Patrick Parker's Progress

by Mavis Cheek

  She hesitated. She need not go through with it. She could just melt away into the night. Problem was, she always did melt away into the night. And tonight she wanted to solidify. She had a score to settle. Her own honour, humble thing, was at stake. She moved forward again. She had every intention of serving it. Lightly up the grand entrance with, she fondly hoped, the right kind of small Japanese steps, she pattered. At the top she paused and took a deep breath while the doorman swung open the glass doors for her. State-of-the-art tubular steel handles, she had time to notice, just the sort of thing Patrick would approve of. He had once, in the old days, walked her around the shop called Heals and showed her Swedish cutlery which, he said, was the only stuff to buy. In the meantime, he explained, if you couldn't afford it you might as well buy your table settings at Woolworth's. She preferred the shape of the Woolworth's cutlery, finding some confusion in her mind as to which end of a perfectly designed, stainless steel Swedish knife actually did the cutting. And said so. She could still remember the pained look he gave her. But she consoled herself. He would never know that the person who misunderstood minimalism and the art of cutting meat then, was the same person who now talked to him of architectural moderns like Aldo Rossi, Mark Mack and Adele Naude as if they were old friends. And who came from Japan. Japan encapsulating all things cool and rarefied and desirable nowadays. She certainly intended to talk to him about such people - if she could effect it.

  The invitation was removed from her hand smoothly enough, the smile from the flunky as he waved her graciously through showed no hint of suspicion. 'I'm in’ she said to herself, over and over again. 'I've done it...' Even if it was standing in somebody else's shoes.

  Madame Koi paused for a moment and looked around her, smiling and nodding at the press of guests as they made their way towards the Reception Hall. A tray of drinks stood on an artistic creation that might or might not have been a trolley. She remembered the Delphine Bolle fiasco and passed it by.

  On the wall straight ahead of her was a vast projected image of Isambard Kingdom Brunel standing by a table with his hands elegantly indicating the plans for the Great Western Railway. The Horsley portrait. He was looking down at her, straight into her eyes. 'Sod off’ she said to him, under her breath. She knew quite enough about him to understand that he would disapprove wholeheartedly of what she was doing. Women should be restful creatures and not go about trying to assert themselves. To be strident, and to be female, in Isambard's blinkered world, was sin.

  Some hero. Her determination increased as she looked up at that deceptively quiet pose, that deceptively dignified expression. The man had dogged her for long enough. She showed him the tip of her little pink tongue and, feeling very pleased with herself, off she glided without giving him a second glance.

  But Madame Koi realised that she was a little premature in her pleasure. For she had quite forgotten one little problem. And that little problem was, Other Japanese. Of whom - since Japan was booming economically and next in line for this exhibition - there were quite a few attending the function. And much as small girls at birthday parties will eye each other's frocks, say little and think much, so did the eyes of the Japanese ladies look Madame Koi up and down, blink a bit, look her up and down again, and not know quite what to make of her.

  Of course, to Western eyes, Madame Koi's appearance was - if exotic - convincing. But to the eyes of her putative compatriots, it was, quite simply, weird. Indigenous Retro had not come to the beau monde of Japan. If you wanted to do retro in Japanese circles, you did it Western style. You had a quiff like Elvis or sequinned denim like Dolly Parton. You did not wear a mixture of Geisha and Imperial Empress Goes Walkabout. But it did have one advantage. Only the boldest of the Japanese contingent were likely to be brave - or impolite - enough to remark on what they saw. But as Madame Koi muttered to herself as she entered the door marked Femmes - it only needed one. And - sure enough - here she bloody-well-bugger-it was ...

  The woman bending over and washing her hands stared at Madame Koi in the mirror and made as if to speak. Madame Koi smiled and bent her knees a fraction before disappearing into a cubicle. She did not come out until she was sure she was safe. Just what she needed, a proper Japanese woman trying to engage her in conversation in Japanese. Eventually the tap was turned off, there was the shush of a towel being thrown into the basket, and the door closed. Alone at last. Madame Koi emerged. She washed her hands, smoothed her wig, adjusted the lines of heavy make-up around her eyes, sent up a prayer to whoever might be on hand to receive it, and prepared to go back into the fray. Then she swung open the door with an air of confidence she was beginning not to feel. There were far too many Japanese guests out there to trip her up. And how right she was. For she immediately fell over the feet of her previous companion from the Ladies' Powder Room, who stood, as those strange people who travel down escalators will stand, at the bottom of them, transfixed and right in her way.

  The woman gave a little yelp and rubbed her foot. The man she stood with - presumably her husband - looked from his wife to Madame Koi as if wondering what to do next. They both blinked at Madame Koi who made little noises to indicate her embarrassment. She made little noises largely because - for a moment - she could do nothing else. And then a very familiar voice, from somewhere in front of her and therefore from behind her assumed companions, said in English, 'My dear Madame Kencho, are you all right?' Madame Kencho made noises of approval and greeting that were definitely genuinely Japanese in origin. The familiar English voice, with its delicate hint of accent, returned the approval in a very familiar, definitely, genuinely English-worded way. And then Madame Koi heard another voice, also very familiar, and not at all convincing in her opinion, say in Japanese, and with feeling, 'Sumimasen, sumimasen, Madame ...'

  It was hers.

  She heard it only faintly because the familiar, definitely genuinely English voice was still reverberating around in her head. 'Sumimasen, sumimasen,' she said again, weakly. And waited for the God of Wrath to have his way. For the voice was, of course, Edwin's. Speaking English, presumably, because it was expected.

  Madame Kencho turned to Madame Koi, who had suddenly discovered what it meant to be rooted to the spot, and directed a smiling and totally incomprehensible stream of definitely genuinely Japanese at her. The gestures that helped deliver it were obviously meant to be reassuring. The expectation of full understanding and something in return, was anything but. Madame Koi could only nod and bow with what she assumed was suitable subservience. But the woman had obviously ended whatever it was she was saying with a question. And waited.

  Madame Koi smiled, shrugged and giggled. Which did not seem to hit the required spot. So, with sweetly apologetic mien, she began to back away. No such luck. The all too familiar voice said, still in English, 'Please do not leave on our account, Madame ...?'

  She looked up and directly into the eyes of first, Monsieur Edwin Bonnard, and then his good - if on the square side - lady wife. She scarcely dared look. She then realised what was required of her by all the parties. She bowed slightly and said, in just about the silliest voice ever, 'Madame Koi.' She bowed again, glad to look away. 'I am very pleased to meet you.' She extended a hand and immediately snatched it away again. She had forgotten to remove her turquoise ring.

  During the awkward silence that followed she noticed two things. One was that Madame Bonnard, rigid in black lace so that she looked as if someone had thrown a mourning tablecloth over a double coffin, did not look - quite - as frail and doolally as Edwin had led her to think. Madame B. might not be in the pink but she was a far cry from having one foot in the grave ... Two was that Edwin was unmistakably giving her - Madame Koi - the approving eye. This produced a strange mixture of emotions in her twin personae - mainly jealousy for Audrey waiting back in the apartment, but also a little wicked, pleasurable amusement for Madame Koi. A very odd experience to be both cheated upon, and the cheater. Unique, probably. There was something else, too. Something about the wifel
y way Madame Bonnard had her mottled old hand with its too many rings hooked so very comfortably through her husband's arm. It gave both of her, the one waiting at home and the one here in fancy dress, a kick in the ribs. She looked up, stared straight into Monsieur Edwin Bonnard's appreciative eyes, and - on a whim - she winked.

  Then she bowed once more and melted away into the throng leaving behind the charming picture of four sets of lips all making a silent 'Oh'.

  Once out of sight she slumped. It shook her more than she might have expected, seeing the two of them together and so intimately. Knowing someone has a wife, even seeing photographs of them together, is not the same as being in the presence of the living, breathing flesh that is legitimate two-made-one. Beneath her pale mask Madame Koi felt herself redden at the way that plump and mottled wifely hand held on to her husband as if she had every right. Which, of course, she did. When Audrey and Edwin linked arms in the few semi-public places that might allow such behaviour, there was always an edginess about it. She knew that cement between people. It was strong, it was the rights of both propriety and property. She knew it because she had felt it once, and only once, while she was with Patrick. The absolute public right to be seen together in your own clothes. Before he dumped her, of course.

  Come on, Aud, she told herself. Do not dwell. Move on. She approached one of the grand, open doorways that led to a terrace, which in turn led to the first link bridge which led to the new extension and the exhibition. There were several bridges linking the tall tower with the much shorter grandeur of Claude Perrault's East Front. Personally Audrey thought the seventeenth century looked a bit huffy alongside the upstart Babylonians, Patrick's ziggurat-style bridges, but at least the terrace leading to the first of them allowed her to breathe some of the evening air and recover herself a little.

  She was in a dangerous state - inclined to go back inside - find Edwin and Mrs bloody Edwin - and announce herself. See how he liked having two of them perched one each on an arm ... See where leering gets you, she could say . . . Except, except - back came the spectre of Delphine Bolle. That achieved nothing. Only a victory of sorts for Madame. And perhaps she had already taken enough from her. She stood there for a while breathing deeply, trying to relax, closing her eyes. But then - when she opened them again - and as if on cue - across the terrace's shadowy space she saw Patrick.

  Absurdly he was standing by a tub containing some exotic kind of bush, in direct line to where she must go if she was to enter the exhibition. No violins played, no great finger came pointing at him through the deepening night sky. It was all very ordinary. He was nodding in grave concentration with an expensively dressed couple whom Audrey recognised as the American Van Crees. Mrs Van Cree was a lady who lunched. Though she never lunched with Audrey, of course. Mrs Van Cree had a great deal of money and liked to spend it on what she called 'Cultural atonement for being Americans abroad'. Which included, according to Edwin whom it greatly amused, never learning a foreign language. Why should you? thought Audrey, watching the diamonds flash. She was a redoubtable woman.

  From the way she moved and her facial expression and her waving hands it was clear that Mrs Van Cree was in admiring mood and the object of her admiration was Patrick. Schmoozing the creator, it was called, and the creator, his knuckle to his chin, his expression concerned and rapt, responded wholeheartedly. Every time. Audrey had seen enough of it even in her peripheral life. No doubt they would all dine together later. Back came that flickering old flame again. For -just like Edwin - Patrick also had a wife hanging on his arm. But to Audrey Wapshott's expert eye, he did not look entirely relaxed about it and nor did horrible Peggy. Indeed, Peggy Boxer As Was looked distinctly anxious - and definitely timid and strangely windswept. She kept staring about her as if a ghost was about to walk in. Oh, it really was too, too much. All these allowable, amenable wives. If she was married to Edwin nowadays, for example, she'd kick up so hard he'd never look at another woman again as long as he lived. Not that she would marry him now, even if he asked her, she decided, in a comfortably muddled way.

  Patrick. Who - and who was she kidding when she tried to pretend - looked irritatingly, maddeningly - wonderful. No. Be fair. Who looked - well - sexy. Well - sexy and desirable. She - dammit -wanted him. All over again. Like it was rotten-well yesterday. And Peggy Boxer As Was, as usual, was right in the way. Madame Koi could hardly lead him off and conduct the conversation - and anything else that might happen - while the Boxer female was pulling so hard on his arm it might come off. I am not in the least jealous, she told herself, straining to study the twitching little figure beside him -wearing red, such a harsh colour, kept her figure though, thought babies were supposed to thicken you, bit on the stringy side now -

  Behind her someone spoke French, in a voice so English and clipped that she nearly laughed. The strangled very English voice now addressed an ill-assorted group of men and women. They could only be the Press.

  'Mr Rennie and Mr Parker will do their press interviews immediately after the President's opening speech, in approximately one hour's time. We have an interview room behind the exhibition halls -Chamber Three - just up there - on the left.'

  Madame Koi looked to see where Just Up There might be.

  'It is set aside for you. Later we will bring in the interior designers who will also be happy to take your questions. After that we will go up to the Panoramic Dining Room and you can fire your shot at me ... Mr Rennie has yet to arrive. He is currently being interviewed by the BBC The voice said BBC with some relief. It knew where it was with that.

  'Ah,' thought Madame Koi. 'Ah-ha ...'

  Rennie, she knew from her catalogue, was the other design star in the firmament. Once they were whisked off and caught up in the whole circus of the thing, Patrick would be lost to her. Therefore, if she was to achieve being alone with him, it was now, or never. Now or Never.

  Nearby a man was talking in Franco-English to a serious, dignified-looking group of men - probably the EU contingent - and he was explaining that for inclement weather the retractable PVC roof slid into place as easily as the hood of a Rolls-Royce convertible. Later they would see a demonstration. 'And if you will come this way,' he added, striding off across the terrace, ‘I will show you the clever use of those ancient Babylonian principles of his . . . And, if we can find him, we might be able to have a word or two before the big interview takes place ...'

  She watched them go, saw that they did not notice Patrick who was still standing by the potted plant in earnest conversation with the adoring Van Crees, straightened her back, became Madame Koi again and slipped her way across to them. She thought they might hear her heart beating, or feel the heat of her. The sight of Patrick becoming closer and closer and closer, made her feel a little sick. But if she was frightened, she was also suddenly determined. She had her own form of designs on him. Nothing must stop her now.

  Patrick looked up as she approached. Peggy Boxer As Was looked up immediately afterwards. The Van Crees stopped talking, open-mouthed. Madame Koi gave a little, apologetic smile - she was getting good at them - and slid her hand up through the crook of Patrick's other, free arm.

  'Now, Monsieur Parker,' she said, in her best Japanese-accented English, which did not sound at all convincing to her, ‘I have to take you away to the Press Room. You will excuse us?'

  She nodded first at Peggy, then at the Van Crees, and moved him away before anything else could be said. She looked back once. Peggy, looking even more anxious and uncertain, stood there in her bright red outfit which, at that moment, both Madame Koi and Audrey were pleased to see, did little for the sudden wanness of her face.

  'Do not worry, Madame Parker,' said Madame Koi, most kindly. ‘I will bring him back to you safely - in a little while ...'

  And she left the three of them eyeing each other uneasily. After all, thought Madame Koi, one could quite see the Van Clees' point of view. Who would want to be left with Peggy Boxer to talk to? As Was.

  13

  A
rchitecture Today

  Itwas a good photo opportunity. Apsu knew exactly why her bursary donor agreed to taking her around the exhibition before the official opening. It looked good for him. The British press took photographs of the two of them. 'A Big Smile from the New Generation' - she could guess the headlines. 'What do you think of it, Apsu?' he asked, smiling with those even white teeth of his.

  Around them the cameras were clicking, notebooks were waving, small microphones hung on the air. The Sunday Colour Supplement Rush. She sketched a line in the air. 'It should be like this, and this ...'

  Patrick kept smiling. 'You are young,' he said.

  'You are old,' she replied.

  'Well?' he said. 'Don't hang back. Tell me what you really think. I really want to know.'

  ‘I think,' she said, quite loudly, 'that it is too damned Butch.' He laughed. Perhaps even flirtatiously.

  So she added, 'I think the Babylonians would have taken you outside the city walls and fed you to the crows if you built this in their name.'

  Bang goes the job he offered me, she thought. But it was worth it.