‘All right,’ I say. ‘Let me just get my bag.’
‘Too early for a JD and Coke?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ We are not those people any more, are we? Those eternal teenagers. Those pub and houseboat drinkers. I know he is joking.
‘Prosecco?’
‘OK, yes, please.’
‘A glass of prosecco and a pint of Stella, please,’ Kemp says to the pretty waitress standing at our table. We’re on a pavement table in St Martin’s Court, in the shade. Kemp has his legs stretched out under the table; I have mine tucked back, under my chair. On the way here we talked about movies and books and the dreadful state of current music. We talked about politics, art, television and photography. We talked about how we like the tube in the winter because it’s always warm down there, but how it’s an absolute sweatbox in the summer. I hoped I wasn’t sweating. I hoped my make-up stayed fast. I thought that maybe, yes, Kemp and I really could be friends again.
Kemp makes a joke with the waitress about sitting in the drinks fridge, or something, to escape the heat. She laughs, genuinely amused. I remember him in the King’s Arms, laughing with the old barman, Frank. One foot, in scruffy work boots, on the scaffolding of a stool. Keeping everyone smiling. Making everyone laugh. Dousing people in that special Kemp sunlight. Once she has gone, he steeples his fingers, rests his chin on them and smiles at me.
‘So …’ he says.
‘So,’ I reply.
‘Who’s the boyfriend?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I say, feeling about twelve and smoothing the skirt of my dress over my knees. The waitress returns with the drinks.
‘Thank you,’ says Kemp. He helps her take the drinks and the napkins and the nuts off the tray and put them on the table. I sip from my rather large glass of prosecco.
‘It’s only our third date,’ I add. I’m playing it down. It’s our third date and we have kissed and I’ve lain in Salvi’s bed and he has told me I’m beautiful.
‘Ah, I see. Well, I hope your third date goes well, at two o’clock, at The Monastery. By four o’clock you might have fallen for him.’
‘It’s not the falling, it’s the getting up again,’ I say. I’m not really sure what I mean so I sip more of my prosecco and study a mark on the tablecloth until it is rubbed off by my forefinger and my annoying blushes disappear with it. ‘Anyway, how about you? Anyone on the scene since Linear Carina? Girlfriends, lovers, whatever?’
‘No, not really,’ he says. ‘I met someone on my last trip. Arizona. A woman called Sarah.’ Another one. I already hate her. Yeah, yeah, we’re just friends, or could be, but still … ‘She was OK, not … complicated enough for me, really.’
‘Complicated? What were you looking for, a Rubik’s cube?’
‘No, an onion.’
‘Onions again.’
‘I like people with layers,’ he says, and he is looking at me so intently I feel at least three of mine are in danger of dissolving and disappearing into the ether, which is disconcerting and very puzzling. ‘You’re an onion.’
‘Well, you don’t want me!’ I scoff, laughing just a little too loudly.
‘Maybe I do,’ he says quietly. And the look in his eyes makes my heart beat fast but my head knows with absolute clarity this is a trick. Some kind of huge and horrible trick. I give him my best ‘what-the-fuck’ look with a ‘what-the-fuck’ open-palm hand gesture thrown in. I mean, really, what the fuck?
‘You’re a surprising person,’ he adds. ‘And I don’t just want to catch up. I want to talk to you about a few things.’
‘OK …’
‘The first is to do with something your dad showed me.’
‘My dad? What are you talking about?’
Kemp smiles. A slow smile that reaches the crinkles at his eyes. ‘He showed me your paintings. When I knocked with Ryan again the other day – you know, when Ryan saw your dad about more research – he invited me up and showed them to me.’
‘He had no business showing you those!’
‘Well, he did. He wanted my opinion. They’re really good, Prue!’
‘Oh. Right. He shouldn’t have showed you.’
Kemp shrugs. ‘They’re really good,’ he repeats. ‘I took some photos of them.’
‘Oh, God …’ I mutter, embarrassed. ‘Why on earth did you do that?’
‘I might show them to someone else.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘I might do,’ repeats Kemp. He’s looking at me intently again. ‘Now let’s talk about another thing. Something about us. About the past. About India.’ He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his unruly hair. ‘I was going to ask you to come with me that time. When I went all those years ago. To Jaipur and Udaipur.’
‘Oh, come on!’
He doesn’t take his eyes off me. ‘I was. I was going to ask you to come with me.’
I set my prosecco down on the table. I’ve somehow drunk half of it and feel a bit pissed already, as I haven’t eaten anything today yet. Not entirely grown up. I drum my fingers against the side of the glass. ‘I think I’d like another drink. Shall we get another round?’
‘Not yet.’
‘OK.’
‘I had something for you, in the drawer of my bedside table.’
‘My sock?’ I enquire.
‘No, not your bloody sock!’ He sighs. ‘It was a hat.’
‘A hat?’
‘Remember my fisherman’s hat? The one I always took travelling with me?’
‘Yes, of course I do, because it was tragic.’
‘I bought you one as well.’
‘Oh!’ I swiftly glug more of my prosecco. ‘I look really bad in hats,’ I say.
He ignores me. ‘I was going to give it to you, the morning after we went up to Kenwood House. Our trespassing adventure.’ He smiles. ‘I thought about asking you to come with me while we were sitting outside, actually, but I was still worried, at that point, about ruining the friendship, about spoiling what we had, that if you said “no” it would change everything and be awful – but in the middle of the night I woke up and I saw you, creeping across the floor of the houseboat, and I knew I had to. I knew I had to ask you.’
‘This all sounds very dramatic,’ I say flippantly, but my heart is yammering. ‘You know I wouldn’t have been able to go anyway, because of the conference centre. Well, who knew they were going to get rid of me? And why would me coming with you ruin our friendship? Us wandering round ancient ruins, or capering through the streets in a rickshaw, or sharing a curry at a makeshift plastic table in some back-of-beyond backstreet?’ I am rambling, but the images are close to hand; they are something I had often fantasized about, after all. ‘Friends on tour …’
‘Yeah, well, you see, the “friends” thing wasn’t really working for me any more.’ Kemp picks up his pint and takes a sip. Sets it down again. ‘I’d started to see you as more than a friend.’
‘Right.’
What is he saying to me? What is he actually saying? I drain the dregs of my prosecco.
‘I had started to get feelings for you.’
‘What sort of feelings?’
Kemp looks ambushed. He taps at his pint glass. ‘Well, like I said, feelings that I saw you as more than a friend. But I didn’t get a chance to ask you, because you ran out on me. I knocked for you a few days later. I brought the hat. I’m sure you were in, but you didn’t come down. You didn’t reply to any of my calls, or my texts. You just disappeared on me. I knocked one more time, just before I flew to Mumbai, then I gave up. There is a limit to my thick skin, you know, when it has been carved into. Well, more like hacked at with a great big knife …’
He grins at me, but my mind is whirling and whirling like the cogs have been electro-charged. Like a big fat light bulb has been switched on in my head, throwing everything he’s just uttered into sharp relief. I understand. The images I once indulged in – of us in a rickshaw or eating a pavement curry – were not the ones he had in mind. T
he look he gave me in the middle of the night, on the houseboat, which I had mistaken for tender friendship and briefly, almost imagined – mere seconds ago – as something sweetly and infinitely more heart-soaring (fool!) – was very much something else.
‘I get what you’re saying.’
‘You do?’ He looks relieved. ‘Well, that’s—’
‘May I summarize?’
‘Er … OK … if you wish.’
‘Right. So. What happened was, you decided you really fancied girls with huge birthmarks on their faces, after all.’
‘Well, I—’
‘Or there’s always paper bags, isn’t there?’
‘What?’
‘Let me finish. You decided because I was there, available, around all the time, clearly desperate for anyone, anyone at all – it would be pretty easy to slip things up a gear and make what we had going on “Friends with Benefits”.’ Oh, I get it all right. My face. My black marks. The stuff I had told him about Jonas. My mother. Cherry. How dark my recesses were. ‘After all, you knew my history. You knew what you were dealing with.’ Thank goodness I had never told him about the night at Finsbury Park … ‘And you—’
‘Prue, you’re not listening, I—’
‘Shut up, Kemp! And you were getting lonely, on all these trips. Yes, you had the odd one-night stand, the odd short-term thing, but you were looking for some kind of effort-free on-tap booty call. Some convenient ever-ready shack-up. You thought I would say “yes”. You knew I was so ugly I would jump at any offer going. You knew how much I liked you.’ My face is hot. My anger is hotter. I know my voice is too loud. ‘Well, screw you; you never got to ask! I’m glad you never got to ask. Because I would have said “no”. And now you’re back again, like a very bad penny, and you’ve broken up with someone. You’re bored, you’re lonely. Are you looking for another easy booty call? Is that what this is? This “miss you” rubbish, this turning up everywhere? You’re full of utter shit, Kemp.’
He is trying to reach a hand across the table towards me. I want to jab it with the pepper pot. ‘Prue, you’re being ridiculous … and how much you like me. I didn’t know—’
‘I’ve got to go.’
I am standing up. I let my chair scrape back on the pavement with a horrific clatter.
‘No, you don’t,’ he says calmly. ‘It’s only half one and The Monastery’s only ten minutes up the road.’
‘I want to get there early. I need to get there early and … sort myself out. Sort my make-up out. And I’ve got a blister and I need to …’ What on earth am I even saying?
‘That’s a shame.’ Kemp is infuriatingly calm, gazing steadily at me in the face of my righteous rage and my overwhelming desire to flee. ‘I wish you would stay. I wish you would listen to me.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ I repeat, then after what seems like a slightly drunken (on my part), silence-weighted eternity, Kemp stands up too, pushing his chair back, and I reach for my bag and my glass – empty – tips over, heading for the salt pot. I go to grab it at the same time he does. His fingers touch mine and it would be like coming home, except this is not my home and could never be. Our friendship was a sham and whatever this is, today, is even worse. ‘Bye, Kemp.’
I lurch down to grab my bag from under my chair and turn on my unsteady blister-free heels and head off down the pavement, in my lovely buttercup-yellow dress, without looking back.
‘Bertie!’ he calls after me. ‘You’re always walking away! Always disappearing on me. I’ll see you soon, OK? And we can try to have this conversation again! I’m not giving up on you!’
‘Not if I see you first!’ I call back.
CHAPTER 30
The courtyard of The Monastery must be one of the most beautiful places in London to dine in, I think, as I stand a little unsteadily at its entrance, and definitely one of the most exclusive, as it’s absolutely tiny. Accessed by a damp, dark passageway I’m glad I researched first on Google Maps – a wafer slotted between an old-fashioned cobbler’s and a South African deli – the courtyard has cloisters on all four sides (each with three arches bowed with plump and weeping wisteria); a yellow flagstone floor both cracked and polished by centuries of shuffling monks’ feet; a scattering of round stone planters stuffed with miniature palms; and, apparently, an incredible survival instinct, as it’s all that remains of the original, much larger Cassinese de Londres Monastery the Luftwaffe bombed to smithereens in the Second World War.
Half the quadrangle is currently in bright sunshine, the other half in shade. The courtyard is beautifully open to the elements; the squared-off sky an azure blue above us – and by ‘us’ I mean a suited-and-booted maître d’ who is standing next to me and tutting into a leather clipboard because I am early.
‘Follow me, madam.’
With a tap on the clipboard and a condescending sigh, the maître d’ reluctantly walks me through the courtyard to the table Salvi has booked – one of only ten in the restaurant, which Google says in the winter are moved to The Orangery in the minuscule modern annexe I can spy through one of the arches.
The heels of my gold sandals skitter precariously on the flagstones. The skirt of my dress flips nicely against my legs. I’m glad I’m here early: I want to sit and catch my breath and try to sober up. Drunk at lunchtime before you’ve even had the lunch is not a good look.
The table is in the sunny half of the courtyard and when the maître d’ goes to pull out the chair on the side facing the sun I say, ‘Actually, can I …?’ and scoot round to the chair that allows me to have my back to the sun and a view of one of the cloisters.
‘Thank you,’ I say, as he tuts under his breath and lifts the chair back for me, and I try not to think of Kemp pushing back his, before, when he stood up, and how I fled, yet again. Self-preservation, my old friend …
The cloister and its wisteria are lovely. A waitress comes over and I order a sparkling water with loads of ice and lemon. I guzzle it down like a buffalo at a watering hole, staring at the wisteria. I think about ordering another, then I decide I don’t want to be sober, after all. I order a large glass of white wine. At quarter past two, a hand plomps on my right shoulder and Salvi is at my ear.
‘Hello, you,’ he says and he swizzes round to his side of the table and drops into his seat; a quick move, like a fox jumping into a brook. He does look a little vulpine today, actually – sharp and cheeky. Up to no good. He’s wearing a black shirt, silky in texture, many buttons undone, with black jeans and black loafers.
‘Hello, yourself.’
‘Been waiting long?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Hey, you’re facing the wrong way.’ He’s up again. ‘You can’t come to The Monastery and face the wall. Here, swap with me, then you can look out over the courtyard.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking his just vacated seat as he takes mine, but this is far from what I mean. As I sit in my new seat, the sun, above the arches of the opposite cloisters, is right in my face, like a searchlight; I didn’t even bring my sunglasses.
‘So, how are we? Have we had a good week? What did you do this morning?’ he adds genially. Warmth radiates off his skin, as does his cologne, sweet and musky. His eyes are a penetrating green. ‘Anything nice?’
‘No, not really, just getting ready.’ Damn, why the hell am I telling him it took me the whole morning to get ready for this date? Schoolgirl error, and Lord knows I’ve made those before …
‘You look ready,’ he says. ‘You look great.’
‘Thank you.’ I blush. The waitress reappears. She looked a bit surly when she served me; now she is all smiles.
‘Can I take your drinks order, Salvi?’
Of course. He is known here.
‘Sure, lovely. A bottle of Sancerre, please. And a Coke.’
The waitress nods and sweeps away my empty glass.
‘A Coke?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I’m not drinking. I’ve got the car parked further up the Embankment. I’ll take y
ou for a spin in it after. Hey, the food’s fantastic here,’ he adds. ‘I know the menu like the back of my hand. Shall I just order for the both of us?’
I nod, and he flicks swiftly through the parchment pages of the massive menu. ‘Yep, yep, yep. OK, done. You’ll love it, Prue – it’s really special.’ He slaps the menu shut then pats it twice with a brace of rigid fingers, as if sealing a deal with the universe.
The waitress returns with the drinks. A Coke with ice and lemon is placed in front of Salvi and a chilled bottle of Sancerre, sporting delicious beads of condensation, is placed in an ice bucket to my right. I’d put my head in it if I could; I’m so hot. A glass is poured for me. The wine is crisp and delicious.
Salvi reels off an order of lobster bisque and spicy courgette fritter shards and steak with chunky chips and salsa verde and side orders of julienne carrots and sautéed broccoli and asparagus tips. As the waitress smiles and bobs and walks away he looks at me curiously and says, ‘How many glasses of wine did you have before I got here?’
Oh. That’s a funny question. I feel exposed or, worse, like I am on the stand, being cross-examined. I don’t want him to think I sat here waiting for him knocking back the sauce, like Dorothy Parker, so I blurt out, inadvisably, ‘Well, one here, and I did go for a quick drink with a friend, before.’
‘Oh? Male or female?’
‘Female,’ I say quickly. I don’t want to think about Kemp, and his Indian booty call or him seeing my paintings or anything about him.
‘Do you have a lot of friends?’
‘No. Do you?’ I remember Facebook and the three thousand, including Philippa Helens. Why did she move down two carriages? I wonder. When did she let go of her balloon with the little bow in the string? When did she decide enough was enough and she had to let it all go?
‘Yes,’ says Salvi.
Salvi didn’t know Philippa, I remember. She was just an insignificant face he’d never even noticed, one of thousands of thumbnails on a Friends list that was utterly meaningless. Is that how she felt? Just a face in the crowd there was no purpose being in? Just another snapshot of a person among many others in the world, going nowhere?
Summer in the City Page 22