To be effective, research must be focused. I could spend the day reading about bubonic burlesque, visit a Black Death roller disco, or frequent a church for atheists. I am not naïve. I know those things are, or may be, out there, in our capital. That there may clubbers who buy black felt-tip pens especially to dot an attractive plague mark underneath their usual beauty spot, or under their arms, clean shaving their arm-pits to allow closer inspection. I know there may be honour killing, female genital mutilation. Pop-up bars, caviar spas and people driving naked in Maserati cars. I know this goes on. I once read Time Out. I know, even, that there is or was an acre in London reserved for the devil. It’s not too far from here. A quick run to Westminster would take me there.
I could research research itself – test the limits, see how far I can go. I could see if I can outfox the police, unlike that other author, imprisoned for child pornography offences, after accessing sites that required his credit card number. I could see if entering Luke’s details made a difference. I could, when they come to arrest me, proffer his wrists; sacrifice my character instead of myself.
Or I could research a full relationship. Love, marriage, children. Like those undercover police, always in the news, for wrecking lives (of criminals? We are all criminals, for them, even if there is no ‘crime’).
But that is not the point. The point is to find out only exactly what I need to know. I already know love, its desperation, its delight, its devotion. What I need to know now is different. This is a dry run, an (un)dressed rehearsal – it’s no good behaving like a novice. I must text-research, and then I must flesh-research and then I can act.
The point today is about un-mutilated women, women at their purist.
I head to an Internet café and find a computer screen that’s not overlooked. No one else needs to see me trying to get experience.
Then I start to Google. Within an hour, I have printed all I need. A woman’s body, broken down into segments, showing erogenous areas. A large anatomical picture of female genitalia. And details of the nearest Boots that provides Viagra over the counter.
Because here’s the thing: I don’t know if I will respond. I know I will be researching for Luke, and that Luke in the book likes women. But I can only take imagining so far. That’s why I need the research. And I cannot imagine myself into arousal. Not with Ally, anyway.
I take my printing and bundle it into my rucksack. I can look at it more later, on the bus. My bag is largely empty so far, but it will fill up, as the day progresses.
It turns out, at Boots, they won’t just give me the Viagra. I have to make an appointment to return in an hour, so they can ‘assess’ me. I wander round the shop, making a list in my mind of what Luke would buy: Whey, Weight-loss magic, Wholly Oats! (exclamation mark included for extra energy). I wonder if I could get Boots to sponsor my book. Protein shakes, ab-masters, Lucozade. Alpha-male, alpha-male, alpha-male. Luke could still buy Men’s Health, but probably not stick Adam’s face onto the cover model.
I approach the scent counter. What would he smell, of, Luke? It’s scent that attracts us to people, some researcher has said. My nostrils detect whiff of Adam. But which one? There are too many scents. Tom Ford? No. James Bond? No, he would not wear that. Even James Bond would not wear that. Calvin Klein, Adam used to wear, when we were younger. CK One. We all used to wear it. I grew used to noticing it, when we hit puberty. Essence of Adam. Then in Feltham I grew used to a new essence, an earthier, essence. If they sold that, I’d buy it. But they don’t. So I spray myself – or rather Luke – with Armani. It smells of Adam because everything does.
I move on to ‘family planning’. Not relevant. Oh, but condoms. Yes. Luke would need lots of those. In fact, I could buy some now. All sorts though. Which to choose? I have never tried, before, for a woman. There’s no tester pack, no opportunity to sample, like with the scents. Some are branded ‘play’ and claim to heighten female arousal. Some are studded with dots. I move my index finger in and out of my hand and imagine my finger is covered with warts. It would be like that, surely? I pick some that say extra strong. Then I return to the appointment counter. Given that I am here for a Viagra appointment, I wonder if they think my purchase optimistic.
They have an antidote to optimism, though. It is called the blue pill questionnaire. A man in a white coat starts asking me questions.
‘Are you able to maintain an erection unaided?’
It would be a good chat-up line, in some cases. Sexual due-diligence, checking an evening will be well spent.
He looks up at me hopefully.
‘No,’ I sort-of-lie. Am I ever unaided? I always have Adam. Or my hand. Both help.
‘How long has this problem been going on?’ he asks me.
‘It feels like forever,’ I say.
He smirks and says, ‘I know what you mean.’ This does not give me much faith in his merchandise.
Then he asks me if I have been to the doctor about it. I do not go to doctors. At Feltham, they told me to. That I ought to check in with them, every so often. Specialist doctors. Take some pills. Smile a lot.
‘Yes,’ I fully lie. ‘They say there’s nothing wrong.’
‘Do you have any history of heart conditions?’ he asks. I expect love is omitted so I say no.
‘Does anyone in your family?’
My parents are dead, so they don’t count. And it doesn’t make sense to mention my aunt.
‘No,’ I say.
We go through some more ‘routine’ questions. Then they give me a small pack of blue tablets and tell me to let them know I get on.
I want to say ‘You’ll read about it’. But I don’t. Instead, I grin at him and hold up the condoms.
Next stop, Soho.
Soho is not for Ally’s flat, not yet, but other supplies. I promised I’d bring Ally a treat, and I also have to think about what Luke would like. About his style. And, of course, about Nicole’s style. Because practice makes perfect.
I have a few hours to kill, after my purchases are complete. I could do a bit more studying but, really, women don’t seem to be that complicated. Instead, I get out my notebook, and sketch out how the evening might go.
It’s a bit different from book three. But with the same end goal, I suppose, if I’m honest.
Although I haven’t been entirely honest so far. About book three being my third book, or rather ‘my’ third book. Because actually, one of the other two was co-authored. Adam and I started the first one together. When we were eleven, we used to sit beneath a tree in the school playing fields at lunch. That was before ‘big school’, and Adam would tolerate just being with me. Before everything got complicated with his knowledge of the second book.
That was when Adam said it: ‘You have the best writing.’
He thrust a crayon at me. ‘You do it,’ he said. I took him up on the invitation. From then on, I was the scribe. Adam would tell me stories about what life would be like and I would write and illustrate. I had a red pencil I was very proud of. I drew us both in a house with a nice white (ok, red) picket fence and a pretty red garden. Adam got cross because he’d told me to draw him a castle, just for him. He seized hold of the notebook and drew big flames engulfing the house, then drew a castle next to it. To try to get back into his good books, I drew him a pretty queen in the window of his castle. He crossed her out, threw down the book and ran off down the playing field. I put the picture in my pocket then followed him.
We carried on the story in Feltham.
I thought book two would have been such a strong sequel to that. But Adam had made it very clear that he wasn’t interested. That if I wanted to stay close, I would have to do it in a different way.
So I did. I only wish I could tell him. Sit him down and read book three to him – the perfect trilogy. But then I doubt I’d ever be allowed close to him again. So he must never know.
Besides – where would that leave book four? And this evening?
I open up one of the packets and take a blue pill.
Then I begin to walk round to Ally’s.