The Perfect 10

by Louise Kean

  Christian sighs again. ‘I utterly believe, Sunny, that she hammered the final nail into his emotional coffin, and I think she did it without a second thought. They invented the concept of self-obsession because they knew one day she’d show up and need describing. Believe me when I say that I cursed that woman for years.’

  ‘So … ?’ All these details are great, and atmospheric, and Christian loves to tell his tales, but I need to cut to the chase.

  ‘So?’ he replies, shaking his head, not knowing where I am going.

  ‘What did she look like?’ I ask flatly, a little ashamed.

  Christian shakes his head and makes a tutting sound with his tongue. ‘Looks, Sunny, do not make the woman, as you yourself have said so very clearly in this car, this very afternoon.’

  ‘Stop it and tell me,’ I say, as we pull away from the car crash that has caused the delays. Christian peers into the mangled car for details but I look away.

  ‘Well, she was blonde, of course.’ Christian is still looking in the car, and talks distractedly.

  ‘Why “of course”?’ I ask, indignant.

  ‘They are always blonde,’ he says simply, as if it is one of the commandments, written on tablets of stone and passed to Moses on top of Sinai.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, crestfallen.

  ‘And she was pale.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, glancing down at my hands, which are more cream than pale. I have always found pale thoroughly uninteresting, another way of saying washed out.

  ‘You sure you want to hear this, Sunbeam?’ he asks, noticing me noticing me.

  ‘Yes! Why wouldn’t I? Go on.’ I rush my words out in a fluster.

  ‘Pale but bright blue eyes,’ he says, almost dreamily.

  ‘OK, I get it, Christian, she was some kind of Swedish Miss World – can we move on now? I mean, was she very much older than him?’ I ask tight-lipped, gripping the steering wheel a little too hard.

  ‘No, no, not this time. They were exactly the same age. I mean exactly. They were born on the same day. That’s how they met, in a pub, drowning their sorrows, separately, on the thirtieth of December. It was their twenty-ninth birthdays. Both of them.’

  ‘Why was she drowning her sorrows?’ I cross a roundabout and follow the sign that directs me towards Portsmouth town centre. I check my watch: we may still make it.

  ‘She had just passed her final counselling exam, apparently, and realised, a little late, it would seem, that her job would now be to sit around and listen to the whingeing moans of people she didn’t care about. Cagney said that the first thing he noticed – after the way that she looked, of course –’

  ‘Of course!’ I say, and raise my eyes.

  ‘– was that she kept muttering, “What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck was I thinking?” over and over to herself as she sat in some old pub on Brighton seafront, downing her way through a bottle of bourbon. She wasn’t a regular, but it was Cagney’s local. I’ve seen a photo, Sunny, it was a hellish place – brown cracked wallpaper like a dried-up desert oasis, and battered and ripped leather chairs that look like your skin would stick to them if you came into contact with them by accident, and the fire brigade would have to be called out to break you free.’

  ‘So they each propped up one end of a dirty bar.

  ‘Lydia.’ I repeat her name, trying to place her, thinking that somehow I might know her.

  ‘Was she Irish?’

  ‘Yes. But you could barely tell, she had the faintest accent. I have to say it, Sunny, she was beautiful, but like a painting of the Alps, or the lake at Geneva, or a photo of an Edwardian chair that you can only see face on. Her beauty was two-dimensional – she just didn’t … fill it out.’

  ‘Do you mean she was dull?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘No, not dull,’ Christian says thoughtfully. ‘It was worse than that: she was cold. She looked untouched, like if you held her hand you’d leave fingerprints all over her and the police would catch you in minutes.’

  ‘She looked cold,’ I repeat to myself, taking some solace.

  ‘Yes. She was like a beautifully sculpted vodka luge – if you hugged her, she’d melt.’

  ‘And that’s what attracted Cagney, is it? That she was a challenge or something?’ I ask, perplexed.

  ‘No, darling; she was in a pub getting drunk on her own, and swearing a lot. He thought he’d found his soulmate! And it just so happened that she was blonde and beautiful.’

  ‘But you said she was a counsellor?’

  ‘Aha,’ Christian nods dramatically, pretending to chew gum so he resembles a bitchy teenage princess hanging out by the waltzers, hoping to score with one of the workers at a cheap travelling fair.

  ‘But Cagney would hate that!’ I exclaim with disbelief. ‘What was he thinking?’

  ‘Darling, you don’t have to tell me. I mean, obviously he wasn’t always as bad as he is now … but he has never been a talker. And by that point, after two failed marriages, and not making it into the police –’

  ‘He wanted to be in the police?’ I ask, not sure if I can take any more information in one car journey. ‘Seriously, Christian, we need to road trip again!’

  ‘I told you,’ he says, nodding at me and smiling benignly, like some old Chinese kung fu guru.

  ‘So … what happened?’ I ask.

  ‘With the police? Or Lydia?’ Christian needs qualification.

  ‘Both! Either!’

  ‘Lydia was into psychobabble and celibacy,’ Christian answers seriously.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I whisper, horrified.

  ‘I know. She’d read it in some book on her course, that promised if she made a man wait for her, they’d reach some spiritual mountain top and be happy for ever. It was her new thing. And Cagney just showed up at the wrong time. She always had a new thing, apparently. So she kissed him and told him she’d let him inside when he really deserved it. And for whatever reason, he chose to hang around.’

  ‘Why? Why would you let somebody else dictate so utterly how it’s going to be?’ I ask in shock. Then I remember that Adrian has done almost exactly the same thing to me, so I stop thinking about that.

  ‘I think the idea, that this one might last because she promised it would, when they hit this spiritual high, appealed to him more than anything. He was so bruised. It was his last big effort, to do it right, not to rush it. So she wrung him out for a year. Questioned him daily on what he felt for her, how he felt about himself, why he said what he said, why he did what he did, until he was exhausted and confused and tongue-tied. And she threw theories at him, hundreds of theories, on Freud and Jung and Kant, Descartes and Socrates, but all straight from the book, not really understanding any of them, until they drove him quietly mad. She told him he needed to improve himself, dig deeper, give her more, let her access his soul, and, God love him, he tried. But she didn’t listen when he spoke, so it was never enough. She opened him right up, made him dedicate himself to her, and then she left him … but just for extra sport, and knowing his history, she suggested that they got married first. She talked him into it on the first day of Advent, the licence came, and on Christmas Eve, nearly a year after they had met, Cagney found himself in another registry office, with another blonde.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask aghast. I turn off the engine, and we sit in the car park behind a warehouse in Portsmouth Docks, opposite a huge sign that reads ‘Customs and Excise, Holding Depot’.

  ‘She left him on Boxing Day.’

  ‘Oh my God, why?’ I ask, with tears in my eyes.

  ‘For the barmaid at the shitty old pub.’

  I stare at him in shocked awe.

  ‘No … she … didn’t.’ I say each word slowly and deliberately.

  ‘Said she had to explore other parts of her character, said she had made a mistake. Said she realised on their wedding night that she was a lesbian.’

  ‘No.’ I sit and shake my head. ‘Poor Cagney, what did he do?’

  ‘Got drunk, for a
week, didn’t come up for air, just carried on drinking, but in another pub, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘How awful.’

  ‘And he’s been single ever since,’ Christian says sadly.

  ‘Who can blame him! But why did she come back, six months later?’

  ‘Well, that’s what did it. She needed a divorce.’

  ‘So she could marry her girlfriend?’ I ask sincerely.

  ‘No, she’d left Ruth. Now she was marrying a car trader, worth millions. Big in Fiestas.’

  Christian turns to face me, and takes my hand. ‘He was twenty-nine, Sunny. And he waited a year for her. She told him it would all be worth it, and she would dedicate her life to him. But she was just another blonde. He goes silly around blondes.’ Christian sees my face fall. ‘But it’s not love, Sunny.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, and wipe my left eye quickly.

  ‘So!’ Cagney claps his hands quickly. ‘We’re here! What are we picking up?’

  We both break out of our trance, and get out of the car, and the sea wind slaps our faces, and we both exclaim ‘Jesus Christ!’ simultaneously.

  ‘Well, there are four boxes,’ I say, digging my hands into my pockets as we walk towards the entrance.

  ‘Yes, but what’s in them and, more importantly, can I pretend to be your boyfriend and pretend they are all for us?’

  ‘Light bondage gear, very classy, silk, all ribbons, very sensual. And no.’

  ‘OK.’ Christian yanks open the door and we hurl ourselves into the warmth. ‘Well, they sound nice. It makes me think of Dynasty! Anything else?’

  ‘Nipple flickers,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sorry, who?’ Christian stops and grabs my arm dramatically.

  ‘Look, I’m not sure about them either, but I thought it would be good to try them out. It’s a new franchise possibility. You clamp this thing on – it’s like a little suction pad with some wires coming out of the top, and they’ve got these little rubber sticks inside them, and they kind of flick …’ I say, flicking my finger at him to illustrate. ‘Lighter, and harder, and then, if you want, you can make them squirt cold water …’

  ‘Enough!’ Christian screams. ‘Enough, Sunny. No more. At some point you draw a line and say a tongue is irreplaceable. The human body is irreplaceable. Plastic is never going to compensate for that!’

  ‘I know,’ I say, ‘but I’ll see how they sell.’

  We walk through into a large open room with a counter at the end like an Argos shop with no catalogues, and I retrieve a slip of paper from my pocket.

  ‘I didn’t mean to scare you off,’ he says, ‘in the car, about Cagney.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ I say, and nod my head. ‘I do like him, Christian,’ I say quietly, as we move up the line.

  ‘I know,’ Christian squeezes my hand.

  ‘But us, with all our baggage – I’m just scared we’d hate each other too.’

  ‘Or maybe you’d understand each other a little better.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe we are alike. Because I like him, Christian, and I swear to God I can’t even tell you why.’

  Christian turns to me, and strokes my cheek. ‘But, darling, don’t you see, that is the best reason there is.’

  TEN

  A prince of wales

  Cagney hears footsteps on the stairs leading up to his office. It isn’t Iuan, as he doesn’t hear the step, clunck, step, clunk, on the wood, slowly pounding out the threat of a Welshman gone crazy bored with his leg in plaster. Iuan’s eyes have turned wild in the last few days, he is an even looser cannon than usual, and Cagney is watching him carefully. Besides, Cagney can’t hear the telltale stream of truly offensive swear words, in a perverse twisted English-Welsh hybrid, that accompanies him taking so long to get up one flight of stairs. And it isn’t Howard, as he has been sent to buy drink for Iuan’s birthday party this evening. Howard is overly excited. He has been frothing at the mouth like a one-year-old Labrador all morning, and Cagney had to make a decision to either send him out of the office, or kill him, especially given that the root cause of most of Howard’s excitement is Sunny Weston. Howard hasn’t met Sunny yet, but Iuan has invited her to his birthday drinks tonight. Iuan has also informed Howard that he definitely thinks that Cagney might love her. This has driven Howard into some kind of frenzy, the like of which Cagney hasn’t seen since Howard ate three Pot Noodles in quick succession on the morning of 12 February 2002, and then washed them down with a litre of Fanta …

  And it isn’t Christian, because he is at home making his Tom Jones costume, determined to be the best Tom in the room tonight, realising as he does that there will be at least a dozen others. The theme is ‘Wales’: what else is there to be? It will be a room full of Tom Joneses, with the occasional weak leek, lazy dragon, easy rugby player, and half-arsed Shirley Bassey.

  So it must be a client, new or existing, winding his way slowly up the steps, and it makes no difference, the idea of their presence is equally as appalling today. Cagney would qualify his mood right now, if asked, as ‘dark’. And that is coming from a man who considers his usual state to be quite upbeat, much to the confusion of anybody who has met him in the last ten years. Maybe his assistant will tell this uninvited guest that he is busy. He still hasn’t hired an assistant, of course.

  ‘Bollocks!’ he shouts, loud enough for whoever is standing outside his door with his knuckle poised to knock, to stop short of hitting the glass and reconsider their actions. Foolishly, this gives Cagney hope. He is devastated when the hand knocks moments later, albeit nervously, on the glass, pounding over his name with their knuckles, gradually wearing him away. Cagney doesn’t answer. But the doorknob turns and a head pokes around the door frame anyway.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m painting!’ Cagney shouts in a last desperate attempt to keep whoever it is out.

  ‘Hello?’ he says again.

  ‘Damn,’ Cagney says irritably, and removes his feet from his desk, sitting up reasonably straight.

  ‘How are you?’ the man says, and Cagney looks up at him in small talk alarm. What does he care? It is then that Cagney recognises the shaggy haircut and jeans that is Adrian standing in front of him, palm outstretched to be shaken.

  Cagney hesitates for a beat, and then pushes himself to his feet, gripping Adrian’s hand. He lets go first, pulling himself up to his full height, which is almost exactly the same as Adrian; Cagney may even have it by a whisker.

  ‘I’m well,’ Cagney says, and sits down again.

  Adrian nods his head, as if waiting for Cagney to ask something of him, although Cagney can’t think what. After a few moments he smiles and looks around for a chair.

  ‘No chairs, sorry. They encourage people to stay.’ Cagney gestures to the box that is still in front of his desk. ‘Are you … I’m sorry, I don’t really know why you are here?’ Cagney looks around as casually as he can for his bag of monkey nuts. He needs a handful straight away. He feels unnerved.

  ‘I know,’ Adrian laughs and shakes his head. ‘It’s crazy, crazy.’

  Cagney doesn’t understand this at all. What is crazy?

  Adrian jerks his head up as if somebody has just flicked him on the nose with their thumb and forefinger, and clears his throat, and takes a deep breath. Cagney sits back a little startled, but waits for Adrian to speak.

  ‘I remembered you saying, or somebody saying, that night at the dinner party, when I was on the phone, I remember overhearing that you do something funny …’

  ‘Funny?’ Cagney asks, confused.

  ‘Yes, you know …’

  ‘Like juggling?’ Cagney asks.

  ‘Ha ha.’ Adrian is nervous and laughs in a short sharp burst. ‘No, I mean, your job. You, like, check people, check up on people, see if they are fooling around on their partner, or whatever …’ Adrian stares at him expectantly, but Cagney is reluctant to confirm or deny, very suddenly scared to speak, or guess where this is leading. What can Adrian want?

  ‘An
d – I never thought I’d hear myself saying this – but, well, I have somebody I’d like checked out. I’m not sure, but I think she might play away, given the opportunity and, well, I just need to know, you know, if she’s marriage stock! I am right, though – that is what you do?’

  Cagney is numb. He is going to ask her to marry him. It is done. It’s over.

  ‘OK. But we might have a problem, because she has met me, of course, and Iuan, one of my associates, although he wouldn’t be applicable in this case. I don’t know if she has seen my third associate or not, but that would be the key –’

  ‘Sorry? How?’ Adrian looks bewildered, sitting forwards on the box, concentrating hard, trying to focus on Cagney and therefore understand.

  ‘How what?’

  ‘How has she met you already … or … God, you think I mean Sunny? Oh no, it’s my fiancée, Jane. Shit, this is a bit embarrassing.’ Adrian shakes his head guiltily, as the penny drops for Cagney.

  ‘So, to be clear, your fiancée, whom you are cheating on with Sunny – you want me to check if she will do the dirty on you, and if she will you won’t marry her?’

  ‘I know it sounds awful but, you know, I’ve just got myself in a bit of a pickle …’

  ‘A pickle?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Adrian looks at Cagney evenly, matching the unmasked confrontation in Cagney’s tone. ‘Sorry, do you have a problem, mate?’

  ‘No. Not at all. Go on.’

  ‘OK. Well … what do you need to know?’

  ‘Do you have a photo?’

  ‘Yep.’ Adrian reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet, and removes a photo from the inside, leaning forward to hand it to Cagney, who takes a look. He knew it. Blonde. Sweet. Vacant. No wonder he’s fooling around with Sunny – this woman looks like she’d rather chew off her own arm than have sex. Or a conversation.

  ‘What does she do?’ Cagney asks innocently.

  ‘She’s a PE teacher.’

  ‘OK, alright, ah-ha.’ Cagney nods, still looking at the photo. She plays netball, for a living.

  ‘While I come to think of it, can you not mention this, to Sunny obviously, but also to your mate, the gay guy who runs the video shop, Christian? They seem quite tight, and, anyway, I’ve kind of told Sunny I’ve already left Jane, so it would just really complicate things if she found out.’