March 1997. The vernal equinox will be on Friday. This is Thursday. Lula Mae will be seeing a client in the New King’s Road and Max has arranged to meet her at The White Horse in Parson’s Green at half-past five. He’s pretty sure he’s going to tell her it’s over but he’s not altogether sure it is. He’s having lunch now at Coffee Republic in Fulham Broadway. He’s grateful for the little hubbub of noise and people around him, he’d rather not be alone with his mind. He’s finished his sandwich, and while he lingers over his second coffee the lunchtime rush has subsided and he notices, alone at a table across the room, a short white-haired man who could pass for an older version of himself. He recognises Harold Klein, the art historian, from his TV series, The Innocent Eye. Klein seems approachable so Max approaches. ‘Mr Klein,’ he says, ‘may I join you?’
‘Please do,’ says Klein. ‘I know you from your photo. I’ve read your books and liked them. They’re the kind of thing I might have written if I could write novels.’
‘Thank you,’ says Max, ‘I’m flattered. I enjoyed The Innocent Eye but what really knocked me out was your monograph on Odilon Redon.’
‘Well, he tells it like it is,’ says Klein, ‘and I tried to do the same.’
‘You succeeded brilliantly.’
‘You’re very kind,’ says Klein.
‘I feel that I can talk to you,’ says Max.
‘So do I,’ says Klein. ‘So talk.’
‘I’m too sober,’ says Max. ‘Let’s go get pissed.’
‘OK,’ says Klein, and they remove to The Pickled Pelican in Moore Park Road. Max brings pints of Pedigree, doubles of Glenfiddich, and bags of crisps to their table. ‘Mud in your eye,’ he says as they clink glasses.
‘Down the hatch,’ says Klein as the football on the TV bursts into a roar. ‘Unburden yourself.’
‘What did you say?’ shouts Max.
‘Unburden yourself,’ shouts Klein.
‘I’m not a good man,’ shouts Max as the TV goes quiet and the rest of the pub turns to look at him.
‘That makes two of us,’ says Klein.
Max then spills his guts and tells Klein all about Lola and Lula Mae, his doubts, his fears, his indecision and his confusion. Klein listens patiently and nods his head while Max keeps the Pedigree and Glenfiddich coming. When Max has finished, they down their third boilermakers in silence. At length Klein, with a Godfather gesture, index finger pointing upward, says, ‘I look at you and I see myself twenty-five years ago, always greedy for more love and other love. Always unfaithful.’
‘What can you tell me?’ says Max.
‘Probably,’ says Klein, ‘you’re a little bit in love with Lula Mae and maybe she’s a little bit in love with you. If she weren’t, she’d have moved on by now. You want to end it with her and at the same time you don’t. You don’t want to end it with Lola but you’re backing away from This-Is-It. Shall I be honest with you?’
‘Not necessarily,’ says Max.
‘You’re bad news,’ says Klein. ‘If you care about these women at all, the best thing you can do is get out of their lives before you get in any deeper. Better a small heartbreak now than a big one later.’ With that, Klein falls asleep. Max wakes him up, they visit the Gents, then leave The Pickled Pelican.