Chapter 78
A few days later Jonathan from the Times called. I was vaguely surprised to hear from him, though not displeased. Despite our rocky start, I found I actually rather liked him. He had treated me fairly throughout our interactions and had diligently excluded my name from his final story.
"And how's the ex-Keeper of the Queen's Pictures holding up?" he threw out after we'd exchanged pleasantries.
I laughed dryly. "Oh fairly well, I guess. We haven't spoken in a while. In fact, the last time we chatted he pretty much told me to fuck off."
"Oh my, I thought you were the god of his idolatry. Whatever happened?"
I hesitated, not quite sure how much I wanted to divulge. "He thinks I'm morally compromised," I admitted semi-ironically, with a smudge of laughter underneath.
Jonathan's bark of scorn was instantaneous and sharp. "My god, that's rich. What a ballsy old bugger he is."
"Yes, but..."
He cut me off. "Wait, don't tell me you bought his crap?"
"Look, it's a bit more complicated than that,” I said, still unwilling to absolve myself from at least a measure of blame for the way things had turned out with Anthony.
"No, it's not complicated, Paul,” Jonathan said, echoing Michael Kitson’s words from the week before. “Blunt's a traitor. You, on the other hand, are not."
l was gratified but also annoyed by his adamant tone. "He's angry that I went to see Thatcher denounce him."
"Oh boo hoo. What's that got to do with anything?"
I smiled in spite of myself, but I was anxious nonetheless to move the conversation along. "Anyway," I said, stringing out the word, "how's the newspaper business?"
I could almost hear him shifting gears. "Oh yeah, it’s great, thanks for asking. The Blunt scandal has been very good for the paper, not to mention my career."
I sat back in my chair, relaxing into the conversation at last. "And who are you stalking these days now that you've given up on me?"
Another deep intake of breath. "Who says I've given up on you? Speaking of which," he said, hesitating slightly, "how's that chap of yours, that Nick fellow?"
"Not too bad," I answered reflexively; but then I added, realizing for the first time that the motivation behind this call might not be so impersonal as I’d first imagined: "Actually, we're finished."
There was a short silence. "Sounds like you've had a lot going on lately.”
I took a sip of water from the glass on my desk. “A few doors have closed, that’s for sure.”
“Any chance you'd like to talk about it?"
I was slightly taken aback. "Not really, but thanks."
He sighed. "Of course not, how stupid of me. Lovers' quarrels and all that."
But I swooped in quickly to ward off any misunderstandings. "It wasn't a lovers’ quarrel. It was a breakup. We're done."
"Ah," he said briskly. "Well then I'm sorry, I suppose."
"Thanks. Better to make a clean break."
"Still, it sounds pretty unpleasant," he said in a carefully sympathetic voice; and then he added in a rush, "Why don't we have dinner and you can tell me all about it?"
I hesitated, but barely. "I'm afraid I'm not really in the mood to talk."
"I see," he responded in a deliberately patient voice. "Then how about dinner and I’ll do absolutely all the talking, one hundred percent. You won't have to say a word."
“Not one word?” I said, laughing in spite of myself. “That sounds slightly awkward, I must say.”
He cleared his throat faux-nervously. "My point is, I'll keep the conversational ball rolling. Trust me, I can be incredibly chatty after six or seven cocktails."
“Hmm…so you’re proposing to take me to dinner, get drunk and talk my head off. Tempting, I must say.”
He jumped right in. “Is that a yes?”
I pictured his thick, wavy hair, his expressive hands, his brash, lop-sided smile. "It’s a maybe.”
“I had a bad breakup recently too,” he said after a moment, his voice more serious now. “We were together for three years. I thought it would last forever. Shows what I know.”
I toyed with the pen on my desk, gazing out the window into the garden, where an incongruously vivid bird, bedecked in bright yellow feathers, pecked listlessly at a shriveled berry. “Okay,” I said at last. “Let’s have dinner. But no spy talk, okay?”
"No spy talk," he repeated, a flickering note of triumph in his voice.