'Come on, put some clothes on!' Lucy's voice filled my head as I turned over in bed one morning.
'I'm sleeping. Leave me alone.'
'I'm stood outside. Answer the door.'
'It's Monday, why aren't you at school?'
'Half term. Have you forgotten that already. My my, how quickly you forget.' She tutted when I walked to the door and let her in. 'Just as I suspected. You look like a tramp. Get in the shower, have a shave, put on some clothes which don't have an elasticated waist, and a shirt would be nice too.'
'You can't say that. People don't say that now. It's not PC.'
'Elasticated waist; don't make me check in your wash basket for what you've been living in for the past month. I'll bet you've not put on outdoor clothes since that trip up town with your Clara-Bell.'
I scratched my chin and thought. Nothing. 'No, I meant tramp. You can't say that. It's homeless man now. People don't say tramp. It's not right.'
She shooed me into the bathroom. 'I'll give you not right in a minute.'
I appeared dressed and primped as instructed and like a sulky child asked where we were meant to be going, and did we really have to? 'What's the point? I've lost him. I can't even go to the group to ogle those fit and weather worn men. I have nothing to write about, because I can't betray any confidences, as I've promised. So I'm sat here, writing stuff for the school - which feels like I'm back at the school actually, I can hear the Head's voice in his e-mails - and these endless letters for the magazine. What about my writing, when am I meant to do that? I don't have time to shave and dress, I need to write, I need to create.'
'You really are in a bit of a 'poor me' mood today aren't you? Think back to how you felt when you were at the school. This has got to be better, no? No pupils to bother with, just you and your e-mails from Mr Farnham. Sounds pretty ideal to me. You're like a woman walking down the road with a huge ham under each arm, crying because she hasn't got any bread.'
'I don't eat bread.' I smiled.
'I will not tolerate this. Not today. We have things to buy, people to see. Primping to be done. I have a list. We're going to Westfield. Put your shoes on.'
Westfield - a word which would normally have filled me with joy. But in my not having left the house, losing the love of my life, missing out on the fitties from the Cocaine Anonymous group, not having any bread state, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd less have liked to go. It was an enormous out of town shopping mall, half an hour on the Tube into London's newly regenerated, post-Olympics-it's-all-going-to-be-wonderful, East End.
The shopping mall stood like an enormous bejewelled finger, draping across a market stall of vacuum cleaner bags and packs of birthday cards in bundles of ten. I thought of Clara-Bell.
In the shiny Westfield mall, I left the West End-priced hairdressers, fifty pounds lighter, arms full of essential grooming products Lucy had insisted I invest in, and a cold breeze whistling around my ears. 'That's the most expensive haircut I've ever had. I feel like I should call the police. I feel as if I've been mugged.'
'Cost per wear it'll be nothing. You'll have it for two months - every day, that's pence. Besides, I could hardly see the real, Simon beneath that shaggy mop and beardy frontage. It's like anything, maintenance is little and often, and not something you can leave for weeks, or months.'
We visited a few more shops, and each time Lucy explained I needed a look for meeting agents, for going to publishing houses, something which said creative, yet businesslike. 'Not homeless vagrant. That is definitely not the look we're going for.'
'What about all my teacher's clothes? I could use them?' I offered, hopefully.
'Have you worn them since you left?'
I shook my head, aware of where this was probably going.
'And why's that?'
'Because I'm not a teacher any more. I don't need to wear those suits and ties, so I don't. Never really liked them anyway. It always felt like I was on my way to a wedding.'
'I'll never forget your speech in the staffroom about why do men have to wear ties in summer and women can get away with blouses, or less.'
'Why do men have to start the day by putting their necks in a noose, but women get away without.' That had gone down well with the mainly female staff. Mr Farnham had reminded me of the need to mirror the students' clothing and of the importance of wearing a tie, at all times.
'Ready to get some clothes for Michael Mountsford?' Her eyes sparkled and we were off, diving in to the clothes shops and trying on appropriate things for my new life.
Turned out, Michael Mountsford's wardrobe was basically Simon Payne's without the stuffiness, without the corporate greyness, the terminal meetings seeping among its fabrics. Four pairs of smart jeans, of various cuts, not really skinny 'I think you're past that stage, now, dear' Lucy had said. A trio of jackets from H&M in bright red, grey and light blue. The day was rounded off by half a dozen flowery, paisley-patterned shirts. The cashier smiled as he folded the third one and said that you had to be a certain person to carry shirts like those off. 'And I think I am that person.' I smiled, and he nodded, taking my bank card.
'I'll do unannounced spot checks to see if you're keeping up the grooming regime. I don't want any of this moping about because of that man. There will be other men. There will be other sources of ideas for your stories. Look at today, that cashier with the shirts is due a book of his own surely?'
And he had been. I'd made a note of what he'd said on the Tube home.