Boys and Girls (53 page)

‘Is it an illusion, do you think? The bond one feels when one's children are … well, still only children, really. Still, you know – just fooling with their dollies and their Play-Doh and so forth. Or is it just the pull of their dependence? You know – they cleave to you because they need to. And then when they don't …'

‘Couldn't tell you, old boy. Far too deep for me. Expect it's different for, you know – women and suchlike. Good Lord, you know – that fellow sitting over there – know who that is? Can you see him, Alan? Couple of tables down. Beaky nose, white hair. Yes, that's … what was his name? Published the most excruciatingly dull book by that man once. Years back. He didn't write it, of course. We got in a professional hack, ghost sort of thing, and still by page five you were yearning to put a gun to your head. Biggest remainder in the history of the house. He was the, um – the RAF equivalent of the First Sea Lord. Top man. I always used to call him the Air Head, which never seemed to endear me to him.'

‘Oh Blackie! That is highly amusing. We might go an Armagnac, mightn't we …? Drinkards that we are. Sterling notion. Shame I can't have a cigar …'

‘You can have one when we get home. Yes … sure that's him. Said to me once his wife had become a voluntary mute. Never spoke to him from one week's end to the next. He was divorcing her at the time.'

‘Silly man. Such women as that are damned hard to find.'

‘Ha ha! Very good, Alan – very good. Ah – Smales! Excellent. Yes – two large Armagnacs, if you'd be so good. So much. Now listen, Alan – I'm just off to the little boys' room, yes? Won't be a jiff. Christ, you know – when I used to truss myself up like Sir Lancelot, it used to take me so bloody long that by
the time I'd done the business and bolted myself back into everything, I needed to go to the fucking lavatory again. You know … now I look at him again, I don't think it is him. You know: the Air Head. No. Doesn't actually look like him in the slightest …'

Yes: jolly good lunch, that was – but it's nice now to be back home, even if the temperature is that of a kiln. We had virtually nothing for supper, we were both that full still: couple of oatcakes, few ripe figs and two good bottles of Alsace. And then I lit up a Cohiba.

‘So we're agreed then, are we Blackie? Have them over, Susan and Amanda?'

‘Oh yes I think so. Only for an evening, after all. They're all right, aren't they? The girls. Small doses. Give us a chance to try out that new osso buco recipe – Barolo, I think, with that. But I don't want a great big fuss made, you know, just because it's my birthday. My age, well – farce. Don't want, you know – presents or anything. Nor candles. Christ, there isn't a cake in England big enough to take them.'

‘You'll want my present though, Blackie. I promise you that.'

‘Oh no
really
, Alan – honestly. There's nothing I want. Nothing I need. Just your company alone, dear boy: present enough.'

‘Oh but my dear man – you must have something to unwrap. It's traditional. Pulling at bows, tearing off the paper … especially if inside you can discover, oh, I don't know … Lucy and Crystal, maybe? What say you? Girl Guides, I rather thought – reinventing the bob-a-job. Singlehandedly, you might say.'

‘Ah! Now that's
different
. Dear Alan – you think of
everything. Those two, they're just so very, um … And I know you say they're expensive, Alan, but actually, they're really such a bloody bargain. You know – when compared with running a woman full-time, so to say. Like a taxi, isn't it really? Any sight in the world more welcoming than that little orange light aglow, when all you are is alone and desperate? Yes. Takes you precisely where you want to get to, and then it fucks off and out of your life until the next time. And who buys a taxi? See what I'm, ah …? And so delicious little things like Lucy and Crystal, well, of course it's very lovely when they arrive – because those two, my God, they're just so very, um … but it's almost even better, isn't it? When they go. Very heaven. So yes indeed, Alan: what a gift. And maybe later … a picnic on the beach …?'

‘All laid on. The gift that keeps on coming. Hardly a
selfless
present though, is it? Good Lord – this Cohiba, you know: prime, quite prime.'

‘Glad you're enjoying it. “A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a
Smoke
”. Kipling, you know. Amazing that poem hasn't been banned – promotion of poisons, the doing down of the eternal goddess … Fuckish, fuckish, that's the word I was, um … How's the book coming along, old man?'

‘I didn't think professionals were supposed to ask that sort of thing. Not a question that an author can decently answer. But … well, I've done a bit, you know. Bit more. Little bit. Don't know if it's any good, or anything … but yes: done a bit.'

‘Good man. Stick at it. Still got contacts in the trade, you know. No guarantees, of course, but at least I can promise you that it'll be
read
, at least. By somebody good.'

‘Mm. Just got to write it, then …'

‘Well there is that … Women's market. That's what you've got to aim at if you've any hope of selling. Title's important too. I'd call it something along the lines of
Mr Darcy's Chocolate Manolos
. Can't miss, shouldn't have said.'

‘Blackie, oh Blackie … Do you know – I'm feeling rather weary. Could be all the wine. Early night, do you reckon? Tate we're going to tomorrow, isn't it? Looking forward. Old Tate, of course. Heard it's marvellous since they weeded out all of the rubbish and stuck it in the other one. Bugger for the wheelchair, though – got steps up, hasn't it? Expect we'll manage. You know, Blackie – I sometimes wonder what people think of us. When we're out and about, sort of thing.'

‘Couldn't give a turquoise fuck what people think of us …'

‘No, I know – but I do occasionally wonder how we sort of, you know – come across. Couple of old queers, shouldn't wonder.'

‘Not, though. Are we?'

‘Wouldn't have said so. Hardly. No sex for starters.'

‘Hm. Although at our age – my age, anyway – there probably isn't much, is there? Any more. Even queers, they can't fancy old men, surely? It'd be more – companionship, I should hazard. Marriage being what you make it, sort of style.'

‘Here, Blackie – sudden thought. How about this? “A woman is only a woman, but a good old boy is a
bloke
.” What do you think? Could've put that into one of my fortune cookies, in the bad old days. Oh dear me … I am, you know – really quite tired. Weary. Go up, will we? Oh by the way – don't know if I told you. The man that Susan went off with? Wasn't the boy after all. Someone else. Married.'

‘Ah. Well aren't we all, one way or another. Yes – I think
I will, you know. Call it a day. No, don't trouble – I can get myself over to the lift. Night, old man.'

‘Goodnight, Blackie. Sleep well. I'll be up too in a minute.'

Just damp down the fire, turn out the lights … then make sure the door's locked. Because you need to these days, don't you? Know you're safe.

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