On Wednesday, it’s pouring down. I’ve dropped off the damaged clothes at Moss’s tailor’s shop and I’ve got a strong feeling that at last, things are looking up.
Back at the market, the cream canvas awnings flap wetly. David Westwood is sitting on his chair, head down, engrossed in sanding something, possibly a dovetail joint. The rain is bouncing off my umbrella and he looks up at me with a flicker of interest, thinking I’m a customer.
‘Morning,’ I say brightly over the sound of the rain, hating to disappoint.
‘Hi, Fern,’ he says with a smile. He blows the dust from the wood and smooths his hand along it.
I stand and linger a bit longer, but he’s concentrating on his work again, at home in his universe of stars.
There’s something about that kind of single-mindedness that I find really attractive in a man.
I see it in Mick when he’s working and his world, his existence, becomes all sound. But then I wonder if I’m just getting my emotions mixed up and it isn’t admiration, it’s jealousy, and because I’m attracted to him I want him to concentrate his attention on me. Mick, I mean, not David. Obviously.
I move on to my stall and poke a puddle of water out of my awning with my umbrella then stand back as it gushes along the cobbles. I wonder whether it’s even worth setting up in this weather. There’s nobody around. Our customers are all staying dry in the Horse Tunnel Market.
I sit on my suitcase and my phone rings. It’s Cato Hamilton, returning my call.
Cato’s an ambitious antiques trader in his late twenties who does house clearances. He has, in my opinion, an individual MO, because he’s got contacts in the funeral trade who leave his flyers and business cards at the deceased’s, and Cato waits for a response from the grateful executors. He’s got a 20 per cent hit rate; being a stoic he’s pleased with that. His personal style is the weekend-in-the-country look favoured by auctioneers: tweeds, soft flannel shirts and cords in autumn colours – berry red, straw yellow, purple heather, as if he’s just coming in after a tour of the estate, his fair hair very slightly windblown. He’s got a whispy fair beard that he’s convinced will fill out in time.
He sells me the clothes because he hasn’t got any interest in textiles – too specialist, he says. I keep the ones I want, give the high-street wearables to charity and take the rags for recycling.
We first met outside the Angel Comedy Club in Islington on a cold night in January, clapping our hands and stomping our feet to keep warm. This was our opening conversation:
ME: ‘Great! We’ll be first in! Yay!’ (Holds out hand.) ‘Fern Banks.’
HIM: ‘Cato Hamilton.’
ME: ‘Ha ha ha! Seriously? Cato? Your parents must really love The Pink Panther films!’
HIM [aloofly]: ‘No. They’re Stoics.’
But we had an hour to kill just queuing and in that hour we found an area of mutual interest, which he described endearingly as ‘the search for pre-owned treasure’. In his case it’s an old master and in mine, a couture ensemble with a label discreetly hidden in a seam and no sweat marks.
‘Hi, Cato,’ I say cheerfully, shouting above the patter of rain on the canvas. ‘Have you got anything for me?’
‘Can you read Arabic?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘Oh. Right, what have I got? I’ve got some men’s clothing here, if you’re interested. Safari suits. Must be, ooh, about nine or ten of them. Large. I’ve had them a while, so I can give you a good deal on the price.’
I laugh. ‘Nine or ten safari suits?’
‘He was a bit of an armchair traveller, this guy. Collected adventure books but he never left the country, his wife said.’
Making him promise to keep me in mind, I then google the local churches to find out when their sales are on. Primrose Hill, Belsize Park and Regent’s Park are areas that regularly enjoy sharing the distribution of wealth. Naomi Watts is happy to hear from me. Her church has started a weekly clothing sale on Sunday afternoons during the summer, at the same time as they serve teas in the garden. I can’t make Sundays – they’re the busiest days in Camden Lock – but it helps to be practical.
‘Come on Saturday night for sorting,’ she says, ‘and maybe you could bring your Allen keys. The clothing rails need tightening up.’
‘Will do!’
I’ve just put my phone back in my pocket when it rings. It’s Mick, who I haven’t heard from for a week. He sounds cheerful, even at this time of the morning, and we flirt a little. I love his deep, decisive voice. He’s got the kind of voice that makes everything sound like an indecent proposal.
‘Quick call. I’ve got two tickets to the Jazz Cafe in Camden Town on Friday. Are you free?’
My stomach flips and I grip the phone tightly. ‘Oh, I’m free,’ I say breathlessly.
He laughs and we agree on a time to meet, then off he goes.
Mick’s phone call restores my energy. I watch the raindrops bouncing off the cobbles and I squint at the sky. The dark clouds are fading to silver grey. I pay another visit to my neighbour. ‘Hey, David!’
He looks up at me, eyebrows raised in query, watching me loitering under my umbrella.
‘I think the rain’s easing off.’
He looks at me a little longer and when he realises that I’ve come to the end of my statement, he says, ‘Oh, good,’ and goes back to his sanding. He’s got one of those little fold-up silver mesh baskets and he drops a piece of used sandpaper in it then cuts himself a fresh piece.
I like watching him work. ‘That was Mick on the phone,’ I tell him, in case he thinks I’m staring at him because I fancy him. ‘He’s been on tour.’
‘Good,’ he says again.
‘So, where did you and Gigi meet?’
He looks up patiently. ‘In an Argentinian steakhouse.’
‘Really?’
‘She was trying to get a vegetarian option.’
‘Oh, okay. And then what?’
He puts the woods down and sits back in his chair with his hands behind his head. ‘It was love at first sight. Wham! It hit me right between the eyes.’
‘Wow. What was she wearing?’ I asked, eager to fill in the details.
He pulls a face. ‘I don’t know, something, some kind of skirt, I expect.’
It’s not the most satisfying love story I’ve ever heard. Maybe he’s not telling it right. ‘Usually, love hits people in their hearts; but you felt it between the eyes, did you?’
‘Fern, that was a joke. I don’t believe in love at first sight.’
‘Don’t you? Me neither.’
‘But I found her interesting and slightly …’ He tails off thoughtfully and shakes his head.
‘Slightly what?’ I prompt.
‘Unknowable,’ he finishes. ‘Still waters run deep.’
Gigi, in my opinion, has about the stillness of a Jacuzzi on full power, but obviously I could be wrong about this. I don’t know her that well.
‘That’s why I’m doing this,’ he says, gesturing around him. ‘I was a headhunter until I met Gigi. I’ve spent the last few years finding perfect people for perfect jobs and now it’s my turn. Thanks to Gigi, I’m following my dream.’ His face creases into a smile and his eyes meet mine. ‘It’s a good feeling.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ I say, realising I’d completely underestimated Gigi’s empathy.
There’s the splash of high heels in puddles and to my surprise, Dinah Moss is coming along the alley wearing a red raincoat, a black trilby, black stockings and red patent court shoes. (And it works.)
She sees me and waves happily. ‘Fern Banks!’ Coming under the awning with David and me, she lowers her red umbrella and flaps it wildly. ‘This weather!’
‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to thank you. You have given Moss a new interest in life.’ She looks at the stall in dismay. ‘What’s this with the boxes? Where are your clothes?’
‘Next door, but it’s too wet to open up. We haven’t seen a soul yet, apart from you.’
She tuts, disapproving of my attitude. ‘This one’s opened up,’ she says to me, jerking her thumb at David.
He grins at me smugly.
I snort. ‘Yes, but he hasn’t sold anything, has he?’
Dinah blanks me. She turns her back on me and holds out a wet hand to David. ‘Let me introduce myself. Dinah. Dinah Moss.’
‘David Westwood.’
‘Now, David, explain to me about these interesting boxes. Is it a game?’
David goes through his spiel and asks her when her birthday is. It turns out that both Dinah and Moss are air signs, both apparently capable of the power of the hurricane or the delightful caress of a summer breeze. ‘Gemini, Aquarius, you and your husband have perfect compatibility,’ he tells her.
‘It’s true! How we met was destiny, fate, true love,’ Dinah agrees passionately.
David picks up his box of drilled Perspex sheets and slots them into a box. ‘Now this is Aquarius, the water carrier. Look, you can see him bending forward with the jug in his hand—’
‘And I can see the water pouring from it!’ Dinah says excitedly.
‘That’s right! You’ve got a good eye for the heavens. And this is Gemini. See, they’re holding hands.’
‘I see it!’ Dinah says.
David says gently, ‘See these big stars in Gemini? This one’s called Castor and this one’s called Pollux. In Greek mythology, they were the sons of Leda.’
I’m staring out at the rain and only half listening as he starts telling the story of Castor and Pollux. I roll my eyes. It’s all a load of pollux, if you ask me.
For a self-confessed cynic, he’s very convincing, and his voice is gentle and almost hypnotic. As he talks about their perfect compatibility, Dinah agrees.
‘I was wearing scarlet lipstick and Moss said I was beautiful and asked me to dance. What do you say about that?’
‘I’d say he was absolutely right,’ David replies.
She swats his shoulder. ‘Oh, you! You are a charmer! I wasn’t beautiful, but he made me feel beautiful and I loved him for it then. I love him for it now,’ she said firmly, tossing her head as if he’s challenging her. She turns to look at me and says ecstatically, ‘Fern, you’ve met Moss. You know the man only, but I still see the boy. I’d do anything for him and he’d do anything for me. He’s my sunlight, my joy! I look after him and he looks after me.’ It’s a declaration of love and in the dark shadow of David’s stall, her face is radiant with happiness.
It’s depressing, that’s what it is. My relationship with Mick seems horribly superficial in comparison.
I wonder what David’s thinking. He’s frowning, too, and he’s still holding the light box tightly. The whites of his knuckles are powdered with wood dust.
‘And now Moss has work,’ she says, winking at me and pinching my cheek. ‘Thanks to this one.’
I yelp as the blood flows into it like a blush.
‘So now, Mr Westwood, I’ll take this box as you’ve explained it so well. You have something for me to carry it in?’
David wraps it up carefully and puts it into a brown paper bag.
Once Dinah has paid, she brandishes the bag in front of my face. ‘You see? He’s open, so I bought something. That’s how it works. Maybe if you were open, I’d buy something from you, too.’ The rain is dripping from the brim of her hat and she’s very wet.
‘Where exactly are you off to in this weather?’ I ask curiously.
She looks surprised. ‘I came to see you, because you and Moss, you’re in business now.’ She pulls me towards her and says in my ear, ‘You won’t regret it. I’m telling you, my dear, it’s a good decision. I promise you, you’ll get your reward.’
And there it is again: no good deed ever goes unpunished is an obvious lie.
Dinah tucks the parcel under her arm, opens her umbrella and steps back out into the rain.
I watch her splash along the cobbles, slender legs and red shoes under the red umbrella. I’m disturbed by her promise, because the reward’s not my motivation. I don’t want her to think it is.
‘She’s a character, isn’t she?’ David says, breaking into my thoughts. ‘Is she German?’
‘I think so.’
‘How do you know her?’
I tuck my hands in my damp pockets. ‘That day you and I first met, and you grabbed my case as I dashed onto the bus, I was giving her back the money she’d just dropped.’
‘Really?’
His gaze seeks mine and our eyes lock meaningfully. His don’t look so blue now; they look deep and black as the night sky.
He says, ‘The three of us were aligned on that day. Do you realise, Fern, if it wasn’t for that …’
I hold my breath and finish the sentence in my mind – we’d never have met.
But he carries on cheerfully, ‘I’d be warm and dry in the Market Hall right now.’