‘You can be thin on the outside but fat on the inside. A thin person can still have sky-high levels of cholesterol and arteries clogged worse than the M-twenty-fucking-five.’
‘Tremendous. Any other happy fact you feel compelled to impart?’
‘Don’t get me started on bowel health.’
‘If that is an offer, let me accept it.’
‘Do you know how much half-digested red meat could right now be backed up in your colon?’
Mr Perfect sank back in his chair and shot me a despairing look. ‘How did we get started on such a conversation?’
It was kind of him to suggest it had nothing to do with me, when in fact it was entirely my fault that we were discussing the lower bowel.
It was my fault because I’d had no sleep, no breakfast and had been walking the streets since six in the morning, because I did not want to have to pretend I was OK to Anselo. The probability that he would actually ask if I were OK was low, but still – I didn’t want to see him. I walked for over two hours, down to the canal and all the way up to Highbury Fields and back to the café. By then, though my feet were killing me, I was thinking that I felt marginally better. But as soon as Mr Perfect saw me, he said, ‘Are you all right?’
I hesitated. ‘Don’t I look all right?’
‘I’d have to say that you look a little peaky.’
He was standing, waiting for me to take the chair he had offered me at his table. For a second, it occurred to me that he might be only being polite because now that he’d started, he felt compelled to continue. Then I decided that I gave not a crap. If I didn’t sit down right now, I’d have to saw off my feet to stop the pain.
‘A late night?’ he ventured, as he resumed his seat. ‘Or is something troubling you?’
I came this close to telling him. But as the story formed in my head, I realised how bad it sounded – and I did not want to jeopardise this relationship before it had even made it to the starting line. My book reading had informed me that posh people married the non-posh for only two reasons – one: an injection of funds, and two: to counterbalance the odd wayward chromosome. Not that I was leaping ahead to marriage, you understand. That would be entering crazy-woman territory. But if I were him and I heard my story, I’d be mentally drawing a thick black line through my name on the suitable spouses list. And you never knew, did you? As my mother always said – better safe than sorry.
I was saved by Mario, who placed my cup of coffee in front of me. I offered him a grateful smile, and said to Mr Perfect, ‘Nothing that this won’t fix.’
A voice beside us said, ‘It could be your zinc levels.’
Mr Perfect and I exchanged a quick, alarmed glance. Then he shifted his seat to the side, so the two of us were now facing the adjacent table. Miss Flaky had a pot of some biological-smelling tea in front of her, and a book whose title I couldn’t quite read, but which included the word Authenticity.
Miss Flaky continued, ‘Zinc deficiency is one of the least recognised causes of sleep disturbances. It can also lead to loss of appetite and mild anaemia. How are your fingernails?’
‘My fingernails–’
‘Are there white lines present?’
I checked. ‘No …’
‘That’s a common sign, but not the only one. I’d suggest you ask the pharmacist next door to do a zinc check for you.’
‘Does it involve giving blood?’ I suddenly remembered Mr Perfect’s gore-phobia and shot him an apologetic glance. ‘Sorry–’
‘That’s quite all right. I can hear it mentioned. I just can’t look at it.’
‘The zinc check is simple. All you do is hold some liquid zinc sulphate in your mouth for a few seconds. If you can taste it, you probably have a deficiency.’
‘And then what?’
‘Supplements. You should be taking some kind of multivitamin, anyway. Our modern diet is woefully inadequate nutrition-wise, plus we’re constantly under assault from environmental pollutants, genetically modified foods, chronic stress, etc. A lack of folic acid alone puts us at risk of cardiovascular disease, not to mention breast and colon cancer–’
‘What a good idea.’ Mr Perfect broke her flow. ‘Let’s not mention those. Why don’t we, in fact, change the subject entirely?’
Miss Flaky gave him a look. ‘Men are often uncomfortable discussing their health. It seems to be a little threatening to them.’
Mr Perfect spread his hands. ‘I am entirely comfortable with the state of my health.’
‘Oh really? And you were last checked when?’
‘As I recall, when I was ten years old. I had my tonsils removed. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that my recovery went without a hitch.’
‘Oh my God–’ Miss Flaky was slowly shaking her head. ‘The tonsils are a vital lymphatic barrier between us and infection. We should be thankful for our children’s sake that barbaric Victorianisms like tonsillectomies are now rarely performed.’
‘I’ve never had a day’s illness since!’ Mr Perfect protested.
‘How do you know?’ Miss Flaky asked. ‘How do you know what state your cholesterol is in? Your blood pressure? And what about your prostate?’
‘I could go out there now and run five miles with ease.’ Mr Perfect’s tone was still light, but I did notice he was sitting up straighter in his chair. ‘I’d want to be more suitably dressed, of course–’
Miss Flaky gave him a grim smile. ‘That means nothing. Your aerobic and muscular fitness is no indication of your true inner health. You can be thin on the outside but fat on the inside …’
And that’s how we’d got to red meat backed up in the colon. That’s why, when Mr Perfect asked me how the conversation had started, he was really asking for my help to make it stop.
I grinned at him and said, ‘My landlord is about your age. His cholesterol level is crap, apparently. But then I think he considers bacon a condiment.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Why don’t you see your doctor friend?’ I asked, amused to see his normally suave self rather flapped. ‘He’d be happy to give you a once over, wouldn’t he?’
‘Possibly. But on my part, if Alastair had to ask me to assume the position, I’m not sure our friendship would survive.’
‘They can check for prostate cancer with a blood test these days,’ said Miss Flaky.
‘Can they now? Fascinating–’
Mr Perfect was on his feet, lifting his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Well, this last hour has simply flown by. But I must go. Good day to you both.’
And he walked rather quickly out of the café.
Miss Flaky said, ‘It’s the penis delusion.’
‘It is?’
‘They think that as long as that’s still working, they’re fine. As if their johnson is some barometer of total health. And when it fails, that’s all they care about. They can have a lipid level that would rival a tallow factory, type two diabetes and gout – but as long as they have access to those little blue pills, as far as they’re concerned, they’ll live forever.’
I found myself struggling for something to say. Mainly because – what could you say to that? But also partly because all this medical talk was reminding me, with sharp prods of guilt and discomfort, of what I’d done to Big Man. And of what I hadn’t done – which was to return to the hospital and apologise.
So I pretended to check my watch, and said, ‘I have to go, too.’ I stood and slung my bag over my shoulder. ‘Um – bye.’
Miss Flaky looked up at me briefly, and her mouth twisted into a moue of – I couldn’t tell what. Resignation? Disgust? Then she picked up her book and started to read. Fine. Next time, I wouldn’t even bother with goodbye.
Outside, I took a deep breath, as if somehow I might inhale some courage along with the oxygen. I knew I should start walking towards the tube. I knew I had to face Big Man sooner or later – mainly because I suspected that if I didn’t go back and apologise, he might come looking for me. In my mind, I heard the ominous crack of a set of giant knuckles.
But then I spotted him. Mr Perfect. Claude. He was in the churchyard of all places, standing under a tree. His jacket was draped elegantly over his shoulder, secured by one finger, a pose that made him look even more like an advertisement for Armani.
Should I go up and talk to him? Was this my opportunity to take this friendship a step further? He didn’t look as if he were waiting for anyone, or had anything pressing to do – so the only stumbling block, really, was that I had jelly instead of a spine …
Right! Damn it! If I didn’t act now, I never would. As I started to walk towards the church, I thought I heard a faint cracking, as of knuckles. I shoved it into the far recesses of my mind, and focused on working out what the heck I should say.
He noticed me as I was crossing the road to the tiny green island on which the church sat. I was close enough to see that he had some reaction, but not close enough to see what it was. Whatever he’d felt, he had a smile on by the time I reached him.
‘“Let not ambition mock their useful toil”,’ he said to me. ‘“Their homely joys, and destiny obscure.”’
A small bell from years back gave a faint chime. ‘Thomas Grey?’
‘Well done.’ He glanced around. ‘Though this could hardly be described as a country churchyard. But perhaps it was once. In the seventeenth century, Islington Green did mark the boundary of the city …’
I was stumped. This wasn’t exactly going as planned. Admittedly, my plan had consisted pretty much entirely of me saying hello, and then winging it from there. Even so, I hadn’t expected to be plunged into a discussion around poetry and history. My thoughts were on a path that was leading more towards a cup of tea and a sandwich.
‘Well,’ he said, in the pause. ‘I had better cease loitering. Not that anything more productive awaits me, but–’
This was it. It was now or never. I blurted it out. ‘Would you like to do something?’
He blinked at me. ‘Do – something?’ He picked out the word much as if it were a foreign object in his food.
I blushed. ‘Oh, well, I just thought – maybe – you’d like to–’
He was staring at me with undisguised amazement, and I couldn’t go on. My heart sank. I’d blown it. I prepared to crawl away in shame, like the worm I was.
But then he said, ‘You know, there is something I’ve always wanted to do.’
My eyes shot up, half-wary, half-hopeful. His own expression was hard to read. If I were to label it with any emotion, I’d have to choose mild curiosity. But that was so much better than contempt that I experienced a heady rush of relief and pleasure.
‘What have you always wanted to do?’ I asked.
I have to confess my thoughts had by now made a quantum leap from tea and a sandwich to a private jet and a fruit platter in the Maldives. I was picturing myself in a lacy dress with no underwear, like Rene Russo in The Thomas Crown Affair, and Mr Perfect in a tuxedo, with his black tie draped loose around his neck and his shirt buttons open, revealing a hint of manly chest.
‘I think the nearest stop is London Bridge,’ were the words I managed to catch.
He smiled at me. ‘You don’t mind walking, do you?
I thought I coped very well. I nodded appreciatively when I saw the sign that said London Dungeon. I smiled when the woman in the ticket booth told us to ‘have a horrible time’. I didn’t panic in the mirror maze or shriek like the fat American woman whenever we were leapt on or had objects thrust at or dropped on us. I even managed to glimpse the photos of eviscerated prostitutes in the Jack the Ripper room. It wasn’t until we were sitting in the Sweeney Todd barbers’ chairs that I finally said, ‘Is this sort of thing not – beneath you?’
He looked across. ‘Beneath me?’
‘Well – you are really quite posh.’
‘Which is why, generally speaking, I can do anything I please.’
‘And this pleases you?’
‘It’s terrific!’
‘You wouldn’t prefer something a little more – cultured?’
‘No. Be quiet. That chap with the razor is about to speak–’
At the gift shop, he bought a purple plastic paperweight shaped like a skull. He offered to buy me one, too. I declined. Then we were back out on the street, blinking in the bright light.
For a minute or so, we just stood there. Mr Perfect switched his bag of horror-themed tourist tat to the other hand, and then back again. He seemed a little at a loss. It occurred to me that he wasn’t a person who directed his life with a great deal of proactivity. Which was potentially an issue, because neither was I. That’s what I’d relied on Tom for. I was all right once I got started. But sometimes the only thing that would get me to that point was a big toe up the backside.
‘I, er – I suppose we should wend our way back,’ he said.
I couldn’t help feeling a stab of disappointment. But I hadn’t offered any better suggestion, had I? And what did I expect, really? That we’d go onto drinks and dinner? It’s what I wanted, but even the most rose-tinted wishing glasses couldn’t disguise that this had been a very platonic outing. The only time he’d touched me was when our fingers met while rummaging through a basket of imitation poison rings.
Still, it was a start. And some people don’t like to be rushed …
Speaking of which – I checked my watch. It was three o’clock. I should have been on my way home from St Regus’ hospital, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. Or the day after. Or never. Never would be good.
‘And what is the time?’ Mr Perfect asked me. ‘I don’t wear a watch, I’m afraid …’
‘It’s just after three. Why? Are you meant to be somewhere?’
‘Me? No.’
He turned away from me, up the street. There wasn’t much to see up there, as far as I could tell; brick walls and more road. I used the opportunity to take a good look at him. He was wearing a dark grey suit and a pale shirt with a thin striping of light blue or grey, crisply formal attire that had drawn some bemused looks in the Dungeon. His hands, I had noticed before, were well manicured. Not fussily so, but you could tell they received regular attention. On the middle finger of his right hand, I saw he wore a ring. It was platinum, I thought, and looked more like a woman’s wedding band than a ring for a man. His mother’s, perhaps? I took my ring off on the morning of Tom’s funeral. But the mark on my finger stayed there for weeks.
I looked up at Mr Perfect’s face in profile. He was certainly handsome, but in spite of excellent bones, I had to admit that he somehow lacked definition. He had a face you’d be hard-pressed to describe in a witness statement. It occurred to me he’d make a perfect spy; there was a kind of courteous blandness to him that would let him blend into any situation. If it weren’t for his expensive clothes, he could pass by entirely unnoticed.
In my mind, the theme to Smiley’s People started to play. Then I realised the orchestra music wasn’t in my head at all. It was coming from my companion’s jacket.
‘I think your phone is ringing,’ I said.
He gave me a look. ‘I know. I’m trying to ignore it.’
Sure enough, it stopped. But instantly, it began again. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and drew out the small, plain Nokia. He glanced at the screen and raised an eyebrow, not so much in surprise, I thought, but in resignation.
He pressed the call button. ‘Yes? What?’
I could hear the thin yap of a voice on the other end, but could not tell if it were male or female.
Claude said. ‘I am not always in. Occasionally, I am also out.’
More yap, to which he replied: ‘At least an hour.’ And then: ‘Well, you must do as you please.’
He ended the call and replaced the phone in his pocket. Then he met my eye and gave me a small smile.
‘That was my brother. He is outside my front door, and considerably irritated that I am not on the other side about to open it.’
‘I thought he lived in LA?’
‘He does. Unfortunately, not all of the time.’
I decided to risk a personal question. ‘Do the two of you not get on?’
I regretted it. He immediately iced over. ‘Our relationship is amicable enough.’
Then, as if relenting, he added, ‘Marcus and I – and our sister – were all at boarding school by the age of eight. My brother and I were at different schools; our father thought Marcus needed more – structure. So for years, we only saw each other in the holidays, and even then, Marcus usually chose to stay at friends’ houses, rather than at home. I don’t blame him. Our father by then was not a – happy man …’
I thought about telling him that I’d never really known my brother, either. But our situations were so distant that it seemed futile to try to connect them.
I glanced up and found to my relief that he was smiling at me. ‘Time to go, I think,’ he said.
When I opened the door to my house, there were no builders, for which I gave a sigh of relief. I wanted peace and quiet to think about the day – about what it had meant. I hoped it meant something. I hoped at least it was a start.
Along from the tube, at the corner of the high street, we’d paused to go our separate ways. To my surprise and pleasure, he had bent and kissed me goodbye, quickly but firmly, on both cheeks.
‘I really enjoyed myself,’ I told him, and mentally cursed myself for sounding far too eager.
‘Yes,’ he said, as if the concept were quite new to him. ‘We must do it again some day. I’ve heard LEGOLAND is rather good, too.’
LEGOLAND. Well, as I said – a start.
I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and found that someone had placed wildflowers in a drinking glass on the bench. Landlady Clare must have been, to check on progress, and brought them from her garden. They were limp now, drooping over the side of the glass, their brief lives almost at an end. Not wanting to see them dead in the morning, I picked them up and chucked them in the bin.