at the next table is now calling over the ma?tre d’ because of an issue with the butter.

Something to do with either too much or not enough salt?

The woman he’s with, who could be his daughter or his wife – but Joanna knows where she would place her bet – looks long-suffering.

‘What year was she born?’ Joanna asks.

‘’76,’ says Paul.

‘Younger than me, then?’ says Joanna.

‘Looked older though,’ says Paul, which, even though Holly is dead, is the right thing to say.

Joanna lowers her voice. ‘Are you listening to this guy on the next table by the way?’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ says Paul. ‘Your mum is going to love it.’

Joanna will ring Joyce tomorrow and tell her all about it. Catch up about Holly Lewis too. Funny that murder is one of the few things they find it easy to talk about. Perhaps because it’s something they didn’t speak about growing up? There’s no shared language to fracture them.