The Perfect 10

by Louise Kean

  ‘You haven’t left her?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘But you are going to leave her?’

  ‘Well, that depends on you guys!’

  ‘So …’ Cagney reaches into his drawer and pulls out the almost empty bottle of whiskey, and grabs the beaker from the desk. He pours himself a double. He doesn’t offer Adrian one, but cradles the drink in his hands, thinking. ‘So … if she cheats, you dump her, and stick with Sunny. But what if she doesn’t cheat, what then?’

  ‘Well, there’s the rub!’ Adrian nods his head at Cagney and laughs, as if they are co-conspirators, as if Cagney completely understands. ‘I don’t know, Cag,’ he says, his face dropping in desolate awe of the confusion that may follow.

  Cagney shudders.

  ‘Sunny is a lovely girl but, Christ, she can be hard work! She thinks too much, she talks too much, there is always the worry that she might start to eat too much again … And she’s been on her own for so long, she’s a bit too independent, you know? She’s not a “cook your dinner and rub your feet” kind of girl, is she?’

  Cagney stares at Adrian and waits for him to dig himself an even dirtier hole.

  ‘I just want my mum, you know how it is. Who wants to do their own washing?’

  ‘Well … exactly.’ Cagney nods slowly. ‘Write down the name and address of her school – do they go to a local, some of the teachers?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t go to the pub; she doesn’t drink much.’

  Cagney doesn’t quite cough up his final gulp of whiskey; he has seen the photo, he isn’t surprised.

  ‘She goes to Cannons, though.’

  Cagney looks at him blankly.

  ‘The gym,’ Adrian says, as if it’s obvious.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Cagney nods his head, as if he knew all along.

  Twenty minutes later Adrian is gone, and Cagney sits alone, rolling his now empty beaker between his palms, staring out of the window, but not really looking, letting it all blur into a hazy blend of grey. He is thinking.

  Would it be wrong to lie in this instance? If he thought that Sunny would be happier with him, in the long run, would it be wrong to lie?

  Would it be unprofessional?

  Is he going to do it anyway?

  He has never chosen a woman over business before.

  Now, there’s the rub …

  Cagney enters the party from the corridor below his office, slipping into the room unnoticed. The Welsh flag hangs as bunting, back and forth and back and forth across the room, and the floor is scattered with rugby balls and daffodils and miners’ hats. Christian has also laid plastic grass – the green green grass of home, he explained to Iuan, as the Welshman broke down. It had been on the cards.

  ‘Where’s your outfit?’ Iuan hobbles over and confronts Cagney. Iuan has discarded his crutches for the night, balancing on his plaster precariously, like a fawn on fresh hoofs. The fall is inevitable.

  Cagney leans down, picks up a daffodil, and sticks it through his lapel. ‘I’m wearing it.’

  Iuan looks disappointed, but passes Cagney a glass of red wine none the less.

  Cagney looks him up and down twice. ‘What are you?’

  He has a large brown board stuck to his back, and is dressed in a yellow Lycra catsuit.

  ‘Welsh Rarebit,’ Iuan answers with a sigh, as if Cagney was the tenth person to ask in ten minutes, and it is as obvious as day follows night.

  ‘Of course,’ Cagney replies flatly, and walks away.

  He spots Christian near the front door talking to a man dressed as Hannibal Lecter, sucking his beer through a straw that he sticks through his mouth guard. Cagney walks over and stands a couple of feet away, waiting for their conversation to end. Hannibal becomes unnerved, glancing over his shoulder at Cagney every thirty seconds, until he makes his excuses and moves away.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Cagney says to Christian, gesturing at the departing Hannibal.

  ‘Anthony Hopkins,’ Christian says,

  ‘So am I stuck with you for the rest of the evening, Cagney? Loitering just over my shoulder, scaring away any other conversation? I can’t quite believe you are here, but I suppose the chances of you talking to somebody you don’t know are as remote as a Sahara outpost.’

  ‘I’m shy, like a schoolgirl,’ Cagney says, gulping down his wine.

  ‘Are you hell! You’re easily bored and just as easily rude.’

  ‘You say tomato …’ Cagney glances distractedly at the door, and back to Christian.

  ‘What was that?’ Christian asks, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘What?’ Cagney tries to look innocent.

  ‘That, that glance?’

  ‘What glance?’

  ‘You glanced, at the door, like you were waiting for somebody, or …’ Christian pouts in thought.

  ‘I didn’t glance. I have something in my eye.’

  ‘You’re waiting for Sunny!’ Christian’s smile is magnificent.

  ‘Or your trousers are too tight, and they’re cutting off the blood supply to your brain. I don’t get it.’

  Cagney gestures at a man dressed as a Roman Centurion who walks past.

  ‘Richard Burton, from Ant & Cleo.’

  ‘Who’d have thought Wales had so much to offer?’

  ‘Who’d have thought Iuan had this many friends?’

  They both nod once in agreement.

  The room is quickly filling up with rugby players, leeks, dragons, Catherine Zeta Jones in Chicago outfits, and many many many Tom Joneses. Cagney counts seven in his immediate eye-line.

  But Christian is the best. His dark blond hair is covered by a wiry black curly wig. He is even more tanned than usual, and wearing a red silk shirt, mostly undone to reveal an uncharacteristically hairy chest. The shirt is tucked into black leather trousers so tight Cagney thinks that he might have bought them from Miss Selfridge. Then there are the Cuban-heeled boots, and a large gold medallion. At that moment the Stereophonics’ ‘Have A Nice Day’ is replaced on the sound system with ‘What’s New Pussycat?’.

  ‘Thank God it’s not “Goldfinger” again,’ Christian sighs. ‘The woman just shouts!’

  Cagney hears the door scream – Christian hasn’t disconnected his Halloween buzzer for the evening – and glances over, inhaling sharply. A strange party have just arrived: Sophia Young walks in first, her blonde hair lying over one shoulder, spun like gold, framing her face in a heavenly halo. There’s irony, thinks Cagney.

  She holds the door politely for the person behind her to enter. It is Adrian, who sees Cagney straight away, and winks. He isn’t in fancy dress, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, but has an inflatable guitar in one hand, and with the other he is holding the door open for Sunny. Cagney inhales sharply again. Her shoulder-length hair has been replaced by a short dark wig, and her mouth looks plump and juicy with red lipstick. She wears a yellow blazer with a blue badge and a large white ‘M’ emblazoned on it, and short snug white tennis shorts that hug until midway down her thighs. She has large yellow discs for earrings.

  ‘Inspired!’ Christian says in awe, clasping his hands together as if praying to a new god. ‘Gladys Pugh.’

  Cagney stares at her, before somebody steps in front of him, and obstructs his view. His eyes focus on the person standing barely a foot away.

  ‘Hello, Mr James,’ her voice drips coolly. Last week it would have reminded him of tiny droplets falling from an ice cube she might have run across his bare chest. Today it sounds like Chinese water torture.

  ‘Come to pick up my cleaning bill, Mrs Young?’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. It was unavoidable.’ A smile dances on her lips. She thinks she is a naughty schoolgirl, and Cagney wonders how quickly that trick will get old with everybody, and not just him. And yet it’s about the only ammunition she has. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Adrian take Sunny’s hand and lead her towards the makeshift bar at the counter, and away from him. Christian eyes Sophia with suspicion.

 
; ‘What are you supposed to be?’ Christian asks her, without even an introduction.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she asks, confused.

  ‘It’s fancy dress.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not here for the party.’ She turns and smiles naughtily at Cagney. ‘I came to speak to Mr James. This is just my good fortune.’

  ‘Not for long. You’re not staying,’ Cagney says. ‘Follow me,’ and he turns and walks towards the entrance to the hallway and the stairs up to his office. But as he reaches the door he bumps straight into Sunny.

  ‘Hello,’ Cagney says formally.

  ‘Oh, hi, how are you?’ Sunny says, equally as uncomfortable.

  ‘You remember my … friend Adrian?’ She lets go of Adrian’s hand and gestures towards him, presenting him to Cagney.

  ‘Yes I do,’ Cagney says with a smile at Adrian, but does not offer his hand to be shaken.

  Sunny locks eyes with Sophia Young, who stands closely behind Cagney, and he sees her eyes flicker down to Sophia’s hand as she wraps it, spider-like, around his arm. She smiles her biggest warmest brightest smile and widens her eyes.

  ‘You’re obviously going somewhere. We’ll leave you to it,’ and she pushes past them, refusing to meet Cagney’s eye.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Sophia purrs in his ear.

  ‘Somewhere that isn’t playing Shirley Bassey,’ he says, shoving the door open violently, not holding it open for Sophia Young, who follows him up the old battered wooden stairs anyway.

  ‘Is this where you bring all your girls?’ she says, as he unlocks the door to his office. Her tone aggravates him, or rather the presumption nestled inside her tone: she has the voice of a girl who always gets her man. She is utterly assured of her own allure, probably just as aware as most men that it only runs skin deep, caring just as little.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Cagney asks squarely.

  ‘Don’t you want me here?’ A playful smile flirts with her lips as she traces a finger along the front of Cagney’s desk. They stand on either side, Cagney with his arms crossed, Sophia so fluid and nubile it’s as if all her bones are made of plasticine, and they bend and twist as required.

  ‘There is a very important party going on downstairs, and I need to get back. Why are you here?’

  ‘Important?’ Sophia looks a trifle put out, a tad confused. ‘Isn’t it for that ugly boy in the yellow catsuit? Is he really that important?’ She whispers her insults, as step by deliberate step she makes her way around the desk.

  ‘He is to his mother,’ Cagney replies, unmoved.

  She tosses a giggle his way, like a messy scattering of confetti. Nothing is proving ingratiating about Mrs Young this evening. Cagney is both surprised and relieved, impressed by his own resolve. He was determined to stand by his decision, when he made it nights ago, but he never completely trusts himself when it comes to blondes. But she leaves him cold.

  ‘Who are you supposed to be?’ she asks, a step away from him. He can almost feel her breath on his cheek.

  ‘Scott of the Antarctic,’ he says, deadpan.

  ‘Was he Welsh?’ she asks, distracted, running her finger down the arm of his jacket, until it meets the palm of his hand. She begins to tickle a circle around his palm with her fingernail.

  Cagney opens his mouth to speak, but she places her hands on both sides of his face urgently, her claws digging into his cheeks, and pulls his mouth round to meet hers.

  ‘Don’t answer that, I don’t care,’ she says, staring in his eyes.

  Sophia Young kisses him, and he kisses her back, grabbing both her arms at the top fleshy section, and lifting her up so her mouth smothers his. She tickles a line along the inside of his upper lip with her tongue, as Cagney opens his eyes and watches her closely and evenly, weaving her spell.

  That proves it.

  Cagney holds her shoulders firmly and takes a step back. ‘Mrs Young, I think you should leave.’

  ‘What?’ she half smiles, wondering if he is serious.

  ‘You heard me the first time.’

  ‘But, why?’ She takes a step back, examining him for clues.

  Cagney walks round the desk and opens his office door for her, standing expectantly to the side, waiting for her to leave. ‘I’m just not that kind of boy,’ he says with a smile.

  ‘But we have a connection, don’t you think? An electricity …’

  ‘It must be the fillings in your teeth and the phone masts, angel, because nothing is fizzing over here.’

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ she says coldly, storming over to meet him, locking her jaw and fixing him with a steely glare. ‘I wasn’t even playing this time!’ she says.

  ‘I’m flattered,’ Cagney says and smiles.

  ‘You’re an asshole.’

  ‘You’re not the only one that thinks so.’

  ‘Seriously,’ Sophia stands in the doorway, pulling on a coat that she had discarded only moments ago, ‘tell me again why you are turning me down.’

  ‘You’re an old mistake. I’ve made you before.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m nearly forty! Everybody’s got to learn sometime …’

  Cagney swings the door shut and it slaps Sophia Young’s great arse. He hears her give a little shriek in the corridor. She may even have stamped her foot. Cagney smiles to himself and leans back against his door.

  What did he just do? Turn down the most beautiful woman he has seen in a decade? What is he thinking? Has the red wine gone to his head that much? But then he shrugs his shoulders, and smiles his broadest smile in years.

  Whatever happens, he’s just side-stepped a whole lagoon of shit. He may not be somewhere over the rainbow by the end of tonight, but he won’t hate himself either.

  Cagney walks back into the party to see that one of the leeks has taken off his costume, and now, dressed only in his underpants, he holds one end of the giant vegetable while a guy in a choir boy outfit holds the other. Several Tom Joneses and an entire Welsh rugby squad proceed to limbo underneath it to the strains of ‘Delilah’. Cagney scans and spots Sunny, talking to Christian in the corner. There is a foot between her and Adrian, and her attention is firmly focused on Christian. Cagney grabs a couple of glasses of red wine and carries them over. They all look up as he joins them.

  ‘I saw you needed a refill,’ he says to Sunny, handing her one of the two wineglasses, and taking her empty glass out of her hand.

  ‘Oh, thank you. I think … you haven’t poisoned it, have you?’ she smiles at him.

  And he replies, ‘Try it and see.’

  Without looking away from his eyes she takes a large gulp of wine. ‘No worse than the last one I tasted,’ she says.

  Cagney looks at Adrian, who looks uncomfortable. He keeps twisting his head from one side to the other, stretching his neck like an athlete preparing for a race.

  ‘Are you alright, Adrian?’ Cagney asks loudly, and all three turn to stare at him. Cagney smiles a wide smile in his direction, and Christian clocks it, confused, squinting his eyes up at Cagney, trying to somehow know what Cagney knows.

  ‘Are you alright? You do seem a bit stressed,’ Sunny says.

  ‘Scared you’ll see your girlfriend?’ Christian asks insincerely, cocking his head to one side.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s left her,’ Sunny says, and an observer would say her tone was unimpressed.

  ‘Have you?’ Christian asks with a smile and wide eyes.

  Adrian glances down at his feet, and at his hands, tearing off the wrapper from a bottle of lager. He looks up and solely addresses Christian, not looking either to his left or right. ‘Yes,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Have you?’ Cagney asks, with a smile and the quickest of winks.

  Adrian looks at him, and Cagney can tell he is desperate to let one fly right on Cagney’s chin, but of course he can’t. One good jab would do it, but how would that look?

  ‘Yes,’ he says, and stares accusingly at Cagney.

  ‘When, rece
ntly?’ Cagney asks, sipping his wine innocently.

  ‘Earlier in the week,’ Sunny says, and reaches out to squeeze Adrian’s hand.

  Cagney watches, and sees it is the way a mother would squeeze a child. As soon as she has touched it, she lets it go again.

  ‘Oh, so a few days ago?’ Cagney says. ‘Not, say, this afternoon?’

  ‘No.’ Adrian turns to him. ‘And I really don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘OK. Sorry, hon. Well, what were we talking about?’

  ‘Doris Day?’ Adrian says quickly, relieved.

  ‘I believe we started with Rock Hudson, but we can talk about her now as well.’ Christian is only marginally disappointed.

  ‘Calamity Jane, that’s one of my favourites,’ Sunny smiles fondly.

  ‘Mine too,’ Cagney says.

  ‘Oh, here we go. I thought it was too good to last. It’s a really good film alright; it’s a classic!’ Sunny turns to him defensively.

  ‘No, it really is one of his favourites. He’s had it out of here, what, ten times, Cagney?’

  ‘Maybe not quite that many,’ he says with a sheepish smile to his feet.

  ‘Are you actually gay?’ Adrian asks with a smirk.

  ‘I don’t like musicals, Adrian, but I’m gay. Explain to me your theory?’ Christian says seriously.

  ‘Alright, mate, don’t get yourself in a lather. I was just making a joke.’

  ‘Funny boy,’ Christian mutters into his wineglass, and takes a huge gulp of wine.

  ‘Do you really like it?’ Sunny asks, with the innocence of a small child presenting her parents with the first Christmas present she has bought with her own pocket money, desperate for it to be loved.

  ‘Yes, I really do,’ Cagney says, and looks up to meet her eyes, smeared in awful black make-up, framed by the ridiculous short wig.

  ‘Prove it then – what’s your favourite song?’ Sunny smiles at the challenge.

  ‘“A Woman’s Touch”, of course,’ Cagney says.