The Perfect 10 (13 page)

‘Come on, Cagney, you have to at least admit that it was a good one – the coffee, the paper – it was seamless!’ Howard jumps out of the car. Cagney walks back up the alley towards the late morning bustle of Kew village, and Howard strolls behind him.

‘It was heavy-handed, and obvious, and you’ve used it six times in the last month. Every time you ask me what I think, and every time I tell you the same thing. If she had half a brain she would have seen it for the set-up that it was. Luckily for us, Jessica is as stupid as she looks.’ Cagney doesn’t glance back, but talks into the wind, as Howard strains to hear.

‘I use it because it works. It’s bloody perfect, you miserable
old bugger. Besides, you only ever give me the stupid ones, anyway.’

‘Like attracts like. I don’t fight that golden rule.’

‘You wouldn’t have liked her, Cagney – too modern for your blackened old heart. She was quite worldly, for a nineteen-year-old, if you know what I’m saying. It’s going to take a real angel to get to your soft centre.’

‘As I said, like attracts like.’

Cagney doesn’t follow Howard through the agency door but heads instead towards the front of the video shop, where Christian is standing with two very old Kew men in 1940s suits, who are smiling at the window with him. Cagney stops and listens a few feet away, as Christian effervesces.

‘You see, it’s the juxtaposition of East and West. It’s the Buddha, the Eastern idol, and Dolly, the Western idol. Plus you get your second rental for half price – it’s art meet commercialism. It’s the Zeitgeist, don’t you think?’ Christian turns towards the two octogenarians, with their tweed jackets and moustaches, for a response.

‘I flew a Zeitgeist in ’43, I think … You know it costs me over forty pounds to fill up the Daimler at Sainsbury’s now? Shocking. The world’s gone to hell.’

The three of them stand and nod, before one of the old men starts coughing furiously. The other ignores him, common as it is to see his sidekick fighting for breath, expecting him to drop dead any day.

‘Are you married?’ the non-cougher enquires of Christian.

‘No.’ Christian is bewitched by the window, and answers absent-mindedly, slowly shaking his head.

‘Any plans?’

Christian turns to face him, and registers the question. ‘I’m homosexual.’ Christian pronounces every syllable in the word slowly.

‘Ah yes, you did tell me that. Mind like a sieve these days. I remember now.’

The coughing old man has stopped, and addresses his friend. ‘Albert, this is the queer fellow. God, man, your mind has gone.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘It must be hard.’ Christian smiles and nods sympathetically. ‘Well, lovely chatting but I have to get on, Albert, William.’ Christian nods sweetly at them both.

‘Absolutely. Cheerio.’ The old pair turn in slow motion and inch away, as Albert barks loudly, ‘Damn shame.’

‘Did I buy bread?’ William replies.

Cagney walks towards Christian, trying to think of a positive thing to say about the window. Howard was right about something for the first time in years: Christian is Cagney’s only friend, and much as he’d like to, he shouldn’t alienate everybody. He needs a plus one.

‘It’s … colourful.’

‘It’s one of my best.’

‘Don’t they bother you?’ Cagney gestures towards the old boys, slowly moving away at snail’s pace, still shouting at each other.

‘Goodness no, they’re thoroughly harmless, and bloody charming. I’m not a fool, Cagney. They are eighty; you went to prison in their day.’

‘If you say so.’

Christian carries on staring at his window, and addresses Cagney without looking at him. ‘Cagney, I’d be spending my time at Her Majesty’s pleasure if we’d stopped moving on fifty years ago, and you just have to put up with people asking how you are, and telling you that you drink too much, which you do. So fair’s fair, Cagney. I think you can handle it.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘The truck’s gone.’ Christian nods in the direction of Cagney’s door.

‘Right.’ Cagney straightens up and walks away.

‘Cagney,’ Christian calls out to him, and Cagney shouts, ‘Yes?’ without turning round. ‘You are allowed to stop and talk. I wasn’t hurrying you along.’

‘Right,’ Cagney shouts again over his shoulder, as he pushes the door open, and flies up the stairs two at a time.

Kew is where Cagney has chosen to hide for all these years. Tucked away from the bustle of London life, yet still close enough for the work the city brings. It is a sanctuary. It was his saviour, in a way. Living in the centre of the city had driven him down and into himself, behind a locked door and a bottle. He doesn’t know what it is that keeps him in the village, but it is safe, it is home, for the next three months at least; for the last ten years. And the blossom on the trees lifts his heart a little, and he can stride through the Gardens and be alone in a matter of minutes, and relax without prying eyes. Something about Kew and its implied intimacy, without actually having to be intimate, has kept him going.

Upstairs in the office Howard is doubled up with laughter, supported by a solitary filing cabinet to stop him from falling, while Iuan, dressed in a fluorescent orange tracksuit, pretends to choke in Cagney’s chair.

‘Is that seat taken?’ Cagney strides around the desk and stands expectantly by the side of Iuan, who eventually moves, grudgingly. When he stands up you can see that Iuan is six feet three, with short, spiked auburn hair, and a long face that draws horse jokes from his friends. His nose and ears are a little too large, his mouth a little too wide. He looks like a caricature of a better-looking self, his features stretched just out of attractiveness.

‘What was the funny?’ Cagney asks as he sits down and
instinctively reaches for his drink drawer, hand on the knob, before he remembers he has company, reaching instead for his ever-ready nuts.

Howard explains. ‘Iuan just saw a man choking on a piece of garlic bread in the pub – show Cagney the impression, it’s classic.’

Iuan resumes the faux choking, clutching at his throat in mock alarm, but is cut short.

‘That’s charming. Is that why the ambulance is parked outside?’

‘It is. I was on my way out when it happened. I didn’t catch the ending.’ Iuan’s accent is soft, and still clearly rings of the Valleys. The tone of his voice can confuse the unpractised listener, who may concentrate on the lyrical sounds he makes, and not the words he utters. It is widely accepted as the reason that he manages to have sex with as many women as he does. By the time they actually register what he is saying, it is invariably too late.

‘So you don’t know if he died or not?’ Cagney asks, flicking through a file.

‘No, I had to get back here. Knew you were on your way back, didn’t I.’

‘Ah, the integrity.’ Cagney slams the file shut and looks up at them both. ‘Someone needs to get this morning’s photos developed, Howard, and somebody else needs to phone in this week’s ads, Iuan.’

‘Shall I do the photos?’ Howard offers.

‘That would seem to be the plan.’

Scooping up the camera from the desk, he bounces out of the door.

Iuan reaches inside the filing cabinet for a sheet of paper containing a list of phone numbers. ‘The same as last week, is it?’ Iuan runs his eye over the list.

‘No, ditch
The Times
– women callers. Go with the men’s,
the cars, the computers, and the
Telegraph
and
FT
. That’s enough.’

‘Same as usual?’

‘Yep.’

Cagney tears open the plastic bag carefully, and grabs a handful. He sits back in his chair, closes his eyes and cracks a nut in his palm, as Iuan pulls the phone towards his side of the desk, places the piece of paper firmly down, sucks on the pen between his teeth, and dials the first number.

‘Hello, yes, I’d like to extend my advert in the miscellaneous section. Name C. James. One hundred and twenty-six characters with punctuation again … Yes. Same again, exactly … I can, if you want me to, my lovely.’ Iuan begins to read aloud, slowly and painstakingly enunciating each word in his lilting Welsh accent, sounding like a local comic reading a sexist joke as the woman on the end of the line waits for the punchline.

SUSPICIOUS OF YOUR WIFE/GIRLFRIEND? CHEAP RATES FOR 100% RELIABLE INFORMATION. WE’LL SHOW YOU WHAT SHE’S DOING. MALE CLIENTS ONLY. PHONE 8AM–10PM. And he adds the telephone number.

Cagney recites the ad in his head as Iuan reads. It has been the same wording for nearly ten years. The phone number has changed a couple of times, he dropped in the word ‘girlfriend’ after a year when he realised that long-term lovers were just as worthy of suspicion as wives. ‘Male clients only’ was added after the first week, when sixty per cent of his calls came from women. He still receives the odd female call, but he has his reply memorised as well: ‘We only work on behalf of men, and we don’t deal in same-sex relationships either. It’s not prejudice, I just don’t have any females on my staff … No, unfortunately I don’t know of an agency that does deal on behalf of women. Maybe you
should try a private investigator. I can give you a number, or you can check in the Yellow Pages.’ Hang up.

Occasionally some hormonal type on a tirade would shout at him about sexism in this day and age, and he would bite his tongue, and not point out that ‘this day and age’ was the problem. But it only served to prove his point, and ultimately reconvince him that it was more trouble than the cash it was worth to work for women. That was the deal. He has been accused of misogyny many times over the years, mostly by women who come looking for him after some weak-willed dollop of a husband has admitted the set-up and pointed the finger in Cagney’s direction. And every time he explains that the word ‘misogynist’ is bandied about far too recklessly.

Cagney doesn’t hate women. He just doesn’t like them. Some less than others …

Iuan makes half a dozen more calls, and finally hangs up the receiver.

Cagney opens his eyes.

‘Are we having our staff meeting today, Cagney, because if so, is it possible to do it soonish? I’ve got my Dynamic Yoga class in an hour.’

‘I still can’t believe they let you in.’

‘The yoga is the dynamic bit.’

‘So you said. Tell me again, how exactly can touching your toes be considered dynamic?’

‘Boss, it’s much more than that. It’s about tapping into your chakra; it’s about finding inner peace. But yes, it’s true, it does make me remarkably supple. I can get both my legs behind my head now, Cagney. Do you want to see?’ Iuan drops to the floor, and grabs both of his ankles.

Cagney starts reading the file in front of him, ignoring the painful grunts coming from the front of his desk. Two minutes later Iuan is swearing under his breath, and Cagney
looks up to see a foot pinned behind Iuan’s increasingly red neck.

‘Shit it, I’m stuck. I should have warmed up. This has never happened before, Cagney. I’m generally very limber. CHRIST!’ Iuan cries out, and starts to breathe heavily on the floor, unable to move. ‘Cagney, could you possibly give me a hand?’

Cagney looks up again as Howard bursts into the office.

Howard halts, and beams at the scene before him. ‘Oi oi! Want me to step outside again, boys?’

Cagney is looking back down at his file, unimpressed, when he hears Iuan’s left ankle snap.

‘Howard, see if that ambulance is still outside.’

My therapist has made us coffee, which is unusual. Normally his assistant, Penny, brings in the drinks. She has put full-fat milk in my coffee on five separate occasions, and each time I have been forced to ask her to remake it. I wonder whether she does it under my therapist’s instruction, to chart my reaction, or to see if I will drink it at least, but every time I send it back. Of course, she just might not be that bright.

‘Where’s Penny?’

‘She has the day off today.’

‘Not sacked then?’

‘No. She doesn’t work on Thursdays.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s part time.’

‘Why can’t you see me next Monday?’

‘I’m going on holiday.’

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘Marrakesh.’

‘Lovely. This seems a bit much, though, two sessions in one week. I feel like I was only here five minutes ago.’

‘I thought you might like to talk about the incident before I went away.’

‘But I’m seeing you on Tuesday, right? I’m only missing a day …’

‘Nonetheless …’

‘Ignore that for a second because I have some news … about Adrian … We are kind of a couple …’

My therapist stares at me to go on.

‘I’ve seen him a few times recently. Seen a lot more of him than I expected, to be honest. I didn’t tell you … well, I don’t know why. Because I thought it would just be temporary, and that he was drunk, and then we’d have to talk about that as well, and it would just make me feel bad. Anyway, on Monday night he said “you and me”, like we are a couple … What do you think of that?’

‘What do you think of that?’

‘I asked you first.’

‘I don’t have an opinion.’

‘Oh.’

‘So what do you think of that, Sunny?’

‘I don’t know.’

He has taken the wind out of my sails. I thought he might be excited for me. I thought I might borrow some of that excitement for myself. He doesn’t seem that interested.

‘How have you been, apart from that? Do you feel ready to talk about the incident yet? On Monday you said you felt ready, but we ran out of time.’

‘No, I’ve forgotten all about that.’

‘You haven’t thought about it at all?’

‘Not really. Only that … Jesus … I have to go to this hateful bloody dinner party tomorrow night.’

‘Dinner party?’

‘I thought I told you. The child’s mother asked me round to dinner, to say thank you. Isn’t that awful?’

My therapist looks momentarily alarmed, but regains his
composure. ‘It’s a strange decision, although I am still not sure exactly what happened.’

I pull my legs up in front of my chest, and yawn from exhaustion. I am not used to my sleeping pattern being broken by a wandering hand in the middle of the night. My body clock is still adjusting.

‘OK, I feel like you are going to go on about this until I tell you, so this is it: I’m having a coffee and this woman turns up with her three kids, all boys, and they are playing about outside Starbucks, and she is distracted by the youngest one, and this man comes along …’ I pause. ‘And this man comes along and picks one of them up, the one called Dougal.’ I gulp. ‘And he starts walking away with him. But the mother, who is beside herself, of course, has to look after the other two kids, so I run after him.’ I stop and take a deep breath.

My therapist is looking at me blankly, waiting for me to continue.

‘I don’t really know why I did it, other than I couldn’t just sit back and watch while a child got abducted, so I ran after him. And I caught him, but then he kicked me.’

‘He kicked you in the face?’ My therapist looks appalled.

‘What? No! Christ, how awful! Why would you think that?’

‘The black eye?’

‘Oh, right. God, I thought you were just getting carried away! No. I forgot – he punched me first.’

‘He assaulted you, twice?’

I grimace. ‘I don’t like the word “assault”. It sounds evil, or sexual, like “sexual assault”. But anyway, I managed to get Dougal off him, and that was that.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘I just kind of launched myself at his back … Jesus, that was stupid … I didn’t really think it through at the time.’ I gulp again.

‘But they caught him?’

‘Yes, well, there was this other guy who caught him.’

I picture Cagney James in my head, and I know that I have been blocking him out until now. I will see him tomorrow night, and it makes me feel … uncomfortable. It’s a feeling that I can’t quite put my finger on. If there was a gun at my head I’d call it nervous excitement, although that’s not quite right either. It’s like a life-changing exam that I can’t wait to sit because I’ve studied and I think I might ace it, but simultaneously I know that I might choke on the night, and all of my studies will have been in vain. I feel that seeing him again is important, although I don’t know why, given that he was abrasive and confrontational. I shouldn’t be excited. No good can come of this dinner.

‘He was strange.’

‘The man who snatched the child?’

‘No, well, yes, of course him, but I was talking about the man who caught him. I had a conversation with him afterwards, and it was just … peculiar, that’s all.’

‘Peculiar how?’

‘I don’t know.’ I rake my fingers through my hair. ‘It was like he knew me somehow, or I knew him, but he just made me angry. He started shouting at me. I don’t think he likes women very much. I guess he must have fallen for a rotten apple somewhere along the line. Actually, he might be gay. I didn’t think of that, but he was wearing a polo-neck sweater …’

‘He made you feel angry?’

‘Do straight men wear polo-necks? Not big chunky knit roll-necks, but polo-necks …’

‘Angry how?’

‘Do you own a polo-neck?’

‘Angry how?’

‘What? Oh, yes, we were shouting at each other, having
an argument about … God, I can’t even remember what about. I just remember being so mad with him, when Dougal’s mother turned up.’

‘Was he angry as well?’

‘He was horrible! Really insulting, for no reason.’

‘Well, that might not be so strange: you might both have displaced your anger at the child snatcher on to each other, as you were both so involved.’

‘Oh … maybe. Could be … I suppose. I was really angry … but … I don’t know. Maybe that’s it. I know I felt like I could kill him or something. I felt really passionately violent towards him!’

I laugh a short, sharp laugh, surprised at my own words. I haven’t thought about it until now. That’s a lie. I haven’t let myself think about it. It has occurred to me, like a thought bubble popping in my head, a few times.

‘Violent?’

‘No, that’s the wrong word. No, that’s the right word! I felt violent in that I wanted to make him understand something, or just grab him and … just make him listen … I don’t know … he seemed so determined that I was wrong, about something. I’m not sure what exactly. But I was wrong and he was right, that was the gist of it.’

My therapist turns and begins to write something on his pad. I take a sip of my coffee. Five minutes later I realise that my therapist is still writing and my coffee cup is empty.

‘Working on your novel?’

My therapist smiles. ‘Just some notes, for myself, for when I get back.’

‘This is my time, though, right? I mean, I am paying for this time …’

‘The notes are about you.’

‘What do they say?’

‘Just reminders of what you’ve said.’

‘Oh, OK. Shall we talk about Adrian now?’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Not really, no. I don’t know why I brought it up. Other than I don’t know what to do. I’ve asked him to come to this dinner party with me tomorrow night. I think I should at least try and make it work.’

‘You don’t sound very enthused, Sunny, given the time we’ve spent discussing him in your sessions.’

‘I know. It’s typical. You pray for something so much, and then you stop praying, because you realise you don’t really want it any more, and then it happens, and it’s confusing. I don’t know what I feel. It could be nothing more than vindication. It could still be love. I told you we need to go over that some more! If we’d had that sorted by now I wouldn’t be so bloody mixed up.’

‘I can’t explain love to you, Sunny. It happens. You will know when you feel it.’

‘I think you’re wrong, but OK.’

‘What about this other man?’

‘Cagney. Cagney James. Isn’t that the most ridiculous name you’ve ever heard?’

My therapist raises his eyes at me, suggesting that I can’t possibly expect him to answer that question. I don’t see why not. It’s not as if I’ll report him for unprofessional conduct for a little harmless bitching.

‘What about Cagney James, Sunny?’

My therapist smiles when he says my name, and I feel fondly towards him. I know my name is atypical as well, but I’m used to it.

‘There isn’t anything to say. He was just this very rude, confrontational man, who made me rude in return.’

‘Do you think what you have classified as rage might
have been some kind of electricity between the two of you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Sexual electricity?’

I sit up very straight and cross my legs, and my arms. He raises his eyes at me.

‘Have you lost your mind? Are you on Morrocan time already? He was horrible.’

‘Horrible how?’

‘He was dressed completely in black, for a start.’

My therapist eyes me up and down. I am dressed completely in black today.

‘Yes, but it’s fine for a girl. A man just looks like he wants to be Robert Palmer, or Jack Kerouac. Both bad looks.’

‘I agree. You look nice today, by the way.’

‘Sorry?’ I have uncrossed my arms, but I cross them again. My therapist has never said anything like that before. I think he is strange on Thursdays. I am only ever coming on a Monday again.

‘I said you look nice. How does that make you feel?’

‘Oh, I get it. Can I take a compliment, et cetera, et cetera … Can we talk about Adrian again? I need to know what to do while you are away.’

‘I can’t tell you what to do with Adrian. Can you take a compliment?’

‘Yes.’ I whisper it.

‘OK, you look nice today.’

‘Stop saying that! I heard it the first time. You’re being weird.’

‘You can’t just thank me for the compliment?’

‘No, it’s weird.’

‘You think it has to mean something sexual? You think it must mean I am sexually attracted to you, and you aren’t comfortable with sexual attraction, and therefore you can’t take the compliment.’

‘I’ve had sex with Adrian, three or four times, if you must know. I must be getting more comfortable with the sex thing. Four times.’

‘And how did it feel when he told you that you looked nice?’

‘He didn’t.’

‘How did it feel when he said “you and me”, that you were a couple?’

‘Like he should have asked me first.’

My therapist grabs for his pen, and I pull my legs up to my chest.

He stops writing and looks at me squarely. ‘You begrudge Adrian for assuming you would want to be his girlfriend, and yet you’ve asked him to come to dinner with you tomorrow. Why have you done that?’

‘I guess I thought I should … you know … they said I could bring somebody … I’ve never really had anybody to ask before. I thought I’d take advantage of it. That bit feels nice, at least – having somebody to take somewhere. Besides, I can’t just have a whole truckload of feelings for somebody, and then they just drive off, and I don’t have them any more. And Cagney will have somebody with him. I don’t want to look like the only single girl at a swingers’ night. I want to take somebody for a change.’

‘Sunny …’

I always get hopeful when my therapist says my name like this, waiting for him to tell me what to do. And I always forget that he never does.

‘Sunny, I think you might need to consider that your feelings for Adrian have passed. It may have been love, it may have been an elongated crush. It doesn’t belittle what you felt at the time, it just means you don’t feel that way now. And you might even find that you have feelings for Cagney
James, or they might be transferred feelings of protection, and gratitude, because of the incident, and the role that he played in it. But I would advise you to think about all of it while I am away.’

‘Jesus! You’d better extend your ticket because that’ll take me months!’

My therapist smiles at me.

‘Fine, I’ll think about it.’

‘Good, now,’ he checks his desk clock, ‘we have another half an hour.’ He looks surprised. It does feel like we have covered a lot. ‘Well, we can talk about some of that now, unless there is anything else you’d like to go over?’

I run my hands through my hair, and inspect my manicure. Am I feeling as brave as I thought I might, when I decided this morning that I would bring this up?