by Sue Margolis
With that, she adjusted her shroud and disappeared upstairs.
* * * * *
Rachel got back from Waitrose at about half ten. As she lugged four bags of shopping into the kitchen she almost collided with Otto, who was coming out. He had half a baguette filled with bacon in one hand and a can of Coke in the other. He offered to help her with the shopping. She thanked him, but said she was fine and he disappeared upstairs.
She had just begun chipping the potatoes when the doorbell rang. She rinsed the starch off her hands and trotted to the door, wiping her hands down the front of her trousers as she went.
“Matt,” she said, surprised but inexplicably pleased to see him, “Xantia didn’t mention you were coming. Has the washing machine been playing up again?” She noticed he was wearing a trendy black windcheater over charcoal combats.
“No, no, the machine’s fine.” He sounded a tad nervous, she thought. “At least I’m assuming it is. I mean you’d know better than me as you work here. No . . . it’s just that it occurred to me that Xantia may have lost the instruction manual for the Wiener. As I explained to you the other day, it’s a pretty temperamental machine, the Wiener, and you need to know what you’re doing. And as luck would have it I came across a spare manual while I was sorting through some papers. So I, er, thought I’d drop it round.”
“Oh, that’s really kind,” she said, smiling and reaching out to take the booklet.
He smiled back.
She was suddenly aware that a) their eye contact was lasting fractionally longer than it should between relative strangers and b) she was wearing no makeup.
“I’ll . . . um . . . get Xantia, shall I? She’s upstairs working.”
His face fell. “What? She’s here?” he said uneasily. “It’s just that I assumed . . . I mean I thought she’d be at the office. Please don’t disturb her. It really isn’t that important. I just thought I’d bring the manual round, that’s all.”
“Look,” Rachel said after a slightly awkward pause, “I was just going to put the kettle on. Why don’t you stay for a cuppa? I’m sure Xantia wouldn’t mind after you’ve gone to so much trouble.”
He hesitated. For a moment she thought he was going to say yes.
“It’s really kind of you, but I think Xantia might mind. I don’t want her to think you’re slacking. Anyway, I’d better get going. I’m already running really late.”
Disappointment shot through her.
“But I’m sure she won’t mind,” she persisted. “Really.”
“No, honest. I should be off.”
“OK,” she said.
Just then she heard the phone ringing in the kitchen.
“Oh God, I’d better get that. Otto and Xantia have got me fielding their calls.”
“No problem,” he said.
“See you again maybe.”
“Yeah, sure,” he nodded.
She closed the front door and dashed toward the kitchen. On the way it occurred to her that Matt had only brought the washing machine manual round as an excuse to see her, and that he might possibly fancy her. She blushed and couldn’t help herself feeling mildly horny at the thought. That lopsided grin of his was very, very sexy. Then she remembered the blond woman she’d seen him with at the Anarchist Bathmat. What was she thinking? The man had a girlfriend. A beautiful blond one. He’d brought round the manual, she reasoned, simply because Xantia was a rich and famous client and it was important for him to keep her happy. That way she wouldn’t hesitate to recommend him to her rich and famous friends.
She picked up the phone. It was Kermit, Xantia’s Parisian assistant at OP8 (known affectionately as Kermit the Frog).
“Look, Kermit, if it’s a real emergency,” she said, “I’ll get her to the phone. But can you just give me some vague idea what it’s about? . . . Whoa, let me see if I’ve got that, some avant-garde Austrian sculptor, yeah . . . is exhibiting his own version of Lego, at the Klagenfurt Design Fair, tomorrow, starting with a build-your-own-Auschwitz kit. Even though it’s meant to be an antifascist statement, you’d like to know if Otto and Xantia still want OP8 to have a stall there.”
She dashed up to the work piazza. As usual there was no sign of Otto or Xantia. It occurred to Rachel that maybe they’d nipped off for a quickie in the bed piazza, but there were no sounds coming from behind the screen. She checked the bathroom, ran over the bridge, climbed the stairs to the next level and then the one after that. Everywhere was silent and empty. Finally she came downstairs, checked the main living piazza and the front and back gardens. She could only assume they had gone off to work without saying good-bye. She went back to the phone intending to tell Kermit that the Marxes appeared to have left for the office. But she’d taken so long that he’d hung up.
“Rachel,” Xantia called from the hall, just as Rachel was putting the phone down, “we’re off now. See you tomorrow.”
Rachel jumped a foot in the air. Then she shot into the hall to confirm that her ears weren’t deceiving her. They weren’t. Xantia was putting on a padded purple silk coat over her sari, Otto was coming down the stairs reading some papers. She couldn’t make it out. A few minutes ago, Otto and Xantia hadn’t been in the house. She’d looked everywhere. This was verging on the surreal. Where on earth had they sprung from? She didn’t like to ask because she thought it would make her look stupid.
“Right, any messages?” Xantia said briskly, doing up the buttons on her coat. “I know about Klagenfurt—Kermit just got me on my mobile. Anything else?”
“No, nothing . . . Oh yes, Matt Clapton popped round with a spare washing machine manual. He thought you might have lost yours.”
“I think we probably have. Do you know, he is just so thoughtful. I tell you, the day he plumbed in our washing machine, some pipes burst and he stayed for two hours helping the workmen clear up the mess. I mean, it wasn’t even his fault. But nothing is ever too much for him. The man is a treasure.” She began staring wistfully into space. “And he’s so tall. And strong. There’s this funny lopsided thing he does when he smiles. And he’s got the tightest little butt . . .” She broke off, blushing, and cleared her throat. “As I said, he’s a treasure. An absolute treasure.”
* * * * *
After they’d gone, Rachel still couldn’t fathom out where Otto and Xantia had got to while she was hunting for them. In the end all she could think was that they’d popped out and returned without her noticing.
Rachel got home just after four. She hung up her jacket, put her bag and keys on the hall table and glanced at the answer machine. One message.
“Hi, Rache, it’s me, Ad. I’m at Manchester airport. Listen, I’ve asked Barry the accountant to fax you over those capital gains tax figures. I think you’ll find they make very interesting reading. He really is the most brilliant tax accountant. Did I tell you they’ve named a loophole after him? Oh yeah, and by the way, I meant to tell you that when I was at the flat yesterday, I noticed your fridge had this rather fridgey smell. I’ve just put one of those egg-shaped deodorizer things in the post. You should get it in a couple of days. Speak to you soon. Bye.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Adam, it’s a fridge,” she said out loud. “What did you expect it to smell of, tropical frangipani? Freshly baked bread? The Estée Lauder factory?”
CHAPTER 8
“. . . So Mrs. Peach, the exercises the doctor gave you still not working then? Oh I know, life would be a lot easier for us women if you could lay a new pelvic floor like a new piece of shag pile. Look, I was wondering if I could speak to Sh— . . . Soaked through? . . . Every time you cough or sneeze? Half a dozen pairs a day? Oh, I quite agree, Mrs. Peach, it’s no life. I’d go for the operation if I were you . . . no I do think so, really . . . a two-year waiting list? Gosh, that’s scandalous. . . . No, I’m sure they wouldn’t make Elizabeth Taylor wait that long. . . . Look, Mrs. P, is Shelley around? I’d like to have a quick word if possible. . . .”
Rachel, who was sitting at Xantia’s k
itchen table, mobile in hand, heard Mrs. Peach call up the stairs.
The Flowtex commercial had been postponed and Shelley had decided to go and stay with her mother for a few days. Rachel simply wanted a natter and to see if Shelley had any thoughts about how she might zap up her sex life with Adam.
Xantia was adamant she should make no personal calls during work time, but since the Marxes’ publicity machine had swung into action overnight and they’d flown off to the Klagenfurt Design Fair (where a posse of British broadsheet journalists and a BBC film crew were waiting to record their protest against the Lego Auschwitz bloke), Rachel decided to take a break from clearing up last night’s dinner party mess and phone Shelley.
“OK, right,” Rachel said to Mrs. Peach, who had come back to the phone. “Look, when she comes out of the shower, would you ask her to ring me? I’ll be home in twenty minutes or so. Right. Bye.”
She stabbed the red button on her phone before Mrs. Peach had a chance to go pelvic again.
* * * * *
Rachel finished at Xantia’s just after one. She was double locking the front door, aware of the bitter wind lashing at her bones, when she heard her name being called from the street. She swung round to see Matt heading toward the front gate. Her face broke into a broad smile.
“Oh hi,” she called back, giving him a tiny wave. Pulling on her gloves, she started down the garden path toward him.
“Hi,” he said. He sounded nervous. Exactly as he had the day before.
There was a tricky silence, which Rachel felt the need to fill.
“So, how are you?” she said, looking up at him, the smile still on her face. How she could ever have thought he was even remotely cross-eyed, she had no idea. His gentle, dark brown eyes were two of the least crossed eyes she’d ever seen.
“Oh, fine. Fine. Bit chilly, maybe.”
“Yeah, they said it’s going to get even colder. Might even be a white Christmas.”
“Um.”
“It’s nice to see you. . . .” She wanted to ask whether he had stopped by for any particular reason, but couldn’t quite work out a way of saying it without appearing rude.
“Yeah, you too,” he said.
“So did you just happen to be passing or was there . . . ?”
“Sort of. I’ve just finished plumbing in a washer-dryer down the road.”
“Oh right.”
“Miele.”
“Ooh, posh.”
“Yeah, two thousand spin speed.”
“Right. Not quite as posh as the Wiener, then.”
“No, not quite. The Wiener can do twenty-five hundred.”
“I know,” she grinned. “I’ve been reading the manual.”
“Oh . . . good.”
She watched him take a deep breath and swallow.
“Look,” he continued, “I hope you don’t mind, but I got you something.”
She was taken aback to say the least.
“You have?” she said, giving him a bemused look. She paused. Then she started laughing. “Oh hang on . . . let me guess. You’ve discovered the Wiener manual has a second volume.”
“No,” he said with a nervous chuckle, “not exactly. I bought you this.”
From his jacket pocket, he produced a small oblong package wrapped in an old Tesco bag.
“Sorry about the carrier,” he said. “It’s all they could find in the shop.”
She opened the bag and took out an exceedingly battered and chewed paperback. She stared at the title. Women in Comedy—from Music Hall to the Present.
“You bought this for me?” She couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so touched.
“Well, it didn’t exactly cost a lot, but I thought you’d like it. I found it in a secondhand bookshop in Muswell Hill. It came out in the eighties. It starts off with people like Marie Lloyd and ends round about Jo Brand . . . I mean if you don’t like it, you can always toss it. I won’t be offended.”
“Matt, I love it,” she said, beaming with pleasure. “Thank you. It’s a sweet, sweet thought. Of course I’ll keep it. I can’t wait to read it. I’ve always wanted to know more about the early women comics. This is so up my street. I can’t tell you.”
“You mean that?”
“Honest,” she nodded.
There was another silence.
“So, er . . .” he said eventually, “what are you doing now?”
“Oh, you know. I thought I’d go home—have a sandwich. I’ve got a meeting at my bank at half three—to discuss what my bank manager described in his letter as ‘the parlous state’ of my account.”
“Sounds nasty,” Matt said. “It’s just that . . . I mean, I was about to grab a quick bite. You wouldn’t fancy keeping me company would you?”
“I’d love to,” she found herself saying.
“Great,” he said. “I’m parked up the road.”
She explained she had her car with her, but he offered to drop her back after they’d eaten and she saw no reason not to accept.
They didn’t say much as they battled through the icy wind toward the corner. Finally Matt stopped beside a battered white Transit van with “Clapton Domestic” printed on the side in large black letters.
“This is it,” he said, taking his car keys out of his trouser pocket. “And please, no ‘born to be riled’ white van man jokes.”
“I wouldn’t have dreamed of it,” she giggled.
“I have never suffered from road rage, I never knowingly cut anybody off and I always slow down before I go through a red light.” There was the lopsided grin again.
“That’s OK, then,” she said.
“Oh, and by the way—it’s called Morrison.”
“What is?”
“The van . . . you know Van . . .”
“Yeah, I get it,” she said, grinning.
It was a daft joke, but for some reason it rather appealed to her.
* * * * *
It also rather appealed to her that Van Morrison’s dashboard was strewn with biros, beat-up map books, yellow stickies and McDonald’s debris.
“So,” she said, as she did up her seat belt, “doesn’t your girlfriend mind you buying presents for other women and then asking them out to lunch?”
“My girlfriend?” He gave her a puzzled look.
“Yes. The pretty blond woman I saw you with at the Anarchist Bathmat.”
“What, Rosie, you mean? She’s not a woman, she’s my aunt.”
Rachel raised her eyebrows.
“No, honestly,” he said. “She’s my mum’s kid sister. It’s all a bit weird, but when my mum was expecting me, she discovered her own mother was pregnant with Rosie. We’ve always been close. She lives in Edinburgh now, but I always take her out when she’s in town.”
“Oh right,” Rachel said thoughtfully.
* * * * *
They decided to go for coffee and a sandwich at Bonjour Croissant in Highgate. On the drive over Matt asked her how she got into comedy. She told him about hating Fleet Street and it having been an ambition since she was a teenager.
“So you gave up the journalism and just took a leap into the unknown. I really admire that.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “You have to take risks in life. OK, you might fail at the end of the day—but at least you can say you gave it your best shot. I reckon there’s nothing worse than waking up dead one morning, full of regrets.”
She nodded.
He went on to tell her his love of comedy had been handed down to him from his father, a retired builder who had moonlighted as a pub comic in the sixties and seventies.
“He tended to mainline on those my-wife-is-so-frigid-every-time-she-opens-her-mouth-a-light-goes-on gags. But it was definitely my dad who gave me a taste for comedy. By the time I was seventeen or eighteen I was hanging out at all the London comedy clubs.”
“Me too,” she said eagerly. “I wonder if our paths ever crossed.”
The more they chatted, the more his shyne
ss evaporated.
“Funny,” he said as they sat down at one of the small Formica tables at Bonjour Croissant, “can you imagine a café on the Left Bank called Hello Crumpet?”
She burst out laughing.
“So where do you live?” she asked.
He told her he had a flat in Muswell Hill and that his best mate, who’d been living in New York for the last few months and got chucked out because he didn’t have a green card, was staying with him for a few weeks.
“He keeps telling me he’s looking for a job,” Matt explained, “but I can’t see much sign of it. Or of him paying any rent. All he does is sit at home all day, hatching these lunatic business schemes. None of which ever seems to work out.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, last month it was a chain of dog restaurants called The Dogs’ Diner. Then there was his idea for a biblical foods deli called Cheeses of Nazareth. Now he’s working on some idea involving breakfast cereal. He did explain it, but to be honest I wasn’t really listening.”
Rachel shook her head and smiled.
“I know he’s a lazy bugger,” Matt went on, “but he’s my oldest mate and deep down, he’s a really decent bloke. He’s also desperate for a relationship. But he’s absolutely hopeless with women. Comes on far too strong—you know, sounds like he swallowed a book of chat-up lines and then can’t work out why women don’t want to know.”
“So what’s his name, this friend of yours?”
“Tr—Dave.”
“Trdave?” she frowned. “That’s an unusual name.”
“No, it’s not Trdave,” he explained. “It’s Dave. It’s complicated. You see he’s got this nickname. . . .”
Just then the waitress came to take their order.
“Anyway, that’s enough of me going on about my problems,” he said after she’d gone. “So are you going in for the Joke for Europe contest?” He told her he’d seen the posters advertising it at the Comedy Store.
She nodded. “Assuming I get through the audition, that is.”
“Can’t see that being a problem. You were fantastic the other night. Not only will the audition be a breeze, but you are going to wipe the floor with them at the contest.”