When it comes to love, the only other equation that seems to hold is that, if x is the measure of your love for your partner, and y is the measure of your partner’s love for you, then x will always be either greater than or less than, but will never equal y.
And one final theory - a sort of variation on the “my best friend’s wife” syndrome - which merely states that one is much more likely to start an affair with one’s partner’s closest friend or relative than with a complete stranger. As the likelihood of infidelity is a function of the similarity between one’s partner and the object of desire, twins and close siblings should be considered particularly vulnerable.
Love is so fickle, so uncertain. In a world where we all chase the highest quality, dedicate our lives to the pursuit of happiness, it seems strange that we should put so much faith in such a poor, handicapped creature like love; it is blind, it knows no rules, it has no conscience, it can make you sick, it can turn sour. We’d all be better off with maths. At least you can always count on two plus two.
Can’t you?
Chapter 38
It was difficult to think of Wood Green as London. Although it was only a few miles further out than my own stamping ground, there was something unremittingly suburban about the place. Even back then, Islington had a life of its own, a character, a pulse; it had, for want of a better expression, a raison d’etre. You walked along its streets and alleyways, and it sang out to you; not a symphony à la New York or Paris, nor the graceful chamber music of Venice or Florence, but at least it had a melody, a harmony, a structure.
But what did Wood Green have? What sounds emanated from its shallow depths, its soulless interior, other than a sort of atonal bleating? It was odd how something so characterless and bland could also be so offensive. It wasn’t that Wood Green was ugly; it just wasn’t anything. For an individual to lack the courage of his or her convictions is sad, but for a whole town to exude nothing more than a sort of attenuated self-pity is pathetic. It did not possess a single redeeming feature, and was so dull, so insignificant, that had a bomb dropped on the high street, I don’t think anyone would have noticed. And this was where Liana had lived? It was inconceivable.
The Queen’s Arms was not the sort of place in which I’d have chosen to spend the early part of my afternoon, had there not been a very specific reason. I’m not very comfortable in strange pubs, especially within a city; I always feel out of place, unwelcome, as if I’m walking on to someone else’s territory. It’s totally irrational, especially as I’m quite prepared to walk into a completely unfamiliar bar in a totally foreign country without thinking twice about it. Ignorance of the specific social conventions that operate in a foreign country means one can behave, not so much with impunity, but certainly with abandon. However, stepping into a little-known manor can be fraught with difficulties, and to waltz into a drinking house wearing the wrong clothes or expression may be tantamount to walking naked into a church, cursing and spluttering.
London pubs are far from homogeneous entities, differing greatly from region to region; upmarket, downmarket, fancy, dirty, simple, traditional, high-tech, friendly, aggressive, cosy, noisy, vibrant, sleepy... you name it, you’ll find it. My own personal taste runs towards the traditional/cosy, the sort of pub where the landlord knows you by name, greets you with a smile, enquires sincerely about your day/wife/dog/loft conversion before asking if you’d like your usual. The music, if there is any, will be unobtrusive, there are no nasty, noisy machines, and in general there’s more wood than plastic to be seen. My local in Islington is like that, and I always feel comfortable there.
In fact, the older I get, the more I’ve come to treasure the familiar and the comfortable, rather than seeing them as traps or the first signs of middle age complacency. Whatever, when it comes to spending time in a pub, I have always chosen the traditional/cosy, unless it’s a special occasion like a birthday or celebration, in which case, a vibrant/upmarket spot with music and overpriced cocktails with daft names can be quite fun.
What I would not do under normal circumstances is stay long in a noisy/dirty/aggressive/downmarket establishment like the Queen’s Arms. I hadn’t realised that sort of pub still existed; it made the seedy dives in and around Islington look like sumptuous palaces.
The lounge bar was virtually deserted, so we wandered into the public bar and sat at a couple of stools by the counter. Sitting by the window were a group of older men, arguing noisily and gesticulating wildly, spilling beer and chain smoking. A couple of skinheads playing pool stopped their game and their stream-of-consciousness swearing to stare at us in a manner that made it clear they were not especially pleased to have a couple of strangers in their local.
We had been there less than a minute and I was ready to leave. Lee sensed my discomfort and with just a touch of her hand, calmed me down. I was struck once again by her composure and, indeed, her fine looks. Like her sister, Lee seemed not just aware of her beauty, but, unlike many beautiful women, comfortable with it, aware that others would look, stare, ogle, and that somehow it was not only understandable, but acceptable, a sort of implicit price that one must pay for having been blessed with an exquisite appearance.
Lee’s hand just lay there on my forearm, and she stared into my eyes, sure and certain, in complete control of herself and the situation in which we found ourselves. For a moment I felt myself slipping away, as if I was falling under a spell; there was something extraordinary about these Rogers girls, and in that moment I had a fleeting, barely tangible sense that, in one way or another, my life would be for ever inextricably linked with theirs.
The barman, a tall, greasy-haired youth with a nasty jagged scar down one cheek, eyed us suspiciously for several minutes before approaching us.
‘Wodja want?’
Great, I thought, the snob in me rising reflexively; Neanderthal staff. We should get some very informative grunts out of this one. I pushed the thought away as quickly as I could; I was uncomfortable enough in the surroundings without sending out death-wish signals as well. ‘Half a lager, please. Lee?’
Lee shuffled on her seat and smiled at the barman; it was exactly the same look she had given the Italian stallion in the café. There was something about this behaviour which both amused and shocked me; that Lee could be so calculating surprised me; that she was capable of pulling it off so successfully, deluding these singly transparent men with their chisel jaws and overactive glands, made me want to laugh out loud. I did not, of course, but merely sat back and allowed Lee to weave her spell.
‘I’ll just have an orange juice,’ she purred at the barman. He made a feeble attempt to disguise what he was thinking, but frankly, if there’d been a flag attached to the end of it, it would have been waving in our faces. ‘Oh, and perhaps you could help me with some information?’
‘Wozzat then?’
Lee produced the photo and handed it over. The barman studied it for a moment, then looked at Lee. He narrowed his eyes, presumably in an attempt to show he was thinking intently, but, alas, merely destroying any illusion of faint intelligence that had been present previously. ‘Oh, I gerrit. You Liana’s sister or somefink?’ Lee smiled and nodded. A broad grin spread out across the barman’s face as if, against all odds, he’d just won the finals of Mastermind. ‘Yeah, right... family resemblance.’
‘You know where she is?’ asked Lee casually. The barman nodded, although it did not seem to signify assent. ‘Actually, aven’t seen erfra coupla munfs, allvo she’s usually in ere awler time. Aven’t seen mutcha wotsisface nyver... ’
‘Keith?’
‘Yeah, Keef. Good bloke Keef, when he ain’t office fuckin trolley. He did come in the uvver night, buh nofferlong.’
Lee nodded, flashed him another one of her sexy looks, then executed a nice little bluff. ‘They still living round the corner then?’
‘Yeah, finkso.’
‘Don’t suppose you can remember the address, can you?’
The barman spent the next min
ute doing his best impression of a man with no brain, before coming back to our planet with a decisive reply.
‘Nah. Never could remember numbers... buh seasy to find. Sup the road, firs onner left, larse hass onner left... Eldon Road, I fink.’
‘Of course,’ said Lee, and smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks. What are you having?’
‘Oh, fanks very much. I’Il avven arf. Cheers.’
Lee turned to me and smiled. I could have thrown my arms around her and kissed her, but knew that this was neither the time nor the place for such a demonstrative outburst.
‘You’re amazing,’ I said quietly once the drinks had arrived.
‘Just doing what comes naturally,’ said Lee, in a way that aroused me more than a dozen of those looks ever could. I could almost hear my heartbeat quicken and feel my palms becoming hot and damp. This was not an acceptable reaction, I remembered thinking, and did my best to put it down to general excitement. After all, we had started the day with nothing, and we now had an address; of course I was excited. And she did look very much like her sister; it was only natural. I was only human, and just because I was profoundly in love with someone else didn’t mean I wasn’t allowed to find other women attractive, especially someone who bore such marked similarities to the woman I loved. There was nothing wrong with any of this; it was perfectly acceptable and understandable behaviour.
Which makes me wonder why I felt so dreadfully guilty as we left the pub and started walking towards Eldon Road.
Chapter 39
I read a review in last week’s Sunday Times of a first novel by some young, up and coming writer, whose name, at present, escapes me. The book, entitled Mythopoeia and referred to as “a literary, post-modernist romance” (whatever that is), was praised for its ingenuity and the unique manner in which a particular genre (the romance, usually considered undistinguished as an art form) was given a new lease of life by the young author.
In the same breath, however, the novel was severely criticised for its poor character development. In fact, the reviewer went to great lengths, selecting various passages by way of example, to show that a number of key figures in the novel frequently behaved “out of character”. The reviewer went so far as to suggest that this inconsistency was responsible for the ultimate failure of what was otherwise “a fine first attempt”, but he was sufficiently generous (and condescending) to suggest that such failings were merely the product of the author’s extreme youth and immaturity, and that we might still look forward to a fine novel from the young whippersnapper once he had grown up.
Now then, I’m not a great reader. (I tend to go for those mindless airport novels when I’m travelling as they require no effort to read, are instantly forgettable, and are great for swatting mosquitoes and hurling at cockroaches. Besides, great novels, important novels, depress me. They’re a taunt, a constant reminder that I’m just an ordinary wordsmith, a hack.) However, I was so infuriated by this particular reviewer’s attitude that, against my usual nature (that is, acting out of character) I went out and purchased, in hardback no less, a copy of Mythopoeia.
It was only two hundred pages or so in length and I managed to read the entire book in two sittings. I confess it was, at times, a little too intellectual for my taste, a bit self-conscious and, perhaps, a little too clever for its own good, but there was one aspect of the book that was simply breath-taking in its execution. You’ve probably guessed it.
The characters in Mythopoeia were drawn with such care, such insight, such astonishing perspicacity, that they were not fictions at all; they were real. They did not act or speak or behave like characters in any other novel I had ever read. They were not rational. They were not consistent. They did not, in each case, “develop” or “progress” during the course of the novel. They were full of idiosyncrasies, capable of inexplicable behaviour and outrageous acts. They were, mostly, confused, both by their own actions and the actions of other characters. Attempts by one or other to understand instances of bizarre behaviour invariably came to nothing. Questions went unanswered, problems were left unsolved, there was no neat conclusion.
Just like reality. Just like life.
By the time I reached the final page, I was full of admiration for the author. Here was not merely a “young writer of great promise” but a great writer, period. Any reservations I had were due solely to my own personal views on what constitutes “a good read” - I suppose I’m a bit conservative in my taste - and consequently all the theorising about “who is really the author/ how much control does he-she have/what is really real” etc. left me a little cold.
But those characters... I could converse with them. I could befriend them. I could argue with them. And the attractive blonde who appeared on page twenty, well, I could fall in love with her. I really could.
Her name, by the way, was Zoë, and she looked a little like Liana, only taller.
Chapter 40
‘I find it so hard to think of her as “Liana”; she’s Angela - always has been. To hear people refer to her by what sounds like my own name is really odd... sort of dislocating. It’s actually quite unpleasant.’
‘Unpleasant?’ We were walking along Eldon Road; by my calculations, we would be standing outside the last house on the left within live minutes. The idea that Liana might be there, that I could be standing face to face with her in just a few moments, was enough to give me palpitations. I was so nervous, I was grateful for any diversion, and was pleased that Lee was talking.
‘Well, perhaps unpleasant isn’t the right word; but it is uncomfortable. I mean, why did she change her name in the first place? Why did she take my name?’
It was a question I had asked myself many times over the weekend, and I had to concede that there was something disturbing about it. ‘I can only think of her as Liana,’ I said, unable to answer Lee’s questions. ‘Perhaps she just liked the name?’
Lee gave me a rather exasperated look, as if she expected better than inanities from me; it was, in retrospect, quite justifiable, but at the time I could not really concentrate on Lee’s concerns. I had my own fears to deal with. An entirely new picture had emerged that day, and I was still trying to come to terms with it.
Since returning to England I had learnt that Liana wasn’t Liana, but Angela. She had not studied Fine Art at Kent, did not have a younger brother, did not live at her given address. She had run away from home, had been in trouble at some time in the past eighteen months (that is, had been so desperate for money that she had made contact with her despised family) and had lived - was perhaps still living - in a squat in Wood Green. With a man. A man called Keith, who was not especially popular with a nice Italian Mama who ran a café on Charing Cross Road, but was much respected by a greasy yob with a scarred face who served behind the bar of the seediest pub in North London. It was fairly safe to assume that Keith was a scrounger and a drunk. The rest was still a mystery, and I was no longer sure that I wanted to find a solution. Even as we approached the end of the road, half of me wanted to discover nothing, to find that it had been a wild goose chase, that there was no Liana living at the last house on the left, no Keith, no problems
I’m not sure if Lee picked up on this - I suspect she was well aware of what was going through my mind, but said nothing. After all, we had set out to find Liana, and it was assumed, implicitly, that we might well discover something unpalatable or difficult. After all, why else hadn’t she contacted me? Something had to be wrong. I was suddenly made all the more aware of Richard’s telling comments; did I really want to get involved? What if there was something seriously wrong with her? How had Richard put it - what if she’s nuts?
‘What’s the matter? Michael?’
‘Huh?’
‘Why have you stopped? It’s not far now.’
‘Stopped?’ With some confusion I now realised that Lee was several paces ahead of me. I was, in fact, leaning against a garden wall, trying to steady myself.
‘Are you okay? You’ve gone rather pale.’
I was not, as it happens, feeling particularly well. My brow felt cold and clammy, and there was an unpleasantly hot sensation at the back of my neck. My legs did not feel strong, my stomach was loose, and there was a nauseating buzzing sound in my ears. ‘Uh, sorry Lee, I... I just... ’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I think I must be scared.’
Lee walked over to me, put her hands on my shoulders, stared straight into my eyes. ‘Do you want to wait here? I’ll go and find out what the story is.’
‘No, I should come with you.’
‘Michael... you really don’t look up to it. Why don’t you just sit down for a moment.’ She put her hand to my forehead; it felt soothing. I wanted her to leave her hand there, to caress me for a while, to ease away the feelings of discomfort and fear. I wanted her to save me.
Kissing Through a Pane of Glass Page 15