The Perfect 10 (18 page)

‘I’m still coming tonight. What time is it again?’

‘Seven … I told you it was seven … don’t come if you don’t want to …’

‘Sunny, I want to come. But I’ll come round about sixish, if that’s OK, because I need to talk to you about something.’

‘OK … but you’re sure you want to come?’

‘Of course I want to. I want to see you.’

I catch my breath slightly. Maybe it
is
love.

‘OK … oh, I want to see you too, of course. Well then, I’ll see you at six.’

‘See ya.’ Adrian hangs up first.

I put my phone down on the table, and run my fingers through my hair. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad after all. I look down at my to-do list, and smile as I cross off Adrian and Notes. All I have to do now is phone Customs, and I will have done everything on my list. A clean slate, all boxes ticked, all missions accomplished.

The number for Portsmouth Customs was stored in my phone months ago. I know five out of the twelve customs officials by their voice, and we are on first-name terms. When the first few deliveries got questioned I had made it my mission to get along with them all, and get my stuff moving as quickly as possible. Mostly they were just curious,
but they were amiable and efficient, and it normally didn’t take too much time. As long as I don’t get Nancy Hom everything will be fine.

Nancy is a very officious, very methodical Vietnamese lady, who is wonderful at her job, if you are standing in front of her. But on the phone, she tends to understand fifteen per cent of what I say at best. And she is obsessed with animal trafficking. She inexplicably believes that everybody that calls her, about any item they are trying to locate, is trying to traffic animals into the country. Normally rodents – ferrets, polecats, hamsters … I just know how it will play out before I even start the conversation, if I get Nancy today. There is nothing I can do.

I sit back in my chair, cross my legs, feel the sun on my face, and listen to the phone ringing in Portsmouth. I hear a click, and inhale, with crossed fingers. But it is the recorded voice of Bill Gregor the Scottish supervisor.

‘I am sorry we are unable to take your call at this time, but we are experiencing a large volume of –’

‘Hello, Nancy speaking …’

My heart sinks.

‘Hi, Nancy. It’s Sunny Weston. From shewantsshegets.com? We’ve spoken before …’

‘Oh, yes. Hi, Sunny. How are you?’ She really is a lovely lady. I feel so bad for never wanting to speak with her again.

‘I’m fine, Nancy. How are you?’

‘I’m fine also. What can I do for you today, Sunny?’

‘OK. Nancy, I’m missing a shipment of underwear, from Adana.’ I am not going to risk saying ‘Turkey’. Besides, Nancy knows where Adana is.

‘OK, when was it due in?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘OK. How much?’

‘Four boxes.’

‘OK, what kind of underwear?’

‘Silk … mostly knickers, some vest tops, some slips … with extra ties on them, lots of ribbons …’

‘OK. What will it say on the label, Sunny?’

‘The box labels?’

‘Yes, the label.’

I take a deep breath. ‘It’ll say … “Silk Japanese Bondage”, Nancy.’

I hear a sharp intake of breath in Portsmouth, and then silence at the other end of the line.

‘Nancy? Are you there?’ I venture.

‘Do you have the correct paperwork for trafficking badgers into this country, Sunny?’

I could cry. Roll on the dreadful dinner party, for it cannot be worse than this.

Cagney is standing in the corridor of his flat, trying to make out his reflection in a dirty, framed Constable print that was hanging on the wall the day he moved in. He takes his overcoat off, and holds it in his hand. He pulls it back on, shaking his head. He leans forward to make out his reflection. The light bulb is covered in dust, and the walls are a dirty cream. He is dressed all in black, and his head looks pale and disembodied above his polo neck. A line of sweat springs on to his top lip with a sting, and he tugs his overcoat off and hangs it casually over his shoulder, resting it on one finger.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake …’ he mutters, before slinging it on the table and walking out, slamming the door behind him.

Christian is waiting for him outside Screen Queen. He is dressed in a dark blue suit and cornflower-blue shirt, with the top two buttons undone to reveal a tanned neck, sparsely covered with dark hair. He looks impeccable, draped in sobriety.

The Railway Inn by the station is littered with drinkers, and Cagney eyes them enviously as he walks past. Laughs and screams and shouts burst out from separate groups of tourists and builders and locals. Cagney hasn’t been in the pub for over a year, but the urge to dive in to its anonymity overwhelms him. He straightens his back and marches on.

The sky is clear of any clouds, and at dusk it is still so light that Cagney can make out the scowl on Christian’s face from twenty paces. He is ten feet away when he hears Christian speak.

‘For the record, Cagney, and for the last time, this is plainly a fucking awful idea. I haven’t been this negative about a night out since Brian took me to that Queen musical.’

‘Let’s go.’ Cagney doesn’t slow down but walks past Christian, who picks up the pace alongside him.

‘Haven’t you brought anything?’

‘What?’

‘A bottle, Cagney. Rosé would have done – it still feels like summer, at least.’

‘No.’

‘Well, thank God I did. Christ, how out of practice can one man be?’

Cagney marches on.

‘Where is it?’ Christian enquires as they turn at the end of the road, and instead of crossing towards the Gardens, take a right towards the South Circular.

‘It’s one of the streets behind the green. We’ll go the back way.’

Cagney and Christian stride down a leafy Kew street and hear the strains of Jazz FM and children playing from alternate houses, the clink of well-cut glass and the smell of marinated turkey on barbecues beyond sash windows and heavy stained-glass doors.

‘Excited?’

‘Don’t be fatuous.’

‘Well, you know what Oscar Wilde said, Cagney, “In the autumn a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love”.’

‘It was the spring, and it was Tennyson.’

‘Are you sure? I’m positive that was Oscar Wilde.’

‘It was Tennyson. Oscar Wilde said that a man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.’

‘Not exactly an expert, was he?’ Christian smirks, then eyes Cagney suspiciously as they stop at the end of the road, and allow Golfs and four-by-fours and Porsches to crawl past. Eventually a teenage boy driving a BMW beckons for them to cross.

They dodge overgrown French-style gardens and lazy fat cats as they turn left into a postcard avenue smelling of peonies and espresso.

‘I think two hours maximum. We get in, we make nice, we get out.’

‘Sounds magical.’

‘Christian, I’m deathly serious. And don’t play about in there; don’t embarrass me with that girl.’ Cagney marches on with his head forwards, not turning to address Christian as he speaks.

‘You know, I could just go home right now if you’d prefer, Cagney? I have a thousand other things I could be doing on a Friday night.’ Christian stops walking and stands his ground.

Cagney stops two paces ahead of him and stares forwards. ‘I’m sorry. But I’m asking you, please don’t embarrass me.’

‘Cagney, if anything, it is you who will embarrass me. I am skilled in the art of dinner-party conversation, whereas your idle chat with people you’ve known for ten years leaves a lot to be desired.’

‘Let’s just get it over with. And, for your information, I can do small talk when I need to. I’m not a complete social misfit.’

Simultaneously they begin to walk again.

‘You do quips, Cagney, not conversation. You do put-downs.’

‘It’s a gift.’

‘Maybe, but it’s not exactly endearing. If you want to make this girl like you –’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ Cagney raises his voice, stops abruptly and turns to face Christian, who is unimpressed. Cagney lowers his voice. ‘I don’t give a damn what she thinks of me.’

Christian ignores his protests. ‘Love follows laughter, Cagney. Or good abdominals. You don’t have the stomach any more so just stick to the jokes is all I’m saying.’

‘You haven’t seen my stomach. Anyway, familiarity breeds contempt. And divorce.’

‘You’ve clicked with the lovely Sunny already, Cagney. Don’t throw it all away with some damn defensive coolness. Sunny – what a fabulous, tragic name.’

‘There was no “click”. And it’s a ridiculous name.’

‘Look who’s talking. Something always tips the balance, Cagney, and you can feel it when it does. Something has tipped your balance and now you’re feeling all off kilter.’

‘Christian, I would have thought that you, of all people, would have realised by now that I am more than happy on my own.’

‘No, Cagney. You kid yourself that it’s all doomed and beautiful and brave, but it’s just stupid and careless to be alone for as long as you have been.’

‘I don’t see you walking up the aisle, Christian.’

‘If you opened your eyes, you’d see me trying. I’m forty,
Cagney; I want to settle down. I can’t fuck about for ever, even if I wanted to. Footloose is just slang for I haven’t met the right man. Seeking out happiness is the bravest thing, not hiding from it.’

Cagney opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again.

‘It is OK to be you, Cagney; it is OK to be average. You don’t have to cloak yourself in an angry mysterious Vaseline if you are with the right person.’

‘I’ll leave the Vaseline to you.’

‘Jesus, Cagney, we’re having a conversation! Can we cut the quips for two minutes? Can you emote on any level? Have you ever managed to actually say what you feel? Not that you need to, it’s perfectly bloody obvious! You really aren’t as dark and disturbing as you like to seem. You’re perfectly normal, perfectly likeable, if you’ll let somebody in. You think your surface is the only thing that keeps you interesting, but if that’s all you are prepared to give, nobody is going to dig any deeper, and certainly not Sunny Weston.’ Christian speaks with his hands, gesturing as he walks, knocking loose flowers as they hang over from purposefully unkempt gardens, showering the pavement behind him with petals. Cagney’s arms swing tightly at his sides like a well-trained soldier.

‘What do you know about her? What videos she rents? She is the worst kind of shallow, she’s a gym nut diet fruitcake. She wouldn’t know depth if she was drowning in it.’

‘When did “depth” get added to your long list of character strengths, Monsieur James? Hinting at something beneath doesn’t mean there is actually something there. We can all stuff a sock down our trousers, Cagney; it doesn’t mean we’re sporting ten inches.’

‘For fuck’s sake, does it all have to come down to sex with you people?’ Cagney winces at his own words.

‘I was making an analogy, Cagney, and the “you people” remark is below even you.’

‘So what do you want me to do, Christian? Laugh gaily at her jokes? Cry if she mentions the sad old fat days? Overcome her with my sensitivity? What a pile of shit.’

‘Well, you aren’t going to win her heart with a look, Cagney. She has more choices than that. If you wanted to get her easily you should have met her last year – a raised eyebrow might have done it then. But these beautiful bodies don’t stay on the shelf for long. You’ve connected with her on a deeper level – you need to take advantage of that quick before somebody far less deserving than you snaps her up. Having the chat won’t cut it.’

Cagney smiles, in spite of himself. Christian knows him well. ‘The chat used to be the thing, you know. And I used to get them with a look. I shall speak whole silent volumes with one raised eyebrow …’

‘What are you throwing at me now?’ Christian smiles back.

‘Ovid.’

‘Well, at least there’s still something erotic in you, Cagney, even if it is just poetry. But it’s a different ball game now. Love calls for guts … and … initiative. You can’t keep yourself back, hidden away.’

‘Well, that poses a problem for me, Christian, because I can’t think of anything worse than jumping into somebody’s character like a goddamn plunge pool. It’s fucking uncivilised.’

‘It’s liberating!’ Christian throws his hands in the air, and upsets an overgrown hibiscus, causing a small sweet lavender storm around them.

‘It’s repellent.’ Cagney swipes at a wasp.

They stop walking outside an expensive yet noticeably shabby three-storey house behind Kew Green. Just from the
paint that peels lazily at the window frames, and the crooked number on the door, Cagney knows that the man of the house is a thinker and not a doer. Any previous attempts at DIY have left him with bloodied fingers and a bruised ego, so much so that he gave up years ago. And yet they never quite get round to getting somebody in, to fix all the things that need fixing, in an oversized family home. It is in middle-class disarray. Cagney knows it well. Half the houses on these streets are the same, bursting with money and intellect, but not enough common sense among them to change a tyre.