Mr. Loverman

by Bernardine Evaristo

Maxine comes over to me and gives me a hug.

  “I’m so proud of you. You’ve been so well behaved, even though you’ve got so much on your mind. Lola’s a bit intense for most people. We’ll be debating who’s going to win The X Factor, and he’ll start lecturing us about tribal warriors buggering each other in Africa hundreds of years ago.”

  “Tell me about it,” agrees Blowy. “And he can be very condescending for someone who’s always going on about equal rights.”

  “Ignore him,” Maxine says. “We need brainiacs like Lola.”

  “What about me? I’m a great believer in equal rights,” Blondie butts in. “I love black men. Their booties are unrivaled.”

  “Ignore him too. He loves winding people up.” She thrusts a scruffy piece of folded paper into my hand and whispers, “Here’s my business plan. Don’t read it now but do get back to me pronto, Papa.”

  Blondie calls over, “I’m trying to persuade Uncle Morris to come to Madame Jojo’s with us afterward. What about you, Barry?”

  “Not for me. Is no fun if a man can’t drink.”

  “Then me neither,” Morris says, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  Lola arrives back with the drinks, and I take a sip of my Coca-Cola but push it aside.

  “Maxine, gentlemen,” I announce, “I ready to retire from your delightful company. Forgive me for being a killjoy.”

  “Me too,” says Morris, joining me. “Make that two killjoys.”

  Lolanaise looks upset. I think he might have Donna’s so-called abandonment issues.

  Maxine sighs. “Not that I’m going to meet the man of my dreams at Madame Jojo’s.” She raises her shoulders and drops them in mimelike exaggeration. “I should become a lesbian, really. I think I’d be in demand.”

  I see the drink is starting to take effect.

  “I’m all alone in the world and no one cares!” she all but shouts.

  “Poor dear,” Blowy says with deeply felt insincerity, because he’s probably heard it all a thousand times before. “You’re far too good for those useless straight men out there. Look at you, in your forties and still such a head-turner.”

  “Turning forty,” she replies snippily.

  “Turning forty, looking twenty, what-evs.”

  They’ve dimmed the lights, the music just got louder, the place busier. I rise to leave, and Morris rises with me, dutifully, loyally. I turn to the assembled group of bezzies, because I feeling the urge to make another declaration.

  “Children, when my wife returns from abroad, I will tell her that our fifty-year marriage is null and void, and she will have to face the prospect of spending the rest of her life alone. Likely she’ll come at me with a carving knife. If I tell her I have always loved Morris and never loved her, she might go at herself with a carving knife. Good night.”

  For the second time this evening, I just murdered the conversation.

  Maxine looks aghast. What did she expect after the drama of Daniel? That I could just lock myself up again?

  It seems to be dawning on Lola that he don’t know a thing about me.

  Marcus and Pierre are sitting across the table like they’re watching a weepy at the movies and are desperate for a happy ending.

  “Maxine, you coming? I think we need to talk about this, yes?”

  And we three musketeers leave and hail a black cab back to my yard.

  15

  The Art of Taking Care of Business

  Thursday, May 27, 2010

  My bonkers-mad daughter provided some light relief while I spent my days waiting for Carmel’s Return.

  Take Maxine’s so-called business plan, which, when I got round to reading it, was so ridiculous it made me briefly forget the imminent confrontation.

  When I showed it to Morris, he did the bellyache laugh he’s been doing a lot lately, a laugh that sped down the hallway and gusted merrily up Cazenove Road and out into the ether beyond.

  BUSINESS PLAN: PHASE ONE

  House of (Maxine?) Walker

  By Maxine Walker, OBE ☺

  Outgoings

  (Annual/spasmodic (casual) per contract/or salaried 7amp;/London Weighting inc.)

  Stamps—£150

  Stationery—£250

  Marketing—£10,000

  Photocopying—£300.50

  Domestic travel/expenses—£13,999 (= taxis = time management = cost-effective)

  International travel/expenses—@£25,000 (source fabrics: Bali, Zanzibar, Marrakech, Tokyo)

  Fabric & materials—£80,000, give or take

  Bose Wave Music System—£778.99 (= staff morale)

  Phone & Internet—£1,500

  Seamstresses—£20,000 at £10 p.h.

  De’Longhi Espresso Machine—£849.95 (money saving = lifelong guarantee)

  Credit card interest—TBC ☺

  Studio—£30,000

  Drugs = (Jokes!) ☺

  Models × 15—£150,000 (supers = Lon Fash Wk = Mwah! Mwah!)

  Bang & Olufsen Flat-Screen TV (to view Fashion TV, etc.)—price TBC

  Minions (Oops—Support Team!!)—£30,000 (stylists!!! etc.)

  Misc./petty cash/money for sweets (Lol)—TBC

  Hunky male escorts for stressed and lonely designer = 52 × 500 = £26,000 = ☺ (Jokes!)

  Photography—£100,000 (Testino/Meisel/Rankin or other)

  Interns: Poppy, Daisy, India, Jemima, Amber!!!!! = mass savings! (spoilt rich bitches ☹)

  Hospitality—£12,999

  Assistant—£18,000 p.a. plus NI = ?

  Head Designer salary—£100,999 p.a.

  New car as befits a top designer (doh!)—price TBC

  Total Outgoings: TBC

  Incomings

  Sales to the rich, famous (probably Russian & Chinese!!!)

  At our first business meeting together in my kitchen (where else?), Maxine argues with po-faced defensiveness that her plan has merits that can be built upon, and that it’s supposed to be “fun and creative,” because, “Do I look like a boring administrator?”

  I’m sitting on my medieval throne. She’s sitting to my left, wearing cutoff denims that are on the wrong side of decency, especially for a woman her age. Morris is in attendance to my right, enjoying the performance.

  “Maxine,” I tell her up front, “listen to me good: your so-called business plan is the most ridiculous thing I have ever set eyes upon. In any case, it is not a plan; it’s a joke pretending to be a budget.”

  “Dad,” she bats back, “I can’t believe you’re being so heartless. I expected more from you. I’m your daughter.”

  “Yes, you are my daughter, but this is business and you acting the fool. I still want to support your creative endeavors, but on my terms. I will be the sole investor in the House of Walker (no Maxine about it), which makes me the sole proprietor. Your role will be that of (mad genius) creative director. Take it or leave it.”

  Storm clouds are gathering on her face.

  “I will appoint a business manager specializing in fashion retail who’ll oversee the business. He or she will report to me, and you will report to both of us.”

  “That’s just plain wrong, insulting, and offensive,” she says, ready to burst—her emotional impulse to throw a strop engaged in mortal combat with the mental awareness she got to behave herself. “Dad, you and I have got to be equal partners, because I really don’t need to have anybody bossing me around at this stage in my life? The whole point of having my own company is that I’m in charge.”

  “Look at my big h-ugly face, dearest. Tell me, what dost thou seest? A hardheaded businessman with a wealthy property empire or a damned jackass who ain’t got two pennies to rub together?”

  She starts sniveling into a tissue although, strangely, I don’t notice no actual water spurting out of her Cleopatra eye sockets.

  “And you can stop the crocodile tears, dear. You sure you ready to have your own label, Maxine? You sure you’re grown up enough? You sure you can handle working for a father who goin’ treat you
equally by not making any allowances because you’re his daughter? And yuh think Daddy can’t be a badass? How many wutliss tenants you think I evicted since I started renting out in the ’60s? I’ll show you the list: it runs to over three pages. Maxine, I serious about helping you, but I equally serious about pulling out if you mess me about.”

  At this stage in the proceedings Morris intervenes. “You should hire me as arbitration counselor between proprietor and creative director. Although”—he coughs—“although such a person would normally be called in after folk been working together for some time.” Cough, cough. “And relationships have reached crisis point.” Cough, cough.

  “Fear thee not, Morris. I’d hire you as my adviser any day, because that is what, de facto, you already are, mio caro consigliere. I go pay you a fat salary every month too.”

  It feels good to talk openly, freely, lovingly to Morris in front of Maxine. I realize how much I starting to feel freed up a-ready.

  Maxine’s crossed-over legs start spasming so much anyone getting in their way would receive a meaty kick from a pair of glittery hobnail boots.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Walker.” Morris arranges his face sanctimoniously. “I don’t believe in nepotism.”

  “Yes, that’s nepotistic!” Maxine agrees before catching herself.

  What Morris don’t know is that I secretly set up a trust fund in his name a long time ago, seeing as he still won’t let me support him. Should I depart this earth before him (which I hope happens, because I’d rather die than live without my beloved spar), he goin’ be looked after good for the rest of his life.

  Needless to say, Maxine conceded to my terms and conditions, because, quite frankly, she ain’t got no choice. We agreed I’d set everything in motion once the divorce done and dusted.

  I also told her that, although I expected teething problems, I wasn’t goin’ put up with no histrionics and infantilized behavior. I told her I’d give her eighteen months’ probation to show me she ready to rise above the crowd and become a success, not just a pie-in-the-sky dreamer.

  She told me she’d show me she’s got what it takes, then gushed about a future project called City Couture, with outfits inspired by black cabs, traffic lights, skyscrapers; cigarette-butt earrings and even shoes with dog-turd heels, as well as a casual “mugger range.”

  “Daddy, the city dweller becomes the city in clothes that encapsulate attitude and architecture, street style and street furniture—thereby closing the divide between the human race and the urban space. How ironic and postmodern is that?” she declared rhetorically, proudly.

  I told her that today’s innovation is tomorrow’s installation, and that she’ll be due a retrospective at Tate Modern or MoMA twenty years from now.

  She thought I was taking the Michael.

  But I wasn’t. Do I believe in my daughter? I do believe I do.

  * * *

  The weeks continue to pass without a word from Carmel or her elder daughter, who has sent me to Coventry for crimes committed against humanity, a war tribunal at The Hague.

  Every time I asked Maxine what was up, she reported Carmel was still sorting stuff out and would be back soon, but soon never came soon enough.

  Maxine kept popping round offering advice. “We’ll take your coming out one step at a time. Today the Quebec, next year civil partnership. I’ll be your maid of honor, and just make sure I catch the wedding posy or else. Pierre can be the overemotional mother of the bride, Marcus can be the little page boy, and Lola can deliver a sermon about the pleasures of black-on-black buggery.

  Thank God for Maxine.

  But the suspense got so bad I even contemplated flying to Antigua myself to utter the dreaded declaration: I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee.

  Except I ain’t never flown in my life and I not about to start now. As I confessed to Morris, “Why the hell would I risk getting blown out of the sky in revenge for two wars I am not responsible for and end up clasping an airplane wing in the middle of the Atlantic?”

  As we waited, we discovered that Morris’s first night in his lover’s marital bed was to be his last.

  “It don’t feel right,” he said, sitting up the morning after some frolicking-befuckery, his back up against a herd of grazing elephants. “What if Carmel comes home unexpected in the early hours and barges in on us?”

  “It don’t feel right to me either.”

  My king-size bed had always been a desolate no-man’s-land, the site of a couple who’d trained their bodies to not so much as brush up against each other in sleep.

  I gave up telling Carmel I was moving into another room decades ago. Like a divorce, she wasn’t having it.

  When I think about it now, I really can’t believe that I didn’t relocate to another bedroom. Why did I intensify the dysfunction of our marriage by sharing the same bed? Guilt? Fear? Cover-up? Weakness? What was the matter with me?

  Anyways, it’s too late now to turn it into a peccadillo pleasure zone. Nor could I stay over at Morris’s, because if Carmel did return unannounced at night, my absence would fan the wrath of her flames.

  We decided to spend our days together and our nights apart.

  I went to sleep alone and woke up wondering if Carmel had turned up and was sitting in the kitchen to surprise me. I could-a bolted the front door, but I knew this would equally vex her real bad.

  Morris came for breakfast every morning with his redtop and my broadsheet and a pint of milk or a loaf of bread if we was running low. One morning he brought in a mysterious white paper bag that he dangled in front of me before proudly arranging five croissants star-style on a white dinner plate.

  Oh my days, what is the matter with him?

  “Yuh really getting the gay bug, ehn, Morris? First croissants, next it’ll be those earth-moving cupcakes they keep banging on about in the supplements, and, before you know it, flower-arranging classes. Croissants are just the beginning of the slippery slope, my man. Stick to Mother’s Pride.”

  Morris was humming loudly before I even finished talking (cheeky arse) as he tried to butter and marmalade croissants clearly not designed for that purpose. Anyone can see that croissants are just a conglomeration of pastry flakes that should be rolled into a tight ball and stuffed wholesale into your gob, which is what I did.

  Suddenly he dived like a swooping bird onto the floor, because he must-a seen a crumb. He picked it up betwixt forefinger and thumb and crept to the kitchen bin like he was holding the tail of a mouse, whereupon he put his foot on to the black pedal and deposited it.

  He and Carmel are similar in that regard: they see dirt where it don’t exist. That’s where the similarity ends, for-tu-nate-ly.

  After breakfast we started the habit of reading the books lent to us by Lola, once he insisted on meeting us for coffee at Starbucks over at Angel and thereupon delivering a lecture, out of the blue, about the hip-hop downlows.

  Long, short and tall of it, he won’t be happy until 10 percent of all black fellas come out of the closet.

  I quipped, “You mean some of the hoodrats of hip-hop might be homos on the downlow?”

  He didn’t find me funny.

  Morris started on Invisible Life by the African American novelist Mr. E. Lynn Harris, Esq., while I got stuck into The Gay Divorcee by Mr. Paul Burston, Esq., which I thoroughly enjoyed, though I couldn’t for the life of me work out exactly what a West End Wendy or MDMA was. (“Muscle Mary” was self-explanatory.) Waiting in the wings was a Mr. Diriye Osman, Esq., a Mr. Philip Hensher, Esq., a Mr. Alan Hollinghurst, Esq., and a play called Bashment by a Mr. Rikki Beadle-Blair, Esq.

  All of this gayness is starting to affect me, preparing me for a new life, and, yes, as Lola said, helping me come to terms with what I been fearing and hiding all my life—although I won’t admit it to no one. And certainly not the “gay therapist” Lola recommended I visit. (I ask you.)

  One day I might even write an essay about these books for queer studies: “The Exemplification, Amplif
ication, Ramification, and Occasional Campification in Contemporary Gay Literature.” Two thousand words. Easy.

  Yuh see? I made a spectacle of myself that fateful night with Daniel’s hoodlums, and I got complications ahead, but I can’t stop what’s happening here.

  Yes sah. Yes, Morris. Yes, Lola and fellow attention-seekers, I feel myself coming out, no so-called about it.

  16

  The Art of Speechlessness

  Tuesday, September 14, 2010

  So here we are, late morning, midweek, reading quietly, peaceably, harmoniously at the kitchen table about an hour before our perambulatory expedition down to Dalston for some lunch, when I hear the key turn in the lock and guess who swans in through the front door with Donna in tow, dragging the kind of man-sized suitcase favored by immigrants?

  Lord-a mighty, what happen to Wifey? I barely recognize her.

  As she moves closer down the infamous hallway that has been witness to many a Walker drama over the decades, I notice she not only walking a bit straighter, but limping a lot less.

  What is more, someone has taken a hammer and chisel to her former self and started chipping away, because the woman who must-a been hiding underneath is starting to show.

  Her eyes appear bigger, glossier, glowing.

  Her face is smoothly tanned, quite radiant. Are those actual cheekbones peeping through?

  As for her hair. What-a thing. When I first met Carmel, her hair was the product of a hot-iron comb; as she got older she dyed it; and when it started to thin prematurely from all she put it through, she bewigged herself.

  Now look at her: au naturel, and, I have to say, it looks bloody lovely: pretty little gray curls shaping her head.

  Yes, it really suits her. Wifey looks classy, makes her look younger too.

  I stand up as she enters the kitchen, wearing a floaty white kaftan with blue diamond embroidery and white linen trousers that flap over a pair of canvas sandals with platform heels. Heels?

  She wearing a turquoise bangle and raindrop earrings? Lipstick . . . nail polish?

  What happened to her offensive nylon trousers with tights worn underneath? You could hear her a mile off with all that rub and bristle. Way she looks now, I could pass her on the street and not recognize her.