by Edward Docx
And so into paradise at last I came, outwardly serene, but with a heart now beating itself blue against the cage of my ribs. Along the path, through the trees, into the open, across the grass, between the chestnut boughs, just a little further, and there she was. There she was: Venus on a bench with pillow.
At fifty paces, I deliberately scrunched on the gravel path. She glanced up in my direction. I stepped on to the grass and crossed towards the middle of the lawn between us. A black cat licked a white paw.
Fresh fucking orange juice!
What oh what oh what was I thinking? What kind of an idiot brought a woman he did not know – had not met, had only seen, had only seen from a distance – unsolicited orange juice? What in the name of arse was I doing? There she was: an innocent woman, minding her own business, quietly happy, undesiring of any man’s attention, trying to read, trying to enjoy the sunshine, trying to live her life. And here was I … What had got into me? For God’s sake man, turn it around for a single moment and ask yourself what you would think if your afternoon was hijacked by some terrible penis appearing (as if from the most casual of nowheres) with a picnic flask of freshly squeezed orange juice and two – two – glasses in his rucksack? Come on Jackson: only imagine her later relating the episode to her friends – their faces practically maimed with uncontrollable laughter – imagine her telling the story of this hapless, hapless scrotum of a man. Orange juice. Could anything be worse? Could anything be less natural?
Disgusted and horribly afraid, my faculties were fleeing the scene like so many deserting conscripts. But my stolid legs were carrying me ever on.
At thirty paces, the fiasco downshifted and became a disaster: unbelievably, unceremoniously, she started to get up. First she swung around so that she was sitting normally on the bench, her exquisite knees almost touching, then she picked up the pillow and … simply stood up.
Twenty paces and I could only look on aghast. Suddenly she had started walking towards me. It was appalling – desperate – ruinous. The light turned grisly pale, pregnant with doom. She cut the corner across the grass. The distance decreased at double speed.
Me: ‘Finished with the bench?’
Her: ‘It’s all yours.’
Me: ‘Thanks.’
And then she was past and there was only the faint almond scent of her sun lotion, followed by the sound of her footsteps as she reached the gravel path behind me. Six steps, seven, eight. I made the bench. I sat down. I looked up. She had already disappeared.
The wood was still warm.
7. The Triple Fool
I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry;
‘Finished with the bench?’
Finished with the bench?
Finished with the fucking bench?
Of course she had finished with the bench, my dear Jasper, she had risen from it, removed her things and walked decisively away. Could there be any clearer evidence than this?
I told you it was bad. I told you I fell apart. I blame horoscopes. I blame faulty chakra. I blame my parents. I blame her. I blame the shock of her face up close. If she hadn’t looked … Oh Christ, I suppose I can no longer evade my descriptive duty. I’d better get it over with. Up close, she had the pure-skinned features of a perfume model but softer, more delicate and without the strident angles of someone employed to be striking in two dimensions. The day’s sun had left a faint redness across the bridge of her pretty nose and her fleeting smile, when it came, was all the more priceless for the slightest downturn at the corner of her mouth. Her lips – parted a fraction as we passed each other – were neither full nor thin but, I noticed, the lower had been lightly bitten. Her brow, like her hair, was fair. Her eyes were a captivating hazel – quick and self-possessed. Taken altogether, there was, I remember thinking, something in the lines of her face that mingled provocation with her ridiculous beauty.
And yes, I know: it depresses me too. But the point is that from that desperate moment – down there on the canvas with the head swim and the eye sting and the blood in my ears and the referee already at nine – I was always going to demand a come back fight.
First, I called William.
‘Well how many times have you seen her?’
‘Three,’ I replied. ‘The first time I was buggering about with oranges and so I sort of fucked up what I –’
‘You were what?’
‘I … It’s not important. Then I saw her again yesterday, walking towards the Tube when I was coming home. And now – just now – she’s been out in the garden behind my flat for the last forty minutes. She started sunbathing but it’s clouded over and she’s gone back inside. That’s three times. Anyway, listen, can you come over tomorrow?’
‘I’m not sure. I half promised to take Nathalie to Goodwood and –’ The void of a lost voice.
‘Will, you’re cutting out.’ Some crackle and snap. ‘Can you come over? She’s killing me. I can’t work in my bloody studio without looking out of the window every two seconds. I can’t go to my local shops in case I run into her. Or worse, in case I don’t run into her. It’s hopeless … I have to know who she is. And I can’t just go down into the bloody garden again, not yet, I … You’re cutting out again. Where are you? What’s all that racket in the background?’
‘I am in a gents’ toilet – in the Crowning Glory, actually, just off the Strand. I am on my way to a charity dinner. The sound you can hear is a spate of rather jubilant flushing emanating from some of the nearby cabins. Hang on. Let me get out of here.’
I waited. A moment of exertion and then the regular click-clack of William’s leather-soled shoes reasserted itself on the London pavement.
‘Right. Back on track again. I tell you, Jackson: ever since they started closing all the public conveniences, things have become very tricky. I have to carry this guidebook around in my head with details of all the pubs in London that don’t mind you taking an occasional tinkle and it’s changing by the-’
‘William.’
William cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Jasper. Where were we? A certain mademoiselle has appeared in your garden and she is interfering with your pointless life? Is that it?’
‘Yes. It fucking well is it. I’m certain she’s moved into one of the flats opposite. There was a basement for sale that I had to talk Lucy out of making an offer on. Maybe she’s moved in there. Oh God, it’s a bloody nightmare.’ I paused. ‘Will, seriously, I’m under siege here. I’ve never had this happen on my own doorstep before. I don’t know if I can cope. If I don’t speak to her by the end of the week, I will have to move.’
‘It’s only been a few days – she might be staying with someone. She might be gone before you know it and then you can relax – get on with your work.’
‘She isn’t and she won’t.’
‘But you haven’t spoken to her?’
‘No. Not exactly.’
‘So you don’t know. And all this excitement is based purely on the physical, on how she l—’
‘No … Yes. No. Will, honestly, she eats cherries and spits out the stones. She reads maps. She … This is not like when I was twenty-one. Or last weekend with Annette or whatever. This is serious. She’s intelligent. I can tell. No joke. She came out here before with a bottle of wine and this battered red bucket, for Christ’s sake. And guess what she had in the bucket? Ice. Ice – to keep the wine cool. Can you believe it?’
‘Amazing.’
‘Oh fuck off. Of course it’s physical. That’s how the human race works. Stop being so pious. The whole planet is fucking physical. Look around you, man. She’s very physical.’
‘How come you need my help all of a sudden?’
‘Because I live here and I can’t go around the place asking questions. It might start to look odd.’
‘What questions? You don’t normally need to bother asking any questions.’
‘I know I know I know. But she’s … she’s a very different prop
osition to normal. Will. I know it’s bullshit but I have a … I have a feeling about her. And I don’t want to make any mistakes.’ A passing siren keened in the earpiece. Suddenly embarrassed, I collected myself. ‘I have to know more about her before I proceed. I have to know the right way to go about things before I can … go about things.’
William was finally beginning to comprehend the gravity of the situation. ‘You mean single or boyfriend or married or lezzer?’
‘Yes, that sort of thing. And her name and whatever else.’
‘Dear, oh dear. Whatever happened to romantic spontaneity?’
‘Balls to spontaneity. She’s far too attractive for that sort of crap. Spontaneity is a luxury available only to people who don’t care about what happens next.’
‘You have got it bad, young Jackson. She must be the answer that you’ve spent your whole life look—’ he prevented me interrupting. ‘OK, OK, I believe you.’
‘Can you make sure you’re here in the morning – before the estate agents shut? I have an idea.’
William exhaled noisily. ‘I suppose I can make myself available for a few hours. I’ll think of it as visiting the sick and –’
‘Good.’
‘– and Jasper?’
‘Yes? What?’
‘I’m by no means a shrink but – in case you are interested – I would say that you are once more in the unrestrained grip of Jackson’s Syndrome. Be aware that by any normal reckoning you are mentally ill.’
Second, I called on Roy. I paid him for the oranges and the limes and then asked, ‘Roy, will you do me a favour?’
‘Certainly, Mr Jackson – what would you like? More oranges?’ He became worryingly excited. ‘Oh yes, and my brother Trevor is bringing a delivery of fresh fish this afternoon for the new restaurant on Shirland Road. I am positive he can be persuaded to stop off – if you fancy a quick skate. Or how about a monkfish? Anything but cashews if you follow my drift, Mr –’
‘No, Roy, no thanks. No fish just now. In fact, it’s nothing to do with food. I just need you to keep a look out for me.’
‘Keep a look out?’ Up went two Schickelgruber brows.
‘Yep. And don’t worry, we can come to some sort of arrangement about fees or whatever.’
He looked alarmed. ‘I can’t leave the shop. You know that.’
‘No, no, no,’ I said, hastily. ‘I don’t want you to. I just need you to watch out for this woman who might –’
‘Let me stop you right there, Mr Jackson.’ He raised a palm and smirked. ‘The subject of women is one about which I can truly say – hand on heart – that I know nothing at all. Whatsoever. Nor, I might add, do I intend to waste any remaining God-given attempting to learn. There’s no sense to it, Mr Jackson. Nothing about women adds up. You always end up running the business at a loss – if you follow me. No, no,’ he waggled an index finger, ‘it doesn’t bother me to say that I have known only one woman in my entire life – and that was my wonderful wife, or I should say ex-wife, Roy’s mother. And ever since she decided that she was better suited to the Spanish … climate … well, I’ve not involved myself with the matter, beyond the exchange of seasonal niceties, of course. So I’m afraid if it’s advice you’re after, you have come to the wrong man, Mr Jackson. Now Roy Junior on the other hand, I have to say, he does appear to know a thing or two about the ladies and I’m sure that –’
‘Roy, let me stop you there. I appreciate what you’re saying, I really do, but you’ve jumped the gun a bit. All I am asking is that you keep an eye out for someone – and let me know if she’s with anyone when she comes in. With a bloke, I mean.’
The doorbell jingled. I swung round. Another customer passed behind me and set off towards the frozen goods at the back.
Roy lowered his voice. ‘Oh – I see. Right you are, Mr Jackson. No problem. You just want me to – shall we say – gauge the status – partner or otherwise – of a young lady whom you have reason to believe might be a customer of mine. Well, that’s easily done. I can always tell what stage a couple have reached by the level of attention they pay to their food purchases. They start off not really giving a monkey’s derrière about what they eat – excuse the Frog – but, gradually, their interest deepens as it begins to take over from you know what – until eventually, after a bit of time, they’re both obsessed by ingredients.’ He shook his head, sadly. ‘It’s when they start asking for fresh herbs you know that things have ground to a halt in the bedroom department, as it were.’
I stood back to allow the other customer access to the counter. Six hundred litres of Diet Coke, two bottles of rat-slayer wine, two litres of death-bastard vodka, four tubs of ice-cream, chocolate sauce, chocolate sauce, a box of chocolates, some chocolate slabs and four more tubs of chocolate ice-cream. She was around twenty-two and wearing her make-up to look as though she wasn’t wearing any make-up.
She shrugged ruefully. ‘We’re having a girls’ night in.’
I nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m impressed.’
She mistook my tone for sarcasm and shook her head – men! – as she helped Roy wedge things into his too-flimsy blue plastic bags. I held open the door for her and returned to the counter.
Roy leant forward, conspiratorially. ‘So what does she look like, then, this young lady I’ve to keep an eye out for?’
‘She’s in her middle twenties, I think, Roy, five foot seven or eight, slim, blondeish hair – cut sort of expensively scruffy, just on the shoulder. You’ll know her: she’s extremely pretty and she’s –’
‘Got a great set of pins.’
It was my turn to look alarmed. ‘I was going to say she’s caught the sun. But yes. Yes, now you come to mention it, Roy, she has a great set of pins …’
Roy nodded sagely. ‘Oh, just because I don’t get involved doesn’t mean I’m not an armchair enthusiast, Mr Jackson. No – no. In fact, I know exactly the woman you mean. And what’s more, I wouldn’t be lying to you if I said I saw her yesterday. Didn’t come in here, mind, but she had her lunch over the road. Wears shorts and nice blue dresses and such – yes?’
‘Yes! That’s her! She was at Danilo’s? Yesterday?’
‘Yes. Seen her a few times now you mention it. But she was there yesterday sure enough for a couple of hours. I thought she was waiting for someone. Kept on looking around.’
Third, I went to see Carla.
For a short street, Formosa offers a number of dining options: an Italian café, an Italian delicatessen and an Italian bistro. Not exactly a dramatically contrasting range of world cuisine, you might argue, and hardly the cheek-by-jowl array of ethnic diversity that London is supposedly famous for. But nonetheless, over the last couple of years, believe me, I have come to savour their fine distinctions.
Danilo’s, the bistro, is a second home of sorts. I am very good friends with the owners: Danny himself, and his wife, Carla, the Madonna of Little Venice, whom I adore and for whom I would do anything. Dark-haired, late forties, high cheekbones, disdain about her mouth, but with boundless compassion in her eyes – the mother I never had.
‘Hello, Carla.’
‘Hello, Jasper. How are you today?’
‘OK.’
She was sitting behind the till, smoking her mid-morning cigarette and reading a magazine. There weren’t any customers but from the kitchens came the sporadic clatter of pans – Cesare, the big-nosed, dwarfish chef, ugly brother to the long-suffering head waiter, Roberto. I asked Carla for an espresso. She locked the barrel in place and smiled, her cigarette lolling in the corner of her mouth.
I waited until the coffee was ready then located the most casual tone of voice I could manage: ‘Carla – do you remember a girl who was in here yesterday, having lunch? With … sort of … sort of light-coloured hair?’
‘Oh yes. Of course.’ She pulled a peculiarly Italian expression – half appreciation, half contempt. ‘She is very good. I serve her and I said to Roberto last night, he would have enjoyed doing the day shift yesterda
y because there is someone coming in who is very beautiful. She stayed for one hour and a half. Was waiting for somebody, I think. You know her?’
‘Not exactly.’ I hesitated for a moment. ‘Carla, listen, if she comes in again – on her own – for lunch. Will you call me?’
‘By the telephone?’
‘Yes.’ I drained my espresso in one.
She laughed. ‘You are so stupid.’
‘Will you though?’
‘Yes, of course, if you want … you are trying to meet up with her?’
‘Yes.’
She tutted. ‘Danny tells me that when Roberto was ill before Christmas and you were helping us for that terrible Saturday, you had a girlfriend come in afterwards. She talked to Danny a long time. A nice English girl – Lucy, I think, yes? What happened to her?’
I shrugged. ‘It was never serious.’
‘It was not?’
‘No. Not specifically.’
‘And this new woman you want me to look for?’
I smiled, pretending to be cool. ‘She is serious.’
‘Oh – you know that for a fact?’
‘I know.’
‘You don’t know. You never even speak with her.’ She smiled but only with her eyes. ‘I think maybe you would like it to be serious, yes? Maybe now you have no serious you want serious. Maybe you are tired of ragazze.’
‘Here, I’ll give you my number again – just in case.’ I wrote on the top of her receipts pad. ‘Keep it by the telephone. And, please, Carla, don’t forget.’
‘I won’t. I will put on the shelf so I do not lose it.’ She looked down at what I had written. ‘How’s it going, your big work?’