Hemingway’s Chair

again, more generously this
time. ‘I’ve been watching you. You’re getting restless.’
    Martin
nodded at the makeshift counters, it’s working in the middle of a bloody
building site.’ Marshall looked at him appraisingly. ‘No, it’s deeper than
that, if you ask me. What you need is a challenge.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘I
think it’s time to get off your bike, Mart. Take on a little more
responsibility.’
    ‘What
did you have in mind?’
    Marshall’s
left hand played again with his mobile. He put his head on one side and looked
hard at Martin, as if coming to some sort of decision. Then he stretched his
right hand out towards him, index finger pointing.
    ‘If
you’re interested, there’s someone you should meet.’
    Martin
looked suspicious and Marshall gave him one of his warmest, most thorough, most
deliberately disarming smiles. ‘Come round to the flat tonight. About seven.
I’ll get Geraldine to cook something up. We’ll have a chat.’
    Martin
must have still looked dubious for he added, it could be worth your while.’

Twenty
     
     
     
    Marshall’s
flat was small and sparsely furnished. It occupied one side
of the top floor of what had once been both a family house and a country hotel
on the outskirts of Atcham. A few dull prints of naval inaction relieved the
blandness of avocado walls. The furniture seemed carefully chosen for its
neutrality. There was a smell of new carpet about. Martin glimpsed a tidy
bedroom almost entirely taken up with a large double bed covered by a paisley
duvet. A pile of magazines was stacked high on one side of a dressing table.
The room next to the bedroom looked more of an office. Through a crack in the
door he could see shelves full of directories, at least two computers and thick
clusters of wires and cables. He could detect no signs of a feminine presence,
indeed it was hard to think where one might fit in.
    ‘Why
do you live right out here?’ Martin asked, as Marshall handed him a pitifully
small Scotch.
    ‘Well,
it suits me for now. I’m not a great one for putting down roots. Here, have a
look at this.’ He picked up a copy of Business Investor magazine, and
tossed it across to him. The cover illustration featured a montage of aerials
and matt-black satellite dishes beneath the heading, ‘Future Perfect. The Next
Revolution’.
    ‘Page
fifteen.’
    Marshall
disappeared into one of the rooms and a moment or two later Martin could hear
him talking on the telephone. He opened the magazine and found the article, but
couldn’t understand much of it. It was full of terms like ‘information
super-highway’, ‘interactive services’ and ‘electronic cottages’. The gist
seemed to be that information technology was now so sophisticated that there
seemed little necessity for two human beings ever to meet again.
    Martin
was wading slowly through this world of endless possibilities when he heard a
key in the lock and a moment later Geraldine Cotton pushed the door open and,
holding it with her foot, reached outside again for two bulging carrier bags.
Martin got up. ‘D’you want a hand?’
    She
shook her head and he sat back down again. She pulled a last bag in and changed
her mind. ‘You could take those two through to the kitchen for me, that’d be a
help.’
    Martin
sprang up again. He took them through and watched her as she unbuttoned an old
wide-shouldered tweed coat. She slipped it off, revealing a collarless flannel
shirt draped low over a navy teeshirt and a short, tight, red leather skirt.
She slipped her feet unselfconsciously out of a pair of high-heeled shoes.
    ‘He’s
given you a drink then,’ she said.
    ‘And
a magazine.’
    ‘You are honoured. People usually just get the magazine.’
    Geraldine
dropped the coat on a chair and quickly looked around the room. ‘Not too bad,’
she muttered to herself, then smiled brightly as she passed by Martin. ‘Sit
down. You look uncomfortable.’
    Martin
selected the sofa. It was imitation leather of some kind and its surface had a
thin, sticky texture. It sighed unhappily as he sat down. Geraldine briskly
dealt herself a Scotch and he noticed she took it neat and large and very
gratefully. ‘Drowning sorrows?’ Martin asked.
    She
laughed. ‘Drowning Tesco’s. The whole of Suffolk was in there tonight. Don’t
they have any other shops round here?’
    ‘Not
many, thanks to Tesco’s.’
    Geraldine
laughed. ‘Are you a Green?’ she asked, disappearing into a kitchen that gave on
to one