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Obvious what’s going to happen. So obvious anyone would be able to see it (even bloody Anderson). John: pitched forward, hanging on her every word. She smiles at him, flirts. Reaches out, pats his hand; grabs on to his fingers once in a while. His hands move closer and closer to her, he’s willing her to take them. He licks his lips; I know what that means. Rubs his fingers through his hair. He’s anticipating. She touches his shoulder, he smiles. He laughs at what she says, even though it’s not very funny. For future reference: bringing a client along for dinner with John is not a terribly good idea.
I can still remember with perfect clarity the feeling of his lips on my forehead. His fingers in my hair. Sense memories are powerful and can hurt. (Make a note.)
Fifteen minutes into this case, and I can already see where it will end. An empty box, a solved case, and a new woman in John’s life. A perfect excuse, a perfect solution. Better than mine, I must admit. A more complete distraction, a barrier. Something to remind John of his total normality, his perfect heterosexual future. Relegate me (whatever he felt for me, feels for me, might have come to feel for me) to its rightful place in the shadows. Not as invigorating as cocaine. Just as many nasty side effects (probably).
So: return to the cocaine, Y/N? I’m suddenly undecided. Lounging high and contented on the sofa still seems appealing, but in the state he’s in John may not even notice my altered state.
She flirts a lot, this one; more than most. More than she realizes. Flirts with me even, and no one flirts with me. (Why would they? My default reaction to flirting is to glare. Flirting is a form of manipulation, and I will not be manipulated. Insulting.) She knows she’s flirting with John, though, she’s doing it on purpose, and John is flirting back. Tight feeling in my chest. It hurts. Emotions are useless. Get in the way. (I never imagined it would go any way but this.)
(It was going to happen sooner or later. I suppose sooner is better than later.)
If I am the exception, the one he would consider, the one he might have come to love, to make love to, to fall in love with (all so very hypothetical, mythological, thought experiment) I would have failed, miserably. I couldn’t be her, I couldn’t be him. I can’t smile and giggle and bat my eyelashes like that. Act fascinated by boring conversation. Laugh at nothing. (Well, I can. Of course I can. But only playacting, only for a part. Only to confuse, manipulate, obfuscate. It would never be genuine, or honest. Are they always playacting, ordinary people? Or am I missing a piece?) I would have failed, it would have been awkward and uncomfortable.
This is for the best, really. (It is. Definitely.)
(Find a distraction. Heart thumps painfully. Distraction.)
What we know about Mary: her father disappeared six years ago under mysterious circumstances. That much she’s told us. What she didn’t tell us is that her mother died when Mary was very young. She was raised by her father, barely; he was largely absent from her life, engrossed in his job, didn’t know what to do with a daughter. Possibly blamed her for her mother’s death. A guess: she probably looks just like her mother, a painful reminder. (Once we see her flat: remember to check for pictures of her mother. Prove deduction correct. Stab of pride would be nice, amidst all these other emotional stabbings.) She grew up with a long series of her father’s pretty, glamorous girlfriends paraded in front of her. Learned to flirt with men, learned that flirting (and, of course, seducing) men results in male approval. In short: Daddy issues. No end of them.
“I’ve read your blog,” Mary says to John. “It’s so fascinating!” The kinds of words people use when the flirt; always superlatives. “You’re a really great writer.”
Have to give her credit for knowing how to pet John’s ego. He wouldn’t respond so well to talk about his past bravery or heroism; women who are impressed by his profession are usually interested primarily in money and John knows that. Talk about his soldiering past or his hours at the surgery are likely to leave him bored and uncomfortable. But his writing; that’s something he’s actively interested in getting better at. Praise John’s writing and he will turn slightly pinkish. (Useful to note.)
“You think so?” John asks. It’s working. He’s flattered. Pleased. Oh, John.
At least she isn’t lying to him. I wouldn’t stand for that. She means it.
(I suppose he has gotten better at it, the writing. If that’s your sort of thing.)
She’s been married. At least twice, likely three times. Not just marks on her fingers; her jewelry. Three earrings in each ear, expensive, more expensive than she can afford; two sets purchased by one man, one by another. (No one who had bought the first two would deign to purchase the third; radically different tastes.) Watch her glance around the room. She smiles at John, then glances at me. Smiles that flirtatious smile in spite of my obvious rejection of it. Clearly: she’s prone to infidelity. Two marriages, likely three: all of them ended in divorce. All of them likely ended when her husband(s) discovered her serial infidelity. Warn John? Not really my place, is it. He wouldn’t appreciate it. He would consider it rude, mean, unkind. Three marriages: more than three infidelities. Necklaces (two currently worn), bracelet: gifts from lovers? She likes jewelry as gifts from men, hoards it. One necklace, a heart pendant, simple, bought in the early 80s: a gift from her beloved but distant father? Of course! Still looking for the perfect father figure to replace him. A modest hero.
So predictable.
She’s not proud of it though; anxiety has left marks on her face. Struggles with it. (Therapist? Unlikely. Deep-seated shame, not ready to share it. Probably needs one.)
“Where did you go to school?” At least she’s interested in education; some of John’s dates have been more interested in the dance club circuit, had a taste for the Daily Mail. Not Mary: she works at a university. She keeps up with the news. She reads. (She has two books in her purse: one, literary fiction, the other, fantasy fiction. Enjoys fiction as art, but also for fun. Not a snob. Prefers red wine; a small new stain on the pages.)
Based on her loose definition of business casual, the vague smell of book mold that she can’t entirely wash off and the sliver of a date stamp on the left finger, she is employed in a undergraduate library; probably as a librarian. One that’s open late; possibly all night. Given her address, probably in central London. She doesn’t keep a very good sleep schedule (takes an insomniac to know one on sight); likely that she’s responsible for at least some of the night shifts. She knows how to talk to strangers. She charms almost everyone she meets. (Not me, of course. Not me. Certainly John.)
Three cats (one of them a ginger male). So she is a certified librarian, then.
Some money problems; her rent is too probably high. Likely in significant debt. No wonder this supposed treasure of her father’s is of such interest (is that cruel?). Shoes are scuffed, clothes have been washed too many times. She is relatively neat and clean, but she doesn’t have any extra income to devote to her appearance. She needs a haircut; has been trimming her own fringe (badly). Her makeup is cheap, but she’s kept it minimal enough that it doesn’t matter.
“Imperial, or LSE?”
They both turn to me, startled. I interrupted something.
“What?” John asks.
“Mary is a librarian,” I point out. “Which library, Mary? Imperial, or LSE?”
She looks confused, as people usually do. “LSE.”
“He’s got a gift,” John explains. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? He can tell almost everything about you just by looking at you.”
Mary looks decidedly uncomfortable. You can divide the world into two kinds of people (were you so inclined); the people who are uncomfortable and/or afraid at the idea that I can determine most (if not all) of the major themes of their lives within the first two minutes of our acquaintance, and those who relish it. The latter group is very small. So far it consists of one.
“Not a gift,” I say. “Just observation.”
“Definitely a gift,” John says. He’s smiling at me now. “Sherlock’s a genius.”
“So,” Mary asks, dropping a hand onto John’s knee as she leans a little toward me across the table. “What else can you tell me about myself, then?” It’s a challenge. There’s an edge of something in her eyes; it’s not fear, it’s defiance. Who am I in this game of Impress Daddy? The father that remained distant, the successful businessman, the one with the brilliant ideas that (probably) got him killed? Clearly. John is the soft part of him, the fantasy, the part she invented in her loneliest moments, the loving part she hoped existed and so craved. And I am the part that kept him from her. The part she hated. The obstacle.
Perhaps I should have been a psychiatrist. A bracingly honest psychiatrist. Not enough dead things in psychiatry, unfortunately.
“Your mother died when you were very young. You look like her. You work occasional night shifts, which works for you because you’re a frequent insomniac. You’ve been married,” narrow my eyes at her, glance at John; just how bracingly honest should I be? “At least twice, and you have three cats. One’s ginger. You prefer red wine.”
Mary’s eyes go wide. She is visibly shaken, thinks I’m putting her on, playing some kind of trick. Resist a satisfied grin.
“Is he wrong about anything?” John asks. He looks pleased, delighted, in fact. The warning about the marriages seems to have flown straight over his head. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so subtle.
“No,” Mary says.
“Amazing,” John says. He takes her hands, as if it’s her who’s amazing. As if it’s her who’s just proven a point. Been proven right. I feel an overwhelming urge to pout.
“Hardly.” Neither of them notice my modesty. They are looking into each other’s eyes as if they’ll find something there. I look away.
A week later, the case is solved, and John and Mary, relative strangers, attached at the hip, still staring into each other’s eyes, are engaged. (Engaged!) I inject one generous dose of my 7% solution that evening and wait for John to come home. He doesn’t.