The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence

by Catherine Robertson

‘I could give you some advice?’

  Aishe’s head shot up. ‘And I could tell you where to put your advice.’

  ‘I was once a fourteen-year-old boy,’ said Benedict. ‘It was a while ago, I admit. But not so long that I can’t remember.’ He offered her a smile. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten what it was like to be fourteen?’

  Aishe shook her head. ‘No. I haven’t forgotten.’ Her lips tightened. ‘But if he starts becoming anything like I was at that age, I may seriously have to consider sterilising him.’

  The small township was no more than half a mile away, so they decided to walk. It was a beautiful day. It was dry and a pleasant temperature, not too hot. The street was lined with trees, mainly tall, straight redwoods, whose roots ruptured the asphalt and trunks spread out to narrow both street and pavement.

  ‘Am I the only one who thinks it smells amazing here?’ Aishe asked. ‘Our garden back home in London had lilac bushes and lime trees, but this smells better. Fresher. Herby, almost.’

  ‘Almost is right.’ Benedict pointed upwards. ‘Those big trees there are California bays, a relation of your common or garden culinary bay. They grow large but have a very shallow taproot. It doesn’t make them terribly stable in high winds.’

  ‘You don’t strike me as a tree-hugger.’

  ‘I started a horticultural course once,’ Benedict replied. ‘In Sweden.’

  ‘Started?’

  ‘You know, most people would have latched onto the Sweden part of that sentence.’

  ‘I’ve been to Sweden,’ Aishe said. ‘Apart from the times they get rat-arsed and naked, it’s a seriously anal country.’

  ‘Cold, too. I froze my nuts off most of the time.’

  ‘Is that why you didn’t stay?’ Aishe said. ‘Couldn’t cope with the winters?’

  Benedict glanced upwards as a blue jay’s strident call rang out above them. ‘No. I simply had a desire to stay one step ahead.’

  ‘Of what?’ Aishe said.

  ‘Not what,’ said Benedict. ‘Whom.’

  ‘Interpol on your tail?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Benedict lightly. ‘Much, much worse than that.’

  Allergic to even a hint of mickey-taking, Aishe scowled. But before she could accuse him of spouting first-class horseshit, they were hailed from behind — ‘Hola!’ — and a man on a recumbent bicycle pedalled past them, his legs stretched out, his face at the height of their thighs. Benedict caught a glimpse of salt-and-pepper hair and large, mournful brown eyes offset by a wide, cheery smile.

  ‘Hola, Angel,’ Aishe called as he passed.

  ‘Who on earth was that?’ Benedict frowned.

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘Yes, I’d worked that bit out. It was you calling him Angel that gave me the clue.’

  Aishe ignored him. ‘He owns a bunch of houses around here. I hang out with him at the café sometimes. Him and his mates.’

  ‘Does he have a psychiatric disorder?’ Benedict stared down the road, where the bright yellow flag attached to the recumbent bike’s seat could be seen waving jauntily. ‘Or does he genuinely believe that’s a reasonable way to travel?’

  ‘He enjoys it, I suppose.’ Aishe shrugged. ‘And he doesn’t give a shit what people think of him, which also helps.’

  They had reached the intersection of the tree-lined road and the township’s main street. The café was almost directly across from them. On one side of it were an interior designer’s showroom and a chi-chi store that stocked French provincial homewares. On the other was a bar called The Silver Saddle, which had Harley Davidson motorcycles outside and spittoons inside. These contrasts were one of the reasons Aishe had chosen to live in this town, out of all of the pretty places that Marin County had to offer. She liked that it had everything a small town should: a decent library, a functioning post office and a well-used town hall. It had an authentic Mexican takeout, a laundrette and a donut shop. But amid the normality were numerous examples of what Aishe liked to call Californeurosis: stores selling the kind of annoying small cushions that have no functional use other than to colour co-ordinate with curtains; a cake shop so pretentiously expensive that the purchase of a single pastry could necessitate the selling of a body part for medical experiments; and — Aishe’s personal favourite — the plastic surgery centre, which was not hidden away down a side alley, but in full view on the main street, directly across from the café. Aishe felt more than a little smug that her forehead was smooth, her breasts full and her stomach flat. Even if they weren’t, she decided, there was no way she’d start down the road that led to the taut, shiny, joker-mouthed look that made it obvious all your wrinkled old facial skin had been pulled sharply backwards and pinned behind your head.

  ‘After you—’

  They were at the café door, Benedict gesturing for Aishe to go through.

  ‘I’m not your hundred-and-fucking-two-year-old maiden aunt.’

  She was standing right in front of him, and could see by the muscle twitching under one eye that he was making a Herculean effort to stop his gaze dropping to her bust. Aishe felt he hardly needed proof that only in his most fevered nightmares would he mistake her for anyone’s maiden aunt, but she understood the impulse. She had to admire his self-control, though — he kept his eyes on her face, put on an extra-bright smile and said, ‘I’ll go in first then, shall I?’

  ‘Dream on,’ said Aishe, and barged past.

  The café was pleasantly basic inside, with no attempt at any decorating theme. Chairs like those you used to find in schoolrooms before the advent of ergonomics had been painted in bright colours and set against plain, chunky wooden tables. On the walls were a few old movie posters and a large, framed photograph of Guadalajara. The menu featured nothing but the staples: burgers, fries, waffles, pie. But the coffee was strong and good, and the prices did not include the usual nosebleed Marin premium.

  At three-thirty on a weekday, the place had only a smattering of customers. On weekends it was packed with families, but at this time Marin schoolchildren were being picked up and driven to whatever after-school activities their parents had insisted on. Mornings belonged to the retired and the few rare persons of independent financial means who weren’t fussy about where they were seen, which left mid-afternoons as the dead zone. Apart from three men at a table in the corner, Benedict and Aishe were the only ones here.

  Benedict glanced over at the men and saw mournful eyes under salt-and-pepper hair. He nudged Aishe. ‘There’s your friend. The barmy biker.’

  ‘I know. Gracias.’ Aishe took her change from Xavier, the young Guatemalan behind the counter. ‘He’ll expect us to go sit with them.’

  With tall Angel were a short, round man with a pink face, white curly hair and twinkling eyes, who looked for all the world like Santa Claus going beardless and incognito in the off-season, and an even shorter, rounder man with black hair and boot-button eyes, who was wearing a beret. The trio, Benedict decided, looked like they belonged in a Tintin comic.

  ‘I thought we were here for me to offer you advice,’ Benedict said to Aishe.

  Aishe gave him a straight stare. ‘I grew up with three brothers, remember? I know what teenage boys are like. And I know my own son better than anyone. You’ve known Gulliver all of five minutes. What advice can a sifter like you possibly give me about our relationship?’

  ‘A sifter?’ Benedict looked aggrieved.

  ‘I’ve seen your resumé remember?’ said Aishe. ‘Jobs, countries — you’ve hopped around more than Jiminy Cricket. And I suspect now that it wasn’t the whole story. I don’t recall seeing any mention of Swedish horticulture.’

  ‘That wasn’t a job, so there was no need to include it in my CV.’ Benedict protested. ‘And “hopping around” as you put it doesn’t make me a sifter. I’ve worked hard at every job I’ve taken.’

  ‘Anyone can work hard for twenty seconds,’ said Aishe.

  ‘I had a good reason for leaving,’ said Benedict quietly. ‘Every time.’

>   ‘So you said.’ Aishe’s expression was sceptical. ‘Staying one step ahead. How long before you step away from here then?’

  Xavier nodded at Aishe to indicate he’d placed their coffees on the counter.

  ‘I don’t need advice,’ said Aishe. ‘I need cheering up.’ She picked up her coffee. ‘I’m going to sit with Angel. Join me if you want, or piss off. Your choice.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s actually Hobson’s,’ Benedict murmured as he followed her over.

  ‘Who is this?’ Angel asked Aishe. ‘Your hot young lover?’

  ‘Benedict Hardy.’ Benedict spoke quickly. ‘Son’s tutor. And hovering more around lukewarm.’

  Santa Claus Man reached out a hand. ‘Welcome, Benedict,’ he said. His accent was English. ‘I’m Malcolm. May I introduce my associates, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza?’

  ‘Ha!’ Angel gave a shout of laughter. ‘Yes, it is I! The Man of La Mancha! Tilting at the windmills always. Is that not right, my good friend?’ he said to the small, dark man beside him, who stared back at him but made no reply. Angel shrugged. ‘He speak no English. Miguel. He is from the Pyrenees. A Basque.’

  ‘Miguel was at a Basque convention recently,’ said Malcolm. ‘There was a fire alarm and everyone had to vacate the building. Trouble is, they all piled into one doorway and got stuck.’

  He paused and stared at Benedict, who, wondering how on earth to respond, glanced at Aishe. She was smiling and shaking her head.

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ Benedict said to Malcolm. ‘There’s a punchline coming, isn’t there? Let me guess—’ He thought for a moment, and then winced. ‘Oh no. Is it: don’t put all your Basques in one exit?’

  ‘Well spotted,’ said Malcolm. ‘Though your delivery could have been a little less lugubrious.’

  ‘It’ll be the joke about the identical twins next,’ said Aishe. ‘You have been warned.’

  Benedict looked around at the three men. ‘You’re all foreigners,’ he said. ‘Why choose to live here? Of all places in the world?’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Angel asked him. ‘You are more foreign than us. Malcolm and I, we are practically native by now.’

  ‘Indigenous, even,’ agreed Malcolm. ‘Or do I mean indigestible?’

  ‘Shh,’ Angel said to him. ‘Let the hot young foreign lover speak.’

  Benedict shifted in his chair, as if the question made him uncomfortable. ‘Why here? Well,’ he said, after a pause, ‘the weather’s good. And perhaps it’s an unexpected choice. Everyone always imagines that heading to California means LA …’

  ‘I came for a woman,’ said Angel. ‘The love of my life, she is here.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Malcolm. ‘Not the same woman, mind you. That would make our friendship somewhat tricky.’

  ‘But not impossible,’ Angel told him. ‘I am very forgiving. It is because I am a Catholic. We love to forgive and be forgiven.’

  ‘Did you hear the Pope’s paedophilia adviser has just been arrested for paedophilia?’ Malcolm remarked.

  Angel shrugged. ‘Well, you cannot say he did not know his stuff.’

  Aishe felt a sudden urge to go home and see if Gulliver was back. She checked her watch. He should have cooled down by now. Gulliver, like Angel, found it easy to forgive. Aishe had no idea where he got it from; most of her family could hold grudges until the day they died. Beyond, if the stories about Granny Herne and her pustulant-boil curses were to be believed.

  She stood up — ‘Gotta go, guys. Nice seeing you.’ — and made for the door, leaving a startled Benedict behind her. Aishe knew she was being rude to him, because she had been told so many times by people she’d been similarly rude to. But she had made a vow many years ago to be polite to only those people whom she respected. And when she counted off their names — a job that required only one hand — Benedict’s did not come up.

  He is a sifter, she told herself. A one-step-aheader, a commitment-evader — the type of man who leaves. Mind you, it wasn’t that she was keen for him to stay, either. Basically, Aishe realised, Benedict is damned if he leaves, damned if he stays. Oh well, she decided. That’s his problem.

  Benedict caught up with Aishe at the start of the redwood street. He hadn’t expected to catch her at all, but there she was, dawdling by a small clearing, staring across the road towards the children’s playground under the canopy of trees. As Benedict approached, her gaze snapped instantly back to him as if she’d been caught doing something illicit. Benedict glanced over at the playground but could see nothing but exactly what you’d expect to see: a mother and two small children.

  ‘I trust you won’t mind if I don’t walk back with you.’ He gestured down the main road. ‘My bus stop is only a minute that way, so I’ll head home.’

  Aishe blinked, as if the thought that he might have a home had just occurred to her.

  ‘How far do you have to go?’ she asked.

  ‘Not far.’

  Benedict said no more because he suspected she wouldn’t be terribly interested. Even if he told her he was sleeping under a motorway overpass, she’d probably just shrug.

  Today was the first time Aishe had asked him anything at all about his personal life. Benedict found himself wishing that he was more intriguing to her. She might be surprised at how much — and what — he could tell her.

  As it was, she surprised him. ‘Thanks for inviting me for coffee,’ she said.

  ‘How do you do that?’ Benedict exclaimed, before he could stop himself. ‘Flip from vile to pleasant without the slightest break in stride?’

  ‘Am I vile?’ Aishe seemed genuinely taken aback.

  ‘Well …’ Benedict was boiling with embarrassment, but he had no choice but to press on. ‘You’re hardly polite.’

  ‘Oh, that …’ Aishe stared off across the road again. ‘Well, what can I tell you? It’s an effort. And most times I just can’t be arsed.’ She turned back to Benedict. ‘Why does it bother you that I’m vile to you?’

  Benedict was taken aback. Now that he’d got his wish and Aishe was asking him a personal question, he suddenly lacked the courage to reply.

  ‘Most people prefer to be treated politely, don’t they?’ he ventured.

  ‘Most people? In my experience “most people” aspire to marriage, two-point-five children and a steady job. Comfort, security, stability, a smooth ride from cradle to grave. I’m not saying that’s what they get. But it’s what they want. Which means I don’t think either of us are like “most people”. So why do you care how I treat you?’

  Benedict rapidly assessed his options. The truth was that his reasons for caring were manifold and jumbling around in his brain like clothes in a tumble dryer. But in doing so, he wouldn’t be able to avoid holding each reason up for inspection, and separately they seemed fit only for the rag basket.

  The only one that he could reveal without cringing was that he liked her son, and he liked teaching him. Gulliver was smart and funny and interested in learning. The cringing started when Benedict admitted to himself that part of Gulliver’s appeal was that he was just old enough to feel like they were friends. And Benedict had not had a friend since leaving school.

  The cringing became worthy of Uriah Heep when Benedict’s mind turned to Aishe. His uppermost thought about her was that she was the most scorchingly hot woman he’d seen since the beaches of Rio de Janeiro. Benedict had spent two weeks there, eight years ago, his whole body infused with a permanent blush. It had been one of the few places he’d been relieved to leave. Benedict was more experienced with women now, less prone to blushing, but even so, the thought of admitting to Aishe that he fancied her seemed a risk he wasn’t yet prepared to take. I mean, my God, he thought, how would I handle it if she was keen on me too? I might suddenly find out what it’s like to be a male praying mantis, eaten mid-coitus. Or a male lion who has to do it over three hundred times in one session.

  But beneath the throbbing top layer of his attraction, Benedict sensed more profound reasons for h
is being drawn to Aishe. We’re both of us loners, he thought. I’d guarantee she believes that’s her choice, but I’m not sure it is. I think for her it’s a necessity, a survival strategy, which means we have more in common than she knows.

  Benedict realised it had been a while since Aishe had asked her question. She had hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans and was staring at him, unsmiling, her head on one side.

  I could tell her everything, Benedict thought. I could list all the reasons why I care what she thinks of me. But I suspect the real truth is that I’m lonely and desperate for some human warmth. And that makes me ashamed.

  So what he said was, ‘I think it would be better for Gulliver if we kept things civil.’

  ‘That,’ said Aishe after a pointed pause, ‘is a load of shifty, passive-aggressive weasel. I’m beginning to think that evasive manoeuvring is what you’re all about. Care to comment?’

  ‘No need,’ replied Benedict lightly. ‘That probably is what I’m all about.’ He hitched his satchel further up on his shoulder. ‘My bus is due. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Aishe watched as his long stride took him quickly to the corner and around it, out of sight. She wondered briefly why he hadn’t given her a straight answer. He’s afraid of something, she decided. So afraid that it makes him run. But any curiosity was instantly shouted down in her mind by mistrust and suspicion.

  Aishe decided that Benedict reminded her of a Disney cartoon character from her childhood. Ichabod Crane, the schoolteacher with the spindly legs who appeared nice but wasn’t. I dislike slippery people, she thought. I want character and honesty and substance. That’s what Frank had. But then, Frank may well have been unique.

  A small voice, one she suspected was the last surviving echo of Frank, questioned whether she, too, was guilty of evasive manoeuvres. No, she decided. I’ve never run away; I’ve just chosen not to be around any more. I’ve never slipped out in the dead of night, never hidden my intentions. Everyone always knew when I was leaving. And if they didn’t get up early enough to say goodbye — well, that wasn’t my fault …