productive with it is roughly equal to all the time wasted in the gym when they’re young and capable of having fun.
There’s a quick pizza—cash exchange and, as the man says his thankyous, I lean forward and say, ‘Excuse me.’
‘Yes?’ For a moment, his mouth considers smiling.
Can I have a slice?
‘I’m looking for Violet Church. Perhaps I have the wrong address?’
He tells me she’s not home and offers to take a message. I have seen Violet once a week for almost a year. This man is too young to be either the old husband or the older lover.
‘Are you expecting her soon?’
‘Are you a friend of hers?’
We could go on with this routine all night. Someone’s got to give. He looks fit; he’s holding that pizza box like it weighs nothing. I’m weak from hunger.
‘My name is Stanzi Westaway. I need a quick chat with her. She knows me.’
The corners of his mouth turn down. He says my name, rolling it around in his mouth like he’s learning a foreign language. ‘You’d better come in,’ he says.
I thank him, admire the hall, which is a different shade of beige, insist he begins his dinner. ‘They’re not as nice cold. The anchovies get extra furry. Don’t let me stop you.’
He laughs, if you can call it that. ‘This?’ He raises the box. ‘This isn’t mine.’
He abandons it on the marble benchtop without even taking a peek inside, ushers me to the lounge and gestures to a two-seater the colour of oatmeal. Then, just as I sit, he says, ‘What kind of name is Stanzi?’
‘The regular kind. Short for Constance.’
He nods, as though my answer has given something away. ‘Pays well, does it? Counselling?’
‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I didn’t throw it. Len Church. Violet’s father.’
Well, well. Before I can reply, I hear the front door opening. ‘Daddy?’ Violet calls.
‘In here, baby,’ he says. ‘You have a visitor.’
Violet has opted for the full Newton-John: pastel leotard, high ponytail and fuzzy wrist bands. When she sees me, shedrops her gym bag and it clatters on the parquetry. ‘Oh,’ she says. I say hello and wave. She does not wave back. Then she says, ‘Did the pizza come?’
He points to the kitchen and we wait in silence while she disappears and comes back with four slices on a plate: two on the bottom, two upside down on the top. A pizza sandwich. I ask her if we could speak, in private.
Len narrows his eyes, settles further into his chair and rests his fingertips together like a Bond villain. Violet shrugs and sits on the wide arm of his chair, leaning back with her arm over his shoulder.
‘I’ll only tell him after you leave.’
‘All right then,’ I say. ‘Good to know where we stand.’
I take a deep breath, and I tell them a gentle, circuitous story, one that cannot possibly offend, about how easy it is to drop things and how careless I am about putting things away in their right spot among all the things in my office, and how the coin is missing, the one I was showing her just hours ago. ‘I thought you might have seen it. It might have fallen into your bag, or your pocket. I could have accidentally knocked it off the desk. It’s my father’s. It’s very important.’
Violet stares at me, eyes wide like a skinny muppet. For the astonishment on her face I might be speaking Urdu.
That’s it,
I think for a second. That blank look is an admission, of sorts. Shock that she’s been caught and confronted after all this time, after all these stolen objects. A confession. Then she snorts and laughs and covers her face with her hand.
‘As if I’d steal something so lame. A dirty old coin. What’s it worth? Nothing.’
‘I wasn’t implying anything.’
‘You should know I’m a lawyer,’ Len says.
‘Of course you are,’ I say.
Violet sniggers at the thought of her avarice and skill spent on such silliness and all at once I know the coin is not here, not in Violet’s bag or pocket or secreted in her bra. It’s back
There’s a quick pizza—cash exchange and, as the man says his thankyous, I lean forward and say, ‘Excuse me.’
‘Yes?’ For a moment, his mouth considers smiling.
Can I have a slice?
‘I’m looking for Violet Church. Perhaps I have the wrong address?’
He tells me she’s not home and offers to take a message. I have seen Violet once a week for almost a year. This man is too young to be either the old husband or the older lover.
‘Are you expecting her soon?’
‘Are you a friend of hers?’
We could go on with this routine all night. Someone’s got to give. He looks fit; he’s holding that pizza box like it weighs nothing. I’m weak from hunger.
‘My name is Stanzi Westaway. I need a quick chat with her. She knows me.’
The corners of his mouth turn down. He says my name, rolling it around in his mouth like he’s learning a foreign language. ‘You’d better come in,’ he says.
I thank him, admire the hall, which is a different shade of beige, insist he begins his dinner. ‘They’re not as nice cold. The anchovies get extra furry. Don’t let me stop you.’
He laughs, if you can call it that. ‘This?’ He raises the box. ‘This isn’t mine.’
He abandons it on the marble benchtop without even taking a peek inside, ushers me to the lounge and gestures to a two-seater the colour of oatmeal. Then, just as I sit, he says, ‘What kind of name is Stanzi?’
‘The regular kind. Short for Constance.’
He nods, as though my answer has given something away. ‘Pays well, does it? Counselling?’
‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I didn’t throw it. Len Church. Violet’s father.’
Well, well. Before I can reply, I hear the front door opening. ‘Daddy?’ Violet calls.
‘In here, baby,’ he says. ‘You have a visitor.’
Violet has opted for the full Newton-John: pastel leotard, high ponytail and fuzzy wrist bands. When she sees me, shedrops her gym bag and it clatters on the parquetry. ‘Oh,’ she says. I say hello and wave. She does not wave back. Then she says, ‘Did the pizza come?’
He points to the kitchen and we wait in silence while she disappears and comes back with four slices on a plate: two on the bottom, two upside down on the top. A pizza sandwich. I ask her if we could speak, in private.
Len narrows his eyes, settles further into his chair and rests his fingertips together like a Bond villain. Violet shrugs and sits on the wide arm of his chair, leaning back with her arm over his shoulder.
‘I’ll only tell him after you leave.’
‘All right then,’ I say. ‘Good to know where we stand.’
I take a deep breath, and I tell them a gentle, circuitous story, one that cannot possibly offend, about how easy it is to drop things and how careless I am about putting things away in their right spot among all the things in my office, and how the coin is missing, the one I was showing her just hours ago. ‘I thought you might have seen it. It might have fallen into your bag, or your pocket. I could have accidentally knocked it off the desk. It’s my father’s. It’s very important.’
Violet stares at me, eyes wide like a skinny muppet. For the astonishment on her face I might be speaking Urdu.
That’s it,
I think for a second. That blank look is an admission, of sorts. Shock that she’s been caught and confronted after all this time, after all these stolen objects. A confession. Then she snorts and laughs and covers her face with her hand.
‘As if I’d steal something so lame. A dirty old coin. What’s it worth? Nothing.’
‘I wasn’t implying anything.’
‘You should know I’m a lawyer,’ Len says.
‘Of course you are,’ I say.
Violet sniggers at the thought of her avarice and skill spent on such silliness and all at once I know the coin is not here, not in Violet’s bag or pocket or secreted in her bra. It’s back
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