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The people I fantasised about meeting at the Italian café:
A woman with a huge shambolic house stuffed with flowers and dogs and people. Called Hattie. (The woman, not the house.) She would be upper class and absent-minded and would call me ‘darling Darrell’. She would include me in all her mad family’s get-togethers, including Christmas. She would try to set me up with her charming wastrel younger brother, Jago, more for his sake than for mine. But while Jago and I would have a brief fling (can’t decide whether the sex should be frantic and mind-blowing or companionable and giggly), his tragically self-destructive nature would lead him away from me and possibly into either a Turkish prison or a motorcycle crash in the Mongolian desert.
An older man with connections in publishing. He would be dapperly dressed and find me deeply interesting and charming but not enough to want to jump my bones. He would offer to read my books and would come to the café the next day brimming with excitement about my unique ‘voice’ and my intelligence and wit and humour. He would set me up with an agent friend, who would immediately take me on and win me a three-book contract with Black Swan. He would take me to tea at Claridge’s, where they do over thirty kinds of cake. Possibly, he would die and leave me his Nash Regency house and his collection of small Impressionist paintings.
Fabrice, Duc de Sauveterre. Enough said.
But as we all know, due to my chicken nature, the most I’d got to know about the regulars at the café was that they came regularly. We all had our separate tables; we all had our separate and individual little morning routines. I would bring a book and nurse my double espresso for as long as decently possible. Real names wanting, I had given them nicknames. Big Man sat out in the tented area, smoking and staring into space. He was, as you’ve probably guessed, a big man. Not quite as tall as landlord Patrick, but more solid. I placed him in his early fifties and decided he must have been handsome in his youth, but that age and endless cigarettes and perhaps circumstances (he didn’t appear to be all that well off) had turned a strong chin and jaw jowly and etched rows of lines under his eyes. His physique was that of a strongman gone to seed — not fat, exactly, but he was certainly carrying more weight than was good for him. His hair was military buzz-cut short and every day, without fail, he wore a godawful blue polyester bomber jacket that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in years. He never read, not even the paper, just stared out through the plastic sections of the clip-on tent. I’d tried this myself and you cannot see a thing. The plastic made the world outside as blurry as a pavement chalk painting in the rain. What was he staring at then? I couldn’t tell by his expression; it was neither sad nor thoughtful. I could describe it as neutral except that it wasn’t that, either. In some not immediately obvious way, Big Man radiated ‘go away’ vibes, though I’d hazard a guess that he’d phrase it more succinctly. I’d heard him order coffee only a couple of times. His voice was gruff and his method of expression terse. The normally voluble Italian brothers — I knew their names now: Mario and Vincente — seemed to know their customer wasn’t up for idle chitchat and they served him politely, but quickly and quietly. If there was to be a first person I approached, I’d make a wild stab that it would not be Big Man.
Mind you, I wasn’t sure that Mr Perfect was any less intimidating. One, because he had a voice that made Prince Charles sound like Dot Cotton and two, because he was the neatest human being I’d ever seen. For me to be that tidy, I’d have to be encased in resin, like a dead beetle. Mr Perfect — what else could I call him? — was, I guessed, in his mid-forties, and looked as if he’d stepped out of an advertisement for Patek Phillipe watches or Armani. It wasn’t that he was spectacularly handsome, although he was certainly a good-looking man. It was more that everything about him was clearly a cut above. Like landlord Patrick, he wore a suit that fitted him too well to be anything but bespoke. Unlike Patrick, he had clearly never known anything but affluence. He appeared to have no paying occupation — I’d never seen him with a mobile phone — so I could only assume he was a man of independent financial means. It would certainly explain why he was so freakishly tidy. His shirts were unfailingly pristine, with knife-sharp cuffs and collars. His ties were always in a perfect Windsor knot. You could have eaten off his shoes. He didn’t actually dust off the chair with a handkerchief before he sat down, but I got the distinct impression he wanted to. When I saw him eat a croissant without shedding a single crumb (a feat that surely should have been acknowledged by some worldwide authority), I decided he was an even less likely prospect for introduction than Big Man.
Regular number three was a woman. I’d nicknamed her Miss Flaky, as all she drank was herbal tea, and all she read were self-help books with the kind of titles that make you throw up a little in your mouth. She was around forty and almost, but not quite, beautiful. She had amazing long blonde hair, big blue eyes and the porcelain skin of a Renaissance Madonna. But the reason she wasn’t beautiful was because she wore the most hideous clothes in Christendom — Edwardian-style high-necked, ruffled blouses in beige or cream and ankle-length skirts that looked as if they’d been made from blankets that had been rejected by one of the more desperate refugee camps. These items were inevitably covered by one of two long, shapeless cardigans — one in dead-leaf brown with leather buttons and a maroon one with a stringy knitted belt. From the neck up, she was lovely. Full length, she looked monkey weird.
I suppose I had no right to feel disappointed. I mean, what had I really been expecting? That there’d be someone here who’d tick all the boxes of a perfect match? That our eyes would meet across the room and there’d be an instant connection, like there had been with Tom? OK, Tom and I weren’t in a room as such; we were at the bus stop. But there was a connection. I dropped my change and he picked it up for me and bammo! It wasn’t a lightning bolt of lust, a coup de foudre as the French say. It was more a jolt of recognition. An acknowledgment of each other, and how right we’d be together.
Yes. All right. I suppose I had been expecting that. Or at the very least hoping for it.
But if it was going to happen, it certainly wasn’t going to happen here with this lot. That little bit of hope had been crushed like one of Big Man’s fag butts under the heel of his crappy vinyl shoe.
What then? Should I still try to make contact? Let’s face it — I had precious few other opportunities to meet people. The one person who’d been keen to chat with me lately had only initiated conversation because he wanted to sell me a copy of The Big Issue.
I couldn’t, though! And it wasn’t just that I didn’t have the balls — although, admittedly, that was a large contributing factor. My problem was that everyone was so — separate. We all sat at separate tables, with at least one other table between us. Big Man sat alone in the smoking section, Miss Flaky in the far corner by the panettone, Mr Perfect in the middle, and me by the front door. Mario or Vincente greeted all of us with their usual bonhomie (or whatever is the Italian equivalent), but so far, none of the three had acknowledged me, or either of the other two. Not even a nod. I supposed that the reason they chose this timeslot was for its lack of other people, so they could read, or smoke and stare, in relative peace. Separately. Alone.
I started fantasising about a major event occurring, which was the only catalyst I could see for any kind of shared conversation. A car crash right outside. Or the chemist’s going up in flames. Eventually, I had scripted a full Die Hard moment, in which a car catapulted into a helicopter, which crashed onto the chemist shop, and the whole block burst into flames. Yippee kay-yay . . .
I should have remembered what my mother always said. Be careful what you wish for.
This time, I was expecting the knock. Landlady Clare had rung the night before to tell me she’d be coming round at seven-thirty in the morning with the builder. I felt my heart sink. I’d been in the house almost three weeks now and there’d been no mention of ripping out kitchens and bathrooms. Secretly, I’d hoped her baby brain had wiped the whole notion from her head. But no—
Clare was on the doorstep with a man who to all intents was a smaller, slimmer version of her husband. The same olive skin, the same dark eyes and close-cropped hair. Except this man was younger — same age as me, I guessed — and much better looking. Landlord Patrick was attractive because he exuded energy and confidence, but he wasn’t really handsome. This man had similarly strong features, but they were more refined. I also noticed he had a small gold hoop in one ear.
‘This is Anselo,’ said Clare. ‘He’s Patrick’s cousin.’
‘Hello.’ I smiled and extended a hand.
Anselo did not smile, and he gave my hand only a cursory shake. Righty-ho. Either he didn’t like women in general, or he just didn’t like the look of me. Or perhaps he didn’t like the fact that he’d have to work around me. I suppose it would be a bit of a nuisance to have someone watching you. You might actually have to build something.
‘Anselo and I are just going to run over the plans this morning,’ Clare explained. ‘Is that all right?’
‘As long as you don’t mind me eating toast in front of you.’ I gestured for them to come inside. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Clare.
But from Anselo, all I got was a curt shake of the head.
Jolly good. On top of angsting about money and why I hadn’t heard from my publisher, I was now going to have share my house with a man with no charm and no conversation. If I’d been made of sterner stuff, I would have seen that as the perfect excuse to sit at my computer and bash away at another book, confident that Hyppolite’s lack of contact was a mere glitch. But as we all know my stuff was considerably stern-lacking, I decided it was the perfect excuse to get out and stay out. Which I did.
And I entered a café that was a complete zoo. There were people everywhere!
‘What happened?’ I asked Vincente, the younger brother. ‘Are you giving away free coffee?’
‘It was a fire alarm in building next door. All the people from the doctor’s and chemist’s have to leave until the fire truck turns up.’
‘But it was a drill, right? Not an actual fire?’
Vincente shrugged. ‘Someone pressed the alarm. Maybe some crazy looking for drugs.’
‘Does that happen often?’
‘Not so often.’
Good to hear.
I ordered my usual espresso and then looked around for somewhere to sit. I had half-hoped Mr Perfect’s table might have a free chair, but no — there was a man with him. He was about forty-five, with curly brown hair that could do with a brush and a good trim. He wore a shirt under one of those Fair Isle woollen vests that were big in the nineteen forties, and Dickensian wire-framed spectacles behind which he squinted and blinked like a small, irritable mammal roused from hibernation. I was a little surprised to see that he and Mr Perfect were intently engaged in conversation. I had not thought Mr Perfect keen on conversing with anyone.
As I turned on my heel, I realised there was not one free chair anywhere inside. Even Miss Flaky’s table was packed; she had all the girls from the chemist with her Feeling a little foolish and obvious, I walked quickly out into the smoking area. No free chairs there, either. Great. My only options seemed to be to push back into the café and swap my cup for a takeaway one, or keep walking, cup in hand, back to the house.
Then I spotted the chair. It was at Big Man’s table. He was in the far corner, and the chair was tucked tight between his table and the wall. If I wanted to sit there, I’d have to ask him to get up and shift the table outwards. I could see why someone else had not already tried this. Big Man’s whole stance — the leg slightly outward, the arm crossed over the chest, the set shoulders — said ‘piss off’.
I glanced down at my coffee and saw the lovely rich crema on the top was starting to fade. It meant it was getting cold. After two weeks of sussing out the prices of food, public transport, phone calls, etc, I was less panicky about my finances, but I knew there was very little sliding room. If I wasted this coffee, I could not have another today. Suddenly, I became extremely pissed off. How dare some stupid person set off the fire alarm during my coffee time? How dare everyone decide to come here instead of schlepping up to the high street? Didn’t they know walking was good for them? How dare Big Man be such a rude prick?
Fuelled by burning outrage, I strode right up to him, nodded at the spare chair and said, ‘Can I get in there?’
At first, his eyebrows rose a fraction in surprise. Then his face settled back into its usual neutral (read hostile) expression. He stared up at me and took the time to blow smoke sideways out his mouth.
‘If you like,’ he said.
‘I’ll have to pull the table out,’ I told him.
I was no longer feeling so fired up. Close up, he really was quite intimidating. It was his lack of response, I decided. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and as such, you had no idea what he might do. He might do nothing. Or he might crush you with one giant fist. It was all rather unsettling.
Without a word, he stood up and tugged the table out just far enough to let me squeeze through the gap. Then he sat back down, angled his body away, and ignored me. I felt another surge of irritation. How hard is it to be even a tiny bit polite?
‘Thank you,’ I said pointedly.
His eyes slid sideways, but all he did was tap his cigarette on the edge of the Campari ashtray and stick it back in his mouth.
Fine. I pulled my book out of my bag and began to read. I’d re-read every Agatha Christie I could find in the library, and I’d now migrated to more nineteen thirties crime fiction with Margery Allingham. Her detective’s name is Albert Campion. It’s a pseudonym, as he is keen to hide his real identity — that of the scion of a seriously posh family from whom he is now estranged. His father may have been a viscount. Marvellous. I was hooked . . .
My ability to lose myself completely in a book used to drive Tom insane. ‘I’ve been talking to you for the last ten bloody minutes!’ he’d yell. ‘You haven’t heard one word!’ I’d reply, ‘If I’m reading, you know you need to get my attention before you start talking. What did you say?’ He’d fold his arms and say, ‘No, I’m done now. Forget it. Piss off back to bookland.’ And I’d shut my book and wait until he’d sulked for five minutes and then we’d be right. Living with Tom was a breeze, now that I thought about it. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a relationship that was all sturm und drang, slammed doors and the silent treatment. All right, I admit, I wrote a lot of that in my books, but in reality, it would be awful, wouldn’t it? But perhaps Tom was the only man on earth who was that easy-going. Or who loved me enough to want to always be kind . . .
Lost in the book, I don’t know how long it took me to realise that my table companion was no longer smoking and ignoring me, but collapsed forward and emitting grunts of pain.
‘Are you all right?’ I said.
He shook his head so briefly, I wasn’t sure whether it was an actual ‘No’, or disbelief at such a stupid question. Panic growing, I looked up and around. The smoking section had emptied out since I started reading. I jumped up and squeezed out from behind the table, scraping my hip against the wall. I sprinted into the café and, as I looked around, realised I had not even the beginning of a plan. Both Mario and Vincente were out the back. Mr Perfect was still in conversation with the man at his table. Miss Flaky was still sitting with the pharmacy girls. I rushed up to them and said, ‘Quick! Where’s a doctor?’
The girls and Miss Flaky stared up at me, wide-eyed. The man at Mr Perfect’s table rose and said, ‘I’m a doctor. What’s the matter?’
‘The man! Out there!’
I grabbed him by the arm and almost shoved him towards the door. To his credit, he didn’t resist. And as soon as he saw Big Man, he snapped into full emergency assessment mode. It took him about ten seconds to work out what was wrong.
‘Call an ambulance,’ he instructed me. ‘This man is having a heart attack.’
I’m ashamed to say that I froze. It was the phrase ‘heart attack’ that did it. If it had been ‘stroke’ or ‘pulmonary embolism’, I would have been fine. But those two words transported me instantly back to a knock on the door and two young policemen and the endless drive to the hospital and—
‘I’ll call one.’
Mr Perfect was standing at my shoulder. I turned and looked up at him. I don’t know what expression was on my face, but I saw his eyes widen a little, and as he spoke into his phone, he reached out and touched me briefly on the arm.
He lowered his phone. ‘They’ll be here in five minutes, Alastair,’ he said to the doctor.
‘Good. Can we clear these tables away?’
As if they’d been waiting for the summons, Mario and Vincente appeared. With practiced speed and precision, they folded and stacked away the few tables and chairs. The doctor sat beside Big Man, who now had his head down on the table, resting on his folded arms. He was still in obvious pain. I could see he had both fists balled up tight, and he was breathing fast and roughly.
Once the smoking section was cleared, Mr Perfect asked, ‘Alastair, is there anything else you would like us to do?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Nothing. Keep the gawkers away, that’s all.’ He glanced at Big Man. ‘It’s a relatively minor one. He should be right as rain in a few days.’ His eyes travelled to the ashtray. ‘Whether he stays that way, of course, will be up to him.’
‘And are you all right?’ I heard.
Mr Perfect was half-smiling, half-frowning down at me. But I had lost the power of speech. All I could do was nod.
‘You might be more comfortable if—’
I felt his hand close over mine which, as I only then became aware, was holding onto the door jamb in a white-knuckle death grip. Gently, he loosened my fingers. His hand was warm and his skin more calloused than I’d expected from a man who always appeared so impeccably groomed. He held my hand for a moment, and then released it.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and then because my brain was mush, added, ‘I didn’t think you had a phone.’
The non sequitur didn’t seem to faze him, I suspect because he was too well bred. All he did was give me a small, wry smile.
‘I try not to,’ he said. ‘I keep it buried in my pocket, for my broker mainly, and for the odd occasion such as this, when it might become necessary.’
‘Thank you for calling the ambulance. I—’ I stopped, hot with embarrassment at how I’d gone to pieces.
‘No need to explain.’ He smiled. ‘If there’d been blood involved, you would now be stepping around my prone body.’
‘I don’t wish to interrupt your chat,’ came a voice from behind us, ‘but does anyone give a damn about how much pain this man is in?’
It was Miss Flaky, and her tone was as much of a surprise as her accent. She was American. And despite her fluffy blonde appearance, she came across as forthright and sharp. Bossy, even. Goes to show you never can tell.
Mr Perfect turned and said, mildly, ‘Naturally. But I feel that my lack of formal medical training ill equips me to contribute in any more meaningful way.’
He called to the doctor. ‘Alastair? Concern has been raised about the need for analgesic relief. Is there anything to be done?’
The doctor raised his head, but at the same time came the wail of a siren. It turned out to be the fire engine, arriving what I would consider far too late to save anyone, had the next-door building been indeed on fire. But immediately behind it was the ambulance. Its own siren noise terminated mid-yelp as it braked hard and disgorged a crew of three. There was a minor kerfuffle as the fire crew and the ambulance crew worked out where they each should be, but soon a purposeful-looking trio was jogging towards us.
The doctor stood. ‘Right. All of you. Inside and keep out of the way.’
We obeyed. Mr Perfect, Miss Flaky and I stood in the doorway of the café proper, with the chemist girls behind us and Mario and Vincente behind them, muttering low words in Italian that I assumed were prayers, but which could have been curses. I mean, who knew how much trade they were losing with this disruption?
The ambulance crew was amazingly quick and efficient. In minutes, they had Big Man on a gurney and were wheeling him outside, the doctor close behind. I’m not sure any of us did it consciously, but as one we all moved outside to see what was happening. Big Man was in the ambulance now, being hooked up to all manner of bleeping equipment. The doctor remained on the footpath, issuing instructions and asking questions. It was clear he did not intend to go with Big Man, but wanted to ensure all care was taken.
Once the doors were shut and the ambulance on its way, he turned, and saw us gawping. He walked up and said, ‘Does anyone know that man? Does he have any family here?’
‘He’s not a patient of yours?’ asked Mr Perfect.
‘No. Not on our books.’ The doctor made a wry face. ‘I suspect not on anyone’s, by the look of him.’
One of the chemist girls piped up. ‘His name’s Hogan.’
‘Hogan—?’ said the doctor.
‘Mr Hogan,’ she added helpfully.
‘Yes, well, I’d assumed he wasn’t Admiral of the Fleet Hogan. Any idea of his Christian name?’
The girl shook her head. ‘He gets his cigarettes from the shop next door. I was in there buying my Heat magazine and I heard them call him Mr Hogan.’
The doctor sighed. ‘Better than nothing, I suppose. Anyone know where he lives?’
‘There, I think.’ Mario pointed across to the council estate. He shrugged. ‘At least, I have seen him come out from gate.’
‘Right. Well, the hospital may find identification on him. In any case, he should be well enough to tell them himself tomorrow.’
He spoke directly to Mr Perfect. ‘Friday?’
‘Absolutely.’
And the doctor started to walk away.
Miss Flaky said sharply ‘Is that it? Is that all you’re doing for him?’
The doctor paused. ‘What else do you propose I do?’
‘Surely somebody should be with him? How can you leave him to face such a traumatic situation on his own?’
The doctor blew out a breath. He glanced at his watch. ‘I had a fully booked surgery this morning. What with one thing and another, I am now well over an hour behind. Even so, I will see them all because they are my patients. Mr Hogan, should that be his name, is not my patient. As such, my obligation to him is limited. He will be in good hands at St Regus’. If you’re so concerned, feel free to pay him a visit yourself.’ He nodded at the rest of us. ‘Thank you all for staying out of the way. Good day to you.’
He strode off without a backward glance.
‘I don’t know about you,’ said Miss Flaky, ‘but I think that’s pretty raw.’
Mr Perfect’s smile was courtesy itself. ‘As Alastair suggested, you’d be welcome to visit the man. Would you like me to take you? I have a car nearby.’
For a second, her eyes shot daggers at him. But her reply was cool. ‘Thank you, but that won’t be possible. I have a full schedule of appointments for the week.’
‘What a pity.’
I hid a grin. Miss Flaky’s mouth did a brief twitching dance of displeasure. She nodded to Mr Perfect and to me, and then walked away at a dignified pace, blonde head held high.
I looked around. Mario and Vincente had hastened back to the café. The fire engine had rumbled off, so the chemist girls were drifting reluctantly back to work. I was alone with Mr Perfect.
He extended his hand. ‘I’m Claude.’
Of course, he was. Suddenly, I felt embarrassed about my name. But I could hardly avoid telling him. I shook his hand and tried not to blush.
‘I’m Darrell.’
Not even a faint quiver of surprise. He really was well bred.
‘The reader,’ he smiled.
He’d noticed! This time, I couldn’t help blushing. And I couldn’t think of one sensible thing to say. So I just grinned and stood there, like a red-faced grinning loon.
‘Well—’ he said, in the ensuing pause. ‘I must say goodbye. I’d like to say that I, too—’ His voice acquired a hint of an American twang ‘—have a full schedule of appointments for the week. But sadly, I have only the one, and if I don’t leave now, I will have lost my chance for even that.’
‘I have to go, too,’ I lied. ‘It was nice to meet you.’
Inwardly, I cringed. I was sure it wasn’t done in Mr Perfect’s circles to say things like that. I’d read my Nancy and Jilly. ‘Nice to meet you’ belonged to the lower middle class and the aspiring proles.
But he said, ‘Yes. Indeed.’ And, to my surprise, added, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
I waited to see which way he went before I headed off myself. Nothing more embarrassing than saying goodbye and finding you’re both walking the same way.
I was passing the entrance to the council estate when I pulled up short. My encounter with Mr Perfect — now to be known as Mr Claude Perfect — had lifted me onto a small pink-tinged cloud of pleasure. But at the gate to the estate I stopped, and started to think about Big Man. My rosy cloud disappeared behind a pall of gloom.
Miss Flaky, despite her obnoxious way of delivering it, had a point. Big Man, in pain and probably scared witless, was potentially about to face some major medical intervention, all on his own. I thought about the question of family and suddenly became convinced that he had none. If he had a wife and kids, wouldn’t he have asked the doctor to phone them? And what wife would let him wear that godawful jacket for so long?
I thought about how I’d frozen when the doctor asked me to call the ambulance. Big Man probably wouldn’t have seen that, but then again—
I thought about the day Tom died, and how I had not been there. I couldn’t have done anything to help him — that’s what they’d all told me. Was that true? I’d never know . . .
I stood there, outside the gate — a big iron one that was rusted permanently open — and came to a decision. I was only a minute’s walk from my front door, but I turned around and walked all the way back to the café. And I asked Mario and Vincente to tell me the best way to get to St Regus’ hospital.