‘The man situation is starting to get a bit desperate,’ said Emma, clearing a patch on the steam-fogged window and peering out into the rainy street. ‘I must say I’m beginning to wonder about the Keatsian ideal of true romance. It doesn’t seem very relevant to anyone living in the Hammersmith area.’ She unfocussed her eyes and tried to remember the words.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore;
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.
‘We did that at school. Round here it’s all elfin grot and not many wild kisses.’
‘Quite a lot of stabbings, though.’
‘Remember they found that girl’s body in pieces under the flyover? They’ve caught the guy who did it. The police said it was a romance that went wrong. I’ll say.’ Emma sipped distastefully at her coffee. She had asked for a cappuccino with no froth but the waitress said the machine couldn’t do it. ‘What do you think this is, a Starbucks?’ the waitress had asked, a reasonable question considering Emma and her best friend Marisa were in a public house called the Skinner’s Arms. Emma had settled for instant with an unopenable plastic pot of nondairy creamer. She was still just under age, and had decided to break precedence with her peers by waiting to be legal before getting drunk. Marisa was managing a pint of cider. She’d been drinking for years, and was faintly disgusted by Emma’s sobriety. The pair of them were balanced on very high stools scouring the St Valentine’s Day message pages in a music paper. Emma set great store by the saints.
‘My mum’s clairvoyant says that in the course of a single evening two people can make enough mistakes to last a lifetime,’ Marisa explained.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose she means disease. Like Ghosts.’
‘What, Patrick Swayze?’
‘No, the other one. Ibsen.’ Emma and Marisa were out for a drink and a laugh, two young girls too smart for their own good, one currently appearing as Cinderella in a production touring old people’s homes and mental institutions, the other working behind a poultry counter, both hoping for something better, both dateless and footloose for one London night only, thanks to a workman drilling through the old folk’s home’s power cable. It had put him in hospital, and had got Emma the evening off.
‘Don’t you get depressed doing panto for people who don’t know you’re there?’ asked Marisa.
‘Some of them know. One old lady came up during the intermission and touched my dress, and said “You’re Cinderella, aren’t you?” and I said “Yes, I am.” And she said “Cinderella, can I ask you something?” I said “Yes, of course.” She said “Cinderella, where the hell am I?” When I look out from the stage I see a row of zimmer frames parked down the side of the hall. Last night one old lady stood up in the middle of Buttons’ solo number and shouted “Help me!” No fairy tale endings there, I’m telling you.’
‘I love checking out the personal ads in this paper,’ said Marisa. ‘Talk about looking for love in all the wrong places.’
Emma read over her shoulder and tutted. ‘You can’t plan something that’s meant to be special. It is, isn’t it, special? Real love, I mean. And you can mess it up right from the start if you’re not careful, like sticking your fork into a perfectly iced cake and smooshing it all around, you can never get it back as it was.’
‘I’m not sure I care for your analogy. Of course it has to be special. The people who resort to advertising themselves can’t see that. You can give me any classified description and I’ll tell you what it really means.’
‘All right.’ Emma folded the newspaper back. ‘Let’s see. Older gentleman.’
‘Gentleman’s the giveaway, no one under forty would call themselves that. Older means ancient, mummified, something out of H. Rider Haggard.’
‘Here’s one. Fun loving.’
‘Practical joker, scary laugh.’
‘Youthful.’
‘Stopped getting taller at eleven.’
‘Open-minded.’
‘Wants you to shag his friends.’
‘Keen clubber.’
‘Drugs. Shouts in your ear all evening and spends the whole of Sunday in bed.’
‘Hmm.’ Emma narrowed her eyes at her friend and turned the page. ‘I think you’re being over-cynical.’
‘Trust me,’ said Marisa. ‘Men have got to be special or they’re not worth it. You find your prince every night, it’s all right for you.’
‘Yeah, but he’s five foot two and has phenomenal body odour. Okay.’ She searched further down the page. ‘Free spirit.’
‘Backpacker.’
‘Professional.’
‘Works in a shoe shop.’
‘Ordinary-looking.’
‘Really ugly. Belongs on a cathedral spouting water.’
‘Lonely.’
‘Desperate.’
‘Quiet type.’
‘Harold Shipman.’
‘Shame for Primrose. Do you think she knew more than she was letting on?’
‘I imagine so. She must be a size eighteen.’
‘Domesticated.’
‘Bedridden. Possibly into humiliation. Could be a code for medical sex. Enemas, colonic irrigation, stuff like that.’
‘Eugh.’ Emma grimaced. ‘Family man.’
‘He got custody of the kids and needs a maid.’
‘Artistic.’
‘Hasn’t come out yet.’
‘Sporty.’
‘Thinning ginger hair, sweaty red face, fat legs, wears rugby shirts.’
‘Happy go lucky.’
‘Out of work.’
‘Spontaneous.’
‘Turns up on your doorstep in the middle of the night. God, I hate men. I really hate them. I really hate them.’
‘No, you don’t. Here, try the women’s ads. Here’s one. Lovely lady, pert and petite.’
‘That’s easy. She’ll be microscopically small, with a face like a weasel.’
‘Vivacious.’
‘Stick-thin, borderline hysteric.’
‘Pleasingly plump. This one’s included a picture.’
‘Show me. My god, she looks like the Hindenberg. I didn’t know Henney’s made tops that big. She should have guy-ropes hanging off her. Don’t show me any more, it’s too depressing.’
Emma held up the back of the paper and point to an advert. ‘He’s nice.’
‘He’s a model. It’s all he has to think about. You’re wasting your time. Straight men don’t moisturise.’ She watched through the rain-distorted window as a passing housewife got her heel caught in a drain and fell onto the pavement, white plastic shopping bags haemorrhaging meat and fruit. No one stopped to help her. ‘I read somewhere that a single woman over thirty-five has more chance of being kidnapped by terrorists than getting married.’
‘That can’t be right.’ Emma dug in her bag for an illicit cigarette. ‘Louise’s mum got married at forty.’
‘Wasn’t she in an airplane hijack once?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Marisa looked around the nicotine-tinged walls and sniffed disapprovingly. ‘I can’t drink more than two pints on an empty stomach. Do you fancy a Mexican?’
‘No, I’m not eating anywhere where the toilets are labelled Senoritas. You can get syphilis from bar mints.’
‘Anyone in here you like the look of?’
‘What, a man?’
‘No, a sperm whale. Of course a man.’
‘I don’t really know.’
‘Behind you. Don’t turn around. He looks like a doctor. That’s a neck you can hang a stethoscope on.’
Emma twisted on her stool and smiled knowingly. He had short dark hair and pale fine features. He was slowly turning the pages of a newspaper, starting from the sports section. ‘His neck could do with a shave. The backs of his hands are as hairy as a monkey. And his arms are too long. I’m surprised he’s not eating a banana.’ She always found fault with admirable men. They were too perfect otherwise. She breathed softly through her nose as she watched him skim the pages.
‘Go and get some sugar, and talk to him on the way back.’
‘I can’t. I’m on sweeteners. You go.’
‘He’s very cute, don’t you think?’
‘You haven’t got your lenses in.’
‘Shit, he’s leaving. Let’s follow him.’
‘What for?’
‘See where he’s going. Where’s your sense of adventure?’
‘I don’t call traipsing through the rain behind strangers adventurous. I thought we were going to eat.’ He was slipping into a scuffed leather jacket and heading for the door.
‘Come on, quick, we’ll lose him.’ Marisa led the way. She always had, since they were nine and seven. Marisa, in trouble for breaking the door of the china cabinet, Emma, the shy one at the back of the choir. Marisa, charging across traffic-tensed roads, Emma stranded imploringly on the centre island. Marisa with a smile that opened like an accordian, Emma waiting with clenched lips and downcast eyes. Marisa playing terrible games, Emma being terribly honest. Marisa with the lies of a demon, Emma with the heart of an angel.
They followed him at seven paces, spinning away as he stopped before the window of a gift shop, then following his broad back inside.
‘All these pink cupids and pastel teddy bears are so depressing.’ Marisa picked a ribboned rubber heart from the shelf and squeezed it, making its voicebox release the sound of a smashing window. ‘What on earth’s the point of this?’
‘It’s a breaking heart,’ whispered Emma. ‘A joke.’
‘How pathetic. Look, look, look. Check out the doctor.’
He loomed at the counter, making a purchase. The girl gift-wrapped a teddy bear in squares of pink paper and placed it in a carrier bag. He chose a card, a glittery crimson heart speared with an arrow, borrowed a pen and thoughtfully wrote inside it.
‘He’s already got a hot date tonight. So much for your theory.’
‘He’s watching me,’ said Marisa, peering out from behind a pile of stuffed unicorns.
‘What are you talking about? He just bought something for his wife.’ Emma felt ashamed of their behaviour. Marisa always pushed her where she didn’t want to go. Marisa raised a finger to the convex mirror in the corner of the ceiling. The doctor’s eyes fleetingly turned in her direction.
‘He probably thinks you’re mad, peering at him through the plush. You’ve not got a stage whisper.’
As he left, he smiled at Marisa.
‘You home-wrecker,’ hissed Emma.
Marisa hopped behind him, through the closing door. ‘Come on, cowardy cat.’
They followed along a rain-gritted high street of puddle-greys and browns, darting beneath the yellow lamps that were just coming on. Past the barbers, the bookmakers, the dingy sauna, the poulterers where Marisa wrapped chicken breasts in butcher’s paper, into the alleyway that cut to the residential street behind.
‘He’s got long legs, hasn’t he?’
‘And hairy hands. Enough’s enough, Mari. I thought we were going to eat. I’m getting wet.’
‘Oh, Emma, are you a man or a mouse? Squeak up. Don’t you want to see where he’s going?’
‘Honestly? No. He must be fifteen years older than you. He was just looking because – that’s what they do.’ It was what they always did to Marisa. Their eyes slid past her, Emma. She was embarrassed. Marisa was brave. Men liked Marisa. In the high street someone screamed, but the scream turned into shrieking laughter and faded with the surge of traffic.
He stopped at the steps of a terraced block inexpertly finished in grey stone, dim and ugly rainstreaked flats that would wither the superlatives in any estate agent’s mouth. It’s the wrong place for him, thought Emma. Shiny shoes, expensive coat and here he is among the drug dealers. This can’t be where he lives. It’s not good enough.
He pushed open a door of steel-meshed glass and slowly climbed the stairs to the first floor, reappearing on the dripping balcony, a set of keys in his right hand. Somewhere water fell from a height, a blocked overflow spattering as mournfully as a memorial. The apartment doors were matched in fierce council colours. He stopped before the first one and bent over the lock. A click, a rattle and he was gone. Marisa stood facing the flats, staring up into the rain.
‘Marisa, come on, this is creepy and stupid.’
‘He’ll be back out.’
‘He won’t.’
‘He will. Watch. He’s just switching on the lights.’
And suddenly Emma knew. She knew that Marisa had done this before. They were witnessing part of a secret routine. She studied Marisa’s sly brown eyes and saw something, an expectancy she had never seen before. ‘You know him,’ she said stupidly. ‘He really is a doctor, isn’t he?’
‘Of course I know him. He’s married, but she’s out tonight, it’s Thursday. Big bucks at bingo.’ Marisa couldn’t remove her gaze from the balcony. ‘He’s checking to see that the coast is clear.’
A few seconds later he reappeared at the concrete parapet and stood motionless, calmly looking down at her. Emma knew then that they were lovers, Marisa and the hairy man, and with the knowledge some private part of their friendship was damaged forever.
‘I’m going up.’
‘Don’t be a slut, Marisa. He could be a psycho.’
‘He’s just a man. His name’s John. He used to be my mum’s GP.’ She pushed her hair back into her hood and set off for the steel-meshed door that had been left ajar for her.
Emma hovered at the entrance of the alley, unable to leave, but hating herself for staying. She heard Marisa’s shoes on the concrete steps, steady and rising. She looked up at the balcony and heard the flat latch click softly. After that, the door stayed shut and the lights stayed off.
‘How could you,’ she shouted to the rain-shimmered darkness. ‘It’s St Valentine’s Day. How could you.’
The card had fallen from his bag and lay in the gutter, glittering under dirty water. She gingerly raised it and looked inside. ‘With all my love, John.’ The letters were blurring. It could have been written to anyone.
‘I thought you said it had to be special. We agreed on it.’
Emma stood alone in the deep shadows. For the rest of the night, the rain fell in silvery arrows that pierced her through the heart.