I really can’t believe I’m doing this. Really, I can’t. I have taken an early lunch from work and am sitting—yes, you guessed it—at the Covent Garden Café eating a baguette which might be a lump of cardboard for all I know. And that’s not a criticism of the food here, it’s more to do with the state of my mind. I lasted a week before I did this though. Which, I think, all things considered, wasn’t bad going. And until I got here, I’d almost managed to convince myself that all I wanted was a cold coffee and a cardboard sandwich at a convivial hostelry and wasn’t the slightest bit interested in seeing if Christian was still around and how many other older women with dubious hair he might be drawing as an act of kindness.
I don’t know if you can understand how I feel. It’s like when you used to leave a disgusting, fallen-out tooth under your pillow at night and, miraculously, in the morning the tooth would have vanished and in its place would be a shiny fifty-pence piece. (Although the going rate in our house now ranges from a pound to a fiver depending on the level of pain endured in pulling out the offending tooth. Tanya lost one of her front teeth going over the handlebars of her bike, which is worth five pounds of anyone’s money.) But, in my heart of hearts, I always knew that it was too good to be true. Why would anyone, let alone a fairy, want a manky, bloody tooth in return for money? The tooth fairy always seemed to get a raw deal, and it left me with a nagging sense of doubt. Why would anyone do that? And that’s what this feels like, in a peculiar sort of way. Although I’m not sure I can really compare Christian to the tooth fairy, I think I can empathize wholeheartedly with the manky tooth.
Life was very quiet at the Kath Brown Design Studio this morning. See, I told you she had a boring name. Not that there’s anything wrong with being called Kath Brown, per se. It’s just not a sexy designer-type name, is it? Perhaps if she changed it to Kathy or Katy Brown or even Kat Browne, it might perk it up a bit. Anyway, whatever. Things are quiet and I’m going to take a whole hour for lunch. So I might just eat this baguette quickly and nip off into Neal’s Yard to see if I can find something quirky or pretentiously New Agey that I don’t need so that I can justify my being here.
The square is busy. Maybe that’s because the sun has deigned to come out. By the café there is a man painted from head to foot in gold with a squeaker in his mouth; not unexpectedly, he is squeaking at passersby, who in turn throw him money. There is a puppet theater called The Amazing International Theatre of Dolls, which consists of row upon row of wrecked-looking Barbie and Ken dolls and the odd Action Man thrown in who are dressed in bizarre clothes and are being made to mime along to popular hit tunes by an equally bizarrely dressed man who is desperately trying to make it look like there is some sort of skill involved. Across the street, a beautiful bohemian brunette is playing Vivaldi like an angel on a battered violin and making it look like there’s no skill involved at all. It’s a strange world, isn’t it? But, try as I do not to look, there is no sign of Christian anywhere.
I pay my bill and wander into the market. I could take the direct route up James Street and past the Tube station, but you never know, I might find something in the market that I can’t live without. Well, I might. As I pass through the rows of painted glass and silk T-shirts, it seems unlikely, and then, as I get to the other end near the back of the Opera House, he’s there.
He has his back to me and he is drawing a middle-aged woman and she is laughing and flirting with him. I don’t know why, but I feel sick. Maybe there was something dodgy in that damned baguette. I had my suspicions all along. I thought the lettuce looked way too limp to be fresh. I edge closer and see that the drawing is good. Excellent. But not as good as my drawing, and she laughs again and swishes her hair about. Christian puts his charcoal down, and she rummages in her handbag and pays him. Oh yes, she pays him! And then she “ooo’s!” at the drawing. It is a good likeness, but he hasn’t given her tempestuous hair or eyes that wouldn’t look out of place in Wuthering Heights.
I stand behind him for a second, unsure whether to stay or whether this is the moment I should walk away and get on with my life. You know that feeling when your gut tells you something, and another part of your anatomy, your brain or your heart or your feet, tells you to ignore it. And before I can decide whether to follow my gut instinct and leave, he turns round.
His eyes light up. They do. I have never seen anyone’s eyes light up for me before. I’m sure I haven’t—not even Ed’s eyes. And, my God, is it a heady feeling. “Ali,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
“Watching a master at work,” I say with a laugh. How can I tell him what I’m really doing, when I’m not even sure myself? There’s an awkward moment where we both fidget and then we should both start to speak at the same time, but we don’t. I do. “I came to say thank you for the drawing. I was in such a foul mood on Monday, I wanted to thank you for brightening my day.”
“You brightened mine,” he says, and if it’s a line, it works.
“Well, thanks.” Fidget, fidget. “I wish you’d let me pay you.”
“It was a gift.”
“Well, thanks.” Fidget, fidget. “I’d better be off.”
He stands hurriedly and nearly knocks his easel over. “Have you had lunch? I could have a break now. There’s no one waiting.”
And he’s right. There’s just the two of us in all this crowd.
“I’ve had lunch.”
“Coffee,” he says. “Have you got time for coffee?”
I look at my watch as if I’m undecided.
“There’s a nice little place down here.” Those eyes are so hard to refuse. “They do great cakes.”
“I’m on a diet.” I’m not, but I probably should be.
“I’ll eat one for you.”
I laugh. He is so eager to please. Eager to please me. Me, so used to pleasing everyone else but myself.
“Or we could go for a walk. There’s no calories in that.”
Or harm? I ask myself. “The sun’s out.”
“Walk it is, then.” Christian smiles and packs up his little box with bits of charcoal in it and tucks it into a Nike rucksack and slings it on his back. He’s wearing a huge white T-shirt smudged with the fruits of his labors and beige combat trousers that hang loosely on a frame that has not yet developed its full quota of muscles. The sort of clothes that Tanya’s friends wear. We smile uneasily and set off toward Neal’s Yard, not touching but not far away. And this just feels wrong, so wrong.
It’s impossible to talk as we try to stroll casually along. We keep having to part to let crowds of chattering French teenagers barge through. Why do they all dress in navy blue and behave badly? And why do they never have a schoolteacher with them? We cross over by Marks & Spencer. I head automatically for the Zebra crossing while Christian prefers to dodge the traffic, and I avoid thinking about tonight’s supper while I have this beautiful, beseeching boy by my side. This side of the road is more interesting, in my opinion, and quieter. We drift together again, still attempting to act like comfortable old friends.
“Have you been busy this morning?” I ask, and sound as if I’m talking to my children.
“Steady,” Christian replies with a shrug. “I hoped you’d come back. I’ve been hoping all week.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He laughs. “Do you believe in fate, Ali?”
“Not really,” I say. I actually believe in paying your credit-card bills on time, washing strawberries before you eat them and always wearing clean underwear in case you’re involved in an accident that requires hospital treatment and showing a young, attractive doctor your pants. See my earlier discourse on the tooth fairy, if you want to be assured of my essentially skeptical and unromantic nature. “Do you?”
“Of course.”
I want to say, “But that’s because you’re a child and you haven’t been worn away by the daily grind of just getting through life and your head is still filled with ideas and hopes and fanciful notions.” I don’t, because behind that boyish facade there is a developing man and I don’t want to crush his unfettered spirit. Not on a bright, sunny day like this. I turn and smile at him. “Let’s go for the cake option instead,” I suggest, and he grins back and we head for the nearest place, which looks tatty, but at least has tables outside.
La Place Velma serves enormous cakes. Christian opts for the no-holds-barred full fruit stall on a cream doughnut affair. My children eat like horses and look like stick insects too. It isn’t fair, is it? I plump for the more sedate strawberry tart and I think of my sister. Not because she’s a tart, but because she called me one, if you remember. And I think at this moment she might be right. Although I’m sure Christian isn’t trying to impress me, because he dives straight into his cake and pulls bits out with his fingers, something I’d go mental at if Elliott did it, and he has cream on the end of his nose and he must know but he seems entirely unconcerned. He eats with relish and is taking such joy in a simple cake that I can’t stop watching him. It makes me smile. A smile that comes from deep down inside my tummy.
“Where do you live?” Christian asks as he wipes his mouth.
“Richmond.”
“Nice. Big house?”
I shrug. “Yes. We bought it when property there cost an arm and just half a leg.” I’m horrified. I sound as if I’m talking to my bank manager, and can do nothing about it. “It was a wreck when we bought it. We’ve done a lot of work.”
“You and your husband?”
“Yes.”
“And you travel in to your design studio every day.”
“It’s not my studio. I just work there. But, yes, I travel in every day.” And the weird thing is, Ed works just down the road. Well, in Soho. His office is a stone’s throw from the Groucho Club. Very trendy address if you’re a media type. But, you know what? We never travel in together. Never. Well, once in a blue moon, but that’s all. Ed’s often out on location, I suppose, and he works later than I do, but it’s never occurred to us to meet up for lunch, and I always belt back the minute I finish to collect Elliott from his school, so a relaxed drink at the end of the day is out of the question. It seems such a waste. Maybe I’ll suggest it to him. I realize I’m drifting and turn my attention back to Christian. “What about you?”
“Notting Hill,” he says. “We get a great view of the carnival.”
“Expensive?”
“Yeah. Where isn’t?” He flushes slightly. “My parents still help me out. Until I get myself settled, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll write down the address for you,” he says, scrabbling in his rucksack for a pen. And I wonder why on earth I’ll ever need to have his address. He grabs a business card from the holder on the table, crosses out the address for La Place Velma and scribbles his own on the back. His handwriting is languid and flowing, and even if you didn’t know, you’d probably guess it was an artist’s hand. “You might find yourself passing that way and want to drop by.”
I take it from him and politely study the card. “My sister has a dress shop near there. She sells vintage clothes.”
“Cool.”
“Cool,” I echo with a laugh, and suddenly Christian looks shy. He can only be twenty-two or twenty-three and here am I, thirty-eight, fast approaching thirty-nine. What are we doing here together?
“I’ve put my mobile number on there too.” He points it out. Even impoverished art students have the latest technology these days, just like fifteen-year-old daughters do.
“Thanks,” I say, but I’ve no idea why. I start to gather my belongings and my senses. “I’d better get back. Things to do.” Yeah, like typing and filing and a bit of staring out of the window.
“Can I see you again?”
“See me?” I resist the temptation to snort incredulously.
“I’d like to.”
“Why?”
“Ali!”
“I don’t know….” I chew my lip uncertainly, and there is the sweet lingering taste of strawberry on it.
“We can be just friends,” he insists. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No.” I chew my lip some more.
He takes my hand and, I’ll tell you this for nothing, no other friend has ever sent a jolt through my fingers like that before.