The Perfect 10

by Louise Kean

  Women at the least need an image of the Perfect Ten, for the soul. We need something to aspire to that, in striving to achieve it, and possibly even succeeding, benefits us all, and not just plastic surgeons, Giorgio Armani and Calvin Klein.

  Cagney stares at a photo of a twenty-year-old Grace Kelly lookalike, perched on the side of a boat in the Caribbean. The breeze plays with her hair, as she shields the sun from her eyes. The beach sits behind her in the distance, deserted and remote. He is hypnotised. It’s the beach and the boat that he longs for, the isolation, and the peace, not the woman. NOT the woman. But his eyes are drawn to her slim freckled legs, and the shirt she has knotted at her midriff. Her feet point elegantly towards the cameraman, which reminds him why he holds the photo in his hand, and he tosses it away as if it’s burnt his fingers.

  A punter stands in front of him. His name is Sheldon Young. The Grace Kelly type is Sophia Young, his wife. His much younger wife. Sheldon is a fool – Cagney knew it by his weak-as-water handshake and apologetic grin. Cagney sits in his chair while Sheldon looks around for a second seat that isn’t there, finally positioning himself uncomfortably in front of Cagney’s desk like a rookie private who doesn’t know how to salute a captain, and relates his life story to Cagney, without being asked. They always feel the need to explain.

  ‘Sophia and I were married two years ago, Mr James, on her eighteenth birthday. I was forty-five.’

  Sheldon is in reasonable shape, but with thinning hair and small hands. Cagney pitied him on sight, for believing himself capable of keeping any woman happy.

  ‘I was in investment banking, and I’d made my millions, but I’d never found a reason to stop working, Mr James, until she walked in. As luck would have it, my assistant, Margaret, had just broken both her legs in a horrific skiing accident, and the temping agency … well, they sent me an angel.’

  Sheldon beams at the recollection. Cagney shudders.

  ‘I believe we fell in love at first sight, Mr James. Sophia had only been out of college for three months, she was unsure what to do with her life, thinking about travelling, but of course she was too young and too innocent to have any idea of where to go. I took her to lunch that very first day. She was from poor stock – her parents were both simple, working class, but somehow they made this beautiful fragile fawn. Our engagement was announced in The Times four weeks later.’

  ‘It’s good not to rush into these things.’ Cagney nods his head at Sheldon, who smiles back in agreement. ‘Do go on, Mr Young. It’s edge-of-the-seat stuff.’

  ‘I know it sounds like a fairy tale, Mr James, but any man who’s been in love will know what I mean when I say that I had never felt true happiness until I saw her face.’

  ‘It sounds dreamy.’

  ‘It was like a dream, Mr James, a beautiful intoxicating dream. We made plans straight away, and we had every intention of spending the rest of our lives bobbing about on unfamiliar oceans, sipping champagne, and tasting paradise. But now that paradise is lost.’

  ‘Good God.’

  The smile that plays on Sheldon’s face falls, but he is too self-involved to clock the horror on Cagney’s face.

  ‘She thinks she’s in love with somebody else, Mr James. She wants children, you see, and I don’t, I never have. Too selfish, I suppose, to surrender my freedom, and to share her with somebody else. But in the last six months she’s grown restless. She is a beautiful person, Mr James, as beautiful on the inside as out, like a tender lamb. But we want different things. Recently she’s been distant, she doesn’t like to be touched, and yet in her eyes I can see that it hurts her to be hurting me, and I believe it’s killing her. She’s just such a warm and loving girl, like a wide-eyed young rabbit.’

  Cagney can’t take any more. Apparently this girl is the whole farm!

  ‘If she’s such a saint, Mr Young, why is the bunny screwing somebody else?’

  Sheldon visibly flinches at the word. ‘She wants to be a mother, and I won’t give her that. It’s my fault! I should have told her before we were married. She deserves to have children, and to share her love with them. I just can’t be the man to give them to her.’

  Cagney is confused. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t understand. If you love your wife that much, if you believe she deserves this supposed happiness that you can’t give her, why are you here? Just tell her you want a divorce, and let her get on with it.’

  Sheldon looks embarrassed, looks down, around, anywhere but at Cagney when he answers, quietly, ‘I can’t let her have the money. There’s no pre-nuptial agreement, you see, and I’m afraid the man she’s picked is not a wise choice. It’s our handyman … you understand? And I believe she thinks she’s in love with him. But he’s a rogue, through and through. She doesn’t want me any more, and I won’t stand in her way, but I can’t let him squander my money, Mr James. I worked hard for it, it’s the key to my life, it lets me do what I want to do.’

  ‘But, Mr Young, by the looks of it you have enough money to share. You could still take all the boat trips you want, and pay her hairdresser’s bills.’

  ‘Mr James, I resent the implication that Sophia is a drain. She has cost me barely a penny since the day we were married. She is not a gold digger. But this rogue is. And besides, I’ve made some bad investments. There’s not as much as there was. There isn’t enough left to support us both, separately.’

  Sheldon looks down at his feet, embarrassed. That’s not strictly true, is it? Cagney thinks, clocking the Rolex, and the cufflinks, and the manicure.

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase, Sheldon. You love your wife, but she doesn’t get the cash without getting you as well.’

  Sheldon coughs nervously. ‘Mr James, I just need some evidence. It’ll be easy enough to get. I’ve nearly caught them myself a couple of times – she’s too lovely to be discreet. Just a few photos and then this whole sorry matter can come to an end. I want her to be happy. I just can’t afford to pay for it.’

  ‘Well, Sheldon, I’d love to help but my business is not catching people who are already having affairs. The lovely Mrs Young and Bob-a-job might actually be in love, and who am I to sully that?’ Cagney always marvels at the fact that he is able to say that part with a straight face. But it’s an excuse they swallow like a scoop of vanilla. ‘My agency acts only in cases where there is suspicion of promiscuity, and I use trusted members of staff to initiate meetings, and secure any evidence we need. I am not a private investigator and it sounds like that’s what you want. They are more expensive, but I can give you some numbers if you like.’

  Sheldon interrupts Cagney as he reaches for the number of Richard Hill, a private investigator with the proper licence. Over the years they have batted work to each other, and although Cagney knows that Mr Hill makes more out of their unofficial deal than he does, it isn’t enough to worry him.

  ‘No, Mr James, you misunderstand me. I don’t want you to catch her with him. I want you, or a member of your staff to initiate a “honey trap”, which I believe is your business. And then, you see, Sophia will realise that this lout isn’t for her, and that there are plenty of other men who can give her what she wants. She’ll come to her senses, break it off with this nasty piece of work, but I’ll still get my divorce. Finances … intact, so to speak.’

  ‘Sheldon, you must really love your wife to do this for her.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘OK, here’s what I need to know: where she goes during the day, whom she meets, her hobbies, what she likes, where she drinks her coffee, where she has her hair done, things like that. It can take as little as a week; the longest it’s ever taken is three months. Depending on the time and the man hours the cost will vary, but you are looking at a minimum of one hundred pounds, and a maximum of ten thousand.’

  ‘Money’s no object.’

  Tell that to your wife!

  ‘When will you start?’

  ‘You leave me the details, we’ll start straight away.’

  When Sheldon finally lea
ves, having disclosed all the necessary information, Cagney sits back in his chair, cracks a nut in one hand, and holds Sophia Young’s photo in the other. She certainly is a looker, but he’s seen better. There is something about her, though, an unusual innocence around the eyes. But what difference does it make? She’s screwing around on her old man and, by the sound of it, she’d planned to take him for everything he was worth and hook up with some younger model from the start. Hell, her and the handyman were probably sweethearts since school, cooking up this scam together. Poor stupid Sheldon, he’d walked right into it. He’s come to his senses late, but just in time.

  Cagney stares at the photo again: there would be worse things than having her on a boat like that, in a place like that. He had been startled when Sheldon first passed him the photo, because she looked just like Gracie, and the boat and the vista – that was his dream. In three months’ time Cagney was headed for an ocean just like the one in the picture, and a yacht like the one the lovely Mrs Young was using to rest what looked like a great arse upon. He probably won’t be able to afford anything quite that special, but a one-berth is all he really needs. The sounds of the city will fade away, and finally he’ll know peace, with only the ocean lapping below him for a soundtrack. He would never be alone with the waves for company, friendly locals in every port who’d come to know him as the eccentric loner, the sole captain and crew of his tiny boat, who’d drink with them in their makeshift pubs, and toast the stars on seemingly limitless beaches. Cagney looks back down at the photo again – would it be so terrible to have somebody along for the ride? She has a touch of Alice around the eyes as well …

  The phone rings and breaks his daydream. Cagney snatches at the receiver.

  ‘Cagney James.’

  ‘Boss, it’s Howard.’

  ‘How many bones did he break?’

  ‘Just the three.’

  ‘What did you guess?’

  ‘Five. I owe you a tenner.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘They’re putting on the cast now.’

  Cagney rubs his eyes and thinks. Iuan finished his only current job yesterday, but Cagney planned to start him on another one tomorrow morning. It is a youngish girl admittedly, and he can feasibly give it to Howard instead, but when Iuan had shown Howard the photo yesterday he had screamed, and it made Cagney doubt his ability to ‘finish the job’. That was the way it worked – Howard took the young ones; Iuan took the ugly ones and without complaint, knowing as he did that all results had to be deemed objective by the agency’s punters: offering a handsome man to some of Iuan’s women would be like giving a peasant the keys to a palace, and then acting surprised when they tried to move in. Cagney took anyone over thirty. It had never failed them before, but then they had never been a man down before, and it is sensitive business. There is always the risk of trouble, and a fine line kept his licence most days – Howard and Iuan both know to play dumb in the right situations. Cagney can’t very well just put an advert in the Jobcentre. Both Iuan and Howard had come to him by chance, and it had worked out well.

  Iuan arrived in Kew as a traffic warden nearly a year after Cagney moved in, promptly issuing Cagney with a parking ticket at least once a week for the following four months. Iuan had quickly become his nemesis, although Cagney was forced begrudgingly to admire how little Iuan seemed affected, or even cared, when Cagney got the white rage at another parking violation ticketed. The Welshman was cheerful whatever the conditions, and he was funny-looking, both of which occurred to Cagney on the day that one of his clients refused to settle up, complaining that Cagney was too attractive for his wife, who was bound to be all over him like a cheap suit given the opportunity, invalidating Cagney’s results. Cagney promised Iuan the same money he got as a warden, plus the opportunity to kiss women for a living. Iuan didn’t finish writing his last parking ticket.

  Similarly Howard was employed out of necessity six years later. Cagney had been nursing a whiskey and mulling over a conundrum one night, whilst waiting for a pizza to arrive. He had been working for a week on a job for Paul Taylor, a seventeen-year-old boy, suspicious that his seventeen-year-old girlfriend, Janine, might actually be the slapper everybody told him she was. Despite having completed all of the necessary observations, Cagney was reluctant to move in on Janine, and he knew why. Cagney was nearly thirty-seven, more than twice her age. Not only did he have no idea how to casually bump into Janine in her local Ritzy’s nightclub, he was scared of what people might think if he did. Then Cagney heard the doorbell ring, opening it to a large Hawaiian and a good-looking idiot. Cagney offered Howard more money and the chance to kiss women for a living. Howard delivered his three remaining pizzas to Cagney that night, and went to work for him the next day.

  Cagney sighs: now, of course, there is his newest target, Sophia Young. Typically she should go to Howard, but if he is going to have to take Iuan’s quota, it throws the workload up in the air. Cagney will unfortunately have to do Sophia himself. He feels a rush of something down his spine, but ignores it.

  ‘Howard, make sure Iuan takes the crutches, even if they won’t go with what he’s wearing, and tell him he’s going to have to recuperate in the office for however long it takes. We can be a man down in the field, but we’ll cope if we’ve got extra support at HQ.’

  ‘Love it, boss! Love the military talk, love it all! I’ll tell Iuan. We’ll be back in an hour.’

  Cagney checks his watch – it is already half-past four.

  ‘Don’t bother, Howard. I’ll see you BOTH tomorrow morning at eight a.m.’

  ‘Great! You’re my dawg.’ Howard hangs up before Cagney changes his mind.

  Cagney cradles the receiver in his hand for a while until an angry tone bleeps at him to hang up.

  He sits in the shadows of early evening as the streetlights fire up outside. He doesn’t flick on the light, but instead reaches for his top drawer, and pulls out the bottle and the beaker.

  Pouring himself a large measure, Cagney spins round and stares at the village as it darkens, as the commuters begin to spill out of the station, and shop lights come on. He turns and reaches for the photo from beneath a pile of papers where he has stuffed it. His feet rest on the windowsill, as two gulps demolish his whiskey. Pouring himself another one, Cagney looks out of the window with the photo in his hand, and acknowledges the thoughts that have been creeping up on him recently, the thoughts he has banished as best he can.

  I can feel my libido again. Something has sparked it back in to life.

  My bed is lonely. The pillows are a substitute, not a comfort.

  I wake, at 3 a.m., every night, wide awake and with nothing to do and nothing to hold.

  Something is missing …

  He glances back down at the picture of Sophia Young. She resembles all the women he has loved: Gracie, and Lydia … but most obviously Alice. It is in the paleness of her eyes, and the fullness of her lower lip, and her youth.

  Cagney was three months from twenty-five when he met an eighteen-year-old Alice, clinging to a life buoy in Lindos Bay. He had spent the year on his own, travelling Europe, contemplating mountains and oceans, guessing at his destiny. His first marriage had collapsed in swift disaster the previous year, and the naivety of his decision-making had shaken him to his core. While utterly blaming himself, he feared for his fate. Some crazy idealism had mismatched the notion of beauty with goodness in his young and foolish head. He had been hoodwinked, conned, led a merry dance, but by his own eyes. When he had married Gracie he had fallen for the curve of her back, a strand of her golden hair, and no more. He determined that when he married again, as he was sure that he would, his eyes would be wide open, and he would know without doubt that his new wife was beautiful on the inside as well as out.

  Cagney swam out from the long beach, heading for the smaller beach on the other side of the bay, testing his youthful lung capacity, enjoying the heat of the beaming Greek sun as it shone on his back, and the clear blue water around him. He was t
wo-thirds of the way across when a wedding boat set sail from the short pier, and circled the bay, so that the wedding party might wave to the tourists. And the tourists waved back smiling, thankful that they sat in shorts and bikinis, and were not sweating in suits and dresses on a wedding boat in the afternoon haze. Cagney waved his arms vigorously too, shouting ‘congratulations’ and ‘hurrah’ at the passengers, and they raised their champagne glasses in acknowledgement.

  After treading water for ten minutes, and watching the boat disappear around the other side of the rocks, Cagney spotted a buoy fifty metres away, and front crawled at speed to hang on for a while, and give his legs a rest before swimming into shore. As he raised his head ten feet from the buoy he saw an arm clinging to one side, and he pushed on, pleased at the prospect of company. He hadn’t spoken to anybody that day, other than the lady who sold him bread and fruit at the supermarket on the way to the beach, and the idea of conversation appealed to him. He had felt a little lonely all week.

  ‘I know the captain,’ were her first words, popping her head round the buoy so that Cagney could see her. ‘He drinks ouzo with breakfast. I thought it wise to hold on to something large until he passed.’

  Her eyes were two pale blue saucers, brighter than the sun above them and clearer than the water they swam in.

  ‘I’m Cagney,’ he said. ‘It’s beautiful here.’

  ‘Yes it is, you’re quite right. I’m Alice. I’d shake your hand but I fear I’d fall.’

  ‘You’ll have to let go at some point, unless you plan on staying out here all night.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’ll go back eventually, when one of my friends pedals out from the beach to get me.’

  ‘What if nobody comes?’

  ‘Somebody always comes. They know I only have the strength to get out here, and not back. I’m not that strong a swimmer.’

  ‘Then why not swim half the distance, and back safely to shore?’ Cagney asked.