The Perfect 10 (27 page)

Early Halloween decorations pose in the windows of the shop fronts in the village – a skull sits prettily on a piano in the music shop. Worthy-looking organic pumpkins hollowed out and grimacing, look beaten and bruised and furry, and not gleaming and waxy and appetising, like the ones in Sainsbury’s. There is a little bookseller at the top of the lefthand fork, that stocks the classics and some new titles, and seems permanently to be advertising a ‘local author’. People come to Kew to write books, it would seem, to clear their mind of unnecessary distractions and get down and dirty with their opi – is that the plural of opus? It makes me smile. It sounds a little like a jewel. Or a type of cyst, found on the cornea maybe …

The bookshop advertises crime and thrillers in one half of its window, and foreign language picture books in the other. They have them imported – all the big recognisable kids’ brand books, sent over from France and Spain and Germany and Italy, to help the au pairs teach the little ones another language …

Fairy lights are sprinkled in huge elm trees that line the parking zone, blinking and greeting a steady stream of commuters pouring out of the tube station at seven-minute intervals, most of them fresh from the city, draped in an air called ‘I’ve made it’. Kew is an obvious dream, and one that
I subscribe or unsubscribe to daily. It is kicking about in wealthy leaves that aren’t mine, but I feel like I am borrowing its safety for a little while, and hoping some of the luck that everybody else here has found themselves swimming in might rub off on me. I like that the Christmas tree outside the tube station doesn’t get vandalised. I like that a choir of carol singers greets me at the station throughout Advent with a rendition of ‘Hark the Herald Angels’, or ‘Let It Snow’, a different charity choir for a different day, all agreed by the council beforehand, all with the same songs to sing, none less deserving than the others, apart from the Elderly Actors’ Club. I am never quite comfortable about giving my pound to them on the eleventh day of Christmas or whatever day they get allocated; it’s hardly kids or cancer, is it? More likely it’s some old ham who can’t afford any more toupees, and I’m not sponsoring an ageing thesp’s addiction to hairpieces while he whines that nobody ever saw his Hamlet, I don’t care how sweetly their choir sings ‘Winter Wonderland’. If they had any sense, the elderly actors would get out and sing it themselves. I’m a sucker for the old trying to do anything that doesn’t involve being slumped in a chair with a box of biscuits, dribbling in front of any programme hosted by Judith Chalmers.

There are some days when I am so very pleased to be here, walking clean streets and looking up at the trees and smelling the fresh meat in the butchers and smiling at the stylish middle-aged lady who owns the bookshop because she loves books. Somedays it is all I want out of life, and it doesn’t matter that I am alone. But then somedays it isn’t …

Some days, I just don’t give a shit how green the trees are. Trees are supposed to be green, that’s what they do. And I’m not going to grin inanely at a blue sky just because it’s blue. That doesn’t make it a wonderful world. And on
those days I think: who really cares though? Who cares about any of it? Trees or seasons or safety or charm or quiet or beauty or pretension or any of it?

Who cares what I eat?

Who cares what I don’t eat?

Who cares?

Maybe it’s not an attractive attitude, but who bloody cares? Maybe I don’t want to be attractive today! Maybe I am sick to the back teeth of studying my face for the occasional hair that shouldn’t be there, or thinking about what style I am growing my hair into, or studying my body, my fat-less body, in its draping skin suit. I’d just like to feel, for once, that something was done, for good, and perfect. That’s why some days I like Kew. Some days, when I am easily pleased, it seems perfect.

Cagney can’t fit in here either, I am sure of that. He is a man who would love it if nobody ever spoke to him again. And even though I am now at an age when I know that having a monosyllabic boyfriend would just be plain frustrating and depressing, there is still a part of me that finds it attractive. There is still a little teeny tiny itsy cutsey crappy egotistical part of me that thinks that I could drag a conversation out of him late at night … but who can be bothered with that much effort? Talk or don’t talk, do what you like, who cares? Don’t expect me to hang around, though.

The problem facing Cagney is that he wants to be anonymous, but he thinks it might kill him. So he has the fight in his head, the same one that I fight in my head, whenever I lose my temper. The only way I can think to explain it, this need to be lost and found all at once, is that it is like driving a car. You are driving along really familiar roads, and suddenly you realise that you are changing from third to second gear, and braking, or checking your mirror, or indicating left, and it’s all just automatic. And you know
exactly where you are going, and it feels really reassuring, but then you are overcome by the feeling of just wanting to be lost. Completely lost and with no map, and how exciting that would be! Especially if you happened upon somewhere wonderful, purely by chance … But then, as you slow down to check the sideroads to see if they look right, and change lanes at the last minute and cars toot their horns at you, you feel like you are in everybody’s way. Because they all know where they are going, and you don’t, and suddenly you want to be back on those familiar streets again, moving but not thinking.

As I get nearer to Christian’s shop I can see without deliberately looking up that there is no light on in Cagney’s office. My mouth feels a little dry.

The much-hyped film festival is in full swing. A banner hangs across the front of the shop, black star cloth with orange shiny lettering that spells ‘OH, THE HORROR!’

Along the bottom of the window sit pumpkin heads with purple lights glowing behind their eyes. Life-size standees of Tom Cruise, Leonardo DiCaprio, Paul Newman, Liza Minnelli, Julia Roberts, and Olivia Newton-John stand proudly in the window, dressed in a
Top Gun
uniform or
Xanadu
sparkles, or
Cabaret
fishnets and a bowler hat.

Somebody – Christian, I presume – has adhered plastic daggers and axes and chainsaws to their hands, as well as sticking false fangs onto their mouths.

As I am only a few feet away I can see Christian is behind the counter at the back, sipping from an oversize coffee mug, using a calculator, mouthing lyrics to a song I can’t place.

I push open the door, which screams a short high-pitched shriek instead of the regular bell. Christian looks up from his calculator and I grin broadly. He smiles … but I am immediately uncomfortable, and wish I hadn’t come. It is not a big or friendly or pleased-to-see-me smile. In my head,
another one of my crazy daydreams, was that Christian and I might hug. We have only talked seriously for one night, but I feel like we bonded a little. Maybe Christian is like that with everybody …

‘Hi!’ I cough inadvertently. ‘Sorry! I thought I’d pop in and see how your film festival is doing.’

‘Oh, right …’ Christian gives me a fake smile again, and makes his eyes wide in feigned excitement.

‘So, how are you?’ I ask, folding my arms.

‘Yeah, really busy …’ Christian and I glance around the empty shop simultaneously. I look down at my shoes. ‘I mean, it was busy earlier, and I was busy doing all the decorations.’ Christian sweeps his hand in front of him like a glamour girl at a car show advertising the latest Ford.

We smile at each other and look around and away. I recognise the music as the soundtrack to
Fame
. Christian was mouthing the second verse of ‘Hi-Fidelity’ when I came in.

‘Well, it looks great, Christian!’ I say, gearing up to make my exit so soon, scared that I may cry.

‘Thanks, Sunny,’ Christian says, and fiddles with his calculator.

‘OK, well, I’m going to go,’ I say, and turn to leave, taking a few steps towards the door.

‘I’m sorry, Christian.’ I turn round, and he is staring after me. ‘Have I done something wrong? Because it feels like you are being really weird … with me. I mean, I know we have only just met properly, but I thought we got on well the other night … I don’t know. How embarrassing is this? I just thought we might be … friends, I guess. But you seem … a little strange … or strained … or something.’

Christian mutters something at his calculator that is barely audible, and I prickle.

‘I’m sorry?’ I say.

Christian throws his head up and his arms out in an exaggerated pose. ‘I thought you’d come in sooner! It’s been four whole days!’

‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise …’

‘And I thought that you might want to talk to me, given our last conversation, about Adrian … or Cagney, maybe. I thought that you might want to talk about him. I guess I want you to talk about him.’ Christian moves round in front of the desk towards me, smiling again, but sheepish now, not fake or phoney.

‘You want me to talk about Cagney to you?’ I ask

‘Don’t you want to talk about him?’

To lie, or not to lie. It’s a clear and easy choice.

‘I don’t know …’

Or to half-lie.

‘I just keep thinking about you and him and the argument. And I realised that I haven’t seen him say so much to anybody, anybody at all, for months, years, ever! I’m a romantic, Sunny. I’m not going to apologise for myself. He’s a good man, and you’re a good girl, and I just think it could be wonderful if you let it.’

I should raise my hand to close my mouth, my chin has dropped so far to my chest. Christian is planning my wedding, and he’ll make Cagney and me convert to whatever religion is allowed the most flamboyant best man. He is twenty steps ahead of me and running. And as much as I love that it isn’t only me dreaming up Cagney and Sunny scenarios in my head, I suddenly feel guilty about Adrian, who has been calling and apologising all weekend. It started with a couple of calls that I didn’t answer on Saturday morning, and short, sharp messages asking me to pick up the phone. This was followed on Saturday evening by a text saying simply ‘I miss u’. I suspect that if he had spelt out ‘you’ it might have made a difference. Sunday descended
into a whole cake of apologies and persuasions. I had a sprinkling of ‘missing you’ texts by midday, dusted with ‘please please call me’s by early evening, and finally, when he had received no response, he dunked the whole day in a thick, fattening sauce of ‘I could leave her …’ That was a message, not a text. It could just be lip service, but it could be real. I hoped that refusing to see him might make a decision easier, but it clearly hasn’t. Mobile phones make it impossible to be alone. I could just turn it off, but it could be an emergency …

Christian reaches out and takes hold of both my hands.

‘Sorry I was such a pig. I just spent all of Sunday and Monday waiting for you to show, and then by last night I was vexed and by this morning I was agitated, and by lunchtime I just felt like you had utterly rejected the pair of us!’

‘Who?’ I ask.

‘Me, and Cagney!’ he says, and mouths ‘sorry’ as I hear ‘Starmaker’ come on in the background.

‘I love this song,’ I say, holding Christian’s hands, smiling.

‘I know, me too.’ I notice his T-shirt reads ‘Happy and Glorious’.

‘Turn around,’ I say, and Christian obliges. On the back it reads ‘God Save This Queen’ in black on deep violet. ‘It’s a good colour for you,’ I say, as Christian turns back to me.

‘Will you dance with me? Just so I know you have really forgiven me for acting like such a child.’

‘Of course,’ I say. I put my bag down by the till, and turn to face Christian to see what kind of crazy dance he wants to do, but instead he pulls me towards him, and I have to stand on my very tiptoes so he can press his head into my neck. He smells wonderful, of citrus and lemon and musk, and he presses his hands into my back as we sway to Doris and Leroy and the one with the cello who couldn’t sing but
was good in
Footloose
. We sway in the middle of his video shop, and occasionally Christian whispers, ‘I’m sorry I was mean,’ and I say, ‘Stop apologising now,’ and we carry on spinning. I close my eyes, and try to pretend this unfamiliar man is Cagney, but I can’t even entertain the thought without feeling sick and giddy, and experiencing a rushing sensation that is completely new. I think I’ll name it fear.

With that, the door shrieks, and we both jump. We break apart as I feel Christian squeeze my hand.

Cagney looks down at his lap, concerned. He has a colossal midday erection. He checks his watch, which used to be his father’s. It is ten past one. An early afternoon erection is no less concerning. And it is atypical.

He is watching Sophia Young prune a wildly overgrown bush. She was potting three geraniums only moments ago. His erection appeared somewhere between the last geranium and the first snip of her secateurs at a huge purple rhododendron. Cagney looks down at his crotch again, and the comical tent pole protruding fiercely out of the black folds of his trousers. Is it the gardening that turns him on? Or the swell of Sophia Young’s small pert breasts in a pink woollen dress? Or the curve of her slim ankles in ballet slippers? Or the wisp of blonde hair that has escaped her gentle ponytail, and is now dancing with the flush on her right cheek, in a light autumn breeze? Or is it merely coincidence, an untimely rush of blood caused by something else altogether? Could his socks be too tight?

Cagney has been watching Sophia Young since twenty past eight this morning, when she left Sheldon’s impressive Barnes pile to power-walk delicately around the village pond,
with two small pink weights in her hands, pumping her slim arms by her sides for extra impetus. There was no visible sign of perspiration at any point. Her face was a milky white wash of calm and elegant ease. It wasn’t so much exercise, more a gentle stroll to get some fresh air, and be polite to the ducks. Cagney admires her all the more for it. It is a nod to exercise at best, but she doesn’t believe it any more than he does. It’s not a Christ Almighty gym membership, red-faced weight lifting in gynaecological Lycra, vein-popping, forehead-dripping, needless dramatic exertion. It isn’t a woman making a spectacle of herself. If a woman is fat, it is simply because she eats too much cake. Stop eating cake, lose weight, and to hell with any other advice. His mother had been tiny all of her life, with a twenty-six-inch waist. If somebody had passed her a dumbbell she would have dusted it and passed it straight back. It reminds Cagney that Gracie, his first wife, had been a keen gardener. Keen on the gardener was actually closer to the truth. If ‘keen on’ constitutes ‘fucking him in the shed’.

Cagney was only twenty-three when he married Gracie, and she was in her indeterminate thirties even then. They had tied the knot after only a four-month courtship, and a three-day engagement. Cagney had called it their ‘whirlwind affair’. They had met, as couples often do, in a phone box. Gracie had been making a call – to whom Cagney still does not know – when he walked past in his squaddie uniform. He had seen her hair, blonde and fresh, that even from a distance promised to smell of goodness and purity and fjords. Her face was obscured by her hair and the phone, but when Cagney turned back to take another look she glanced up, with eyes the blue of his mother’s cornflowers. Cagney had turned on his heel and marched back, tapping on the glass of the booth, with his beret folded beneath his arm.

She pushed the door open, and spoke a simple, ‘Yes?’ In
a beautiful whisper, covering the mouthpiece of the phone, catching him with those eyes, and metaphorically at least, dragging him in.

He was stationed in Colchester, and had been there for six weeks already, serving out his final stretch in the army, having decided that the military was no longer for him. He enjoyed the routine and the order for a while, clinging to it when his mother died, as something to focus on and drag him through his melancholy. But now he had made his peace with the world, promising himself he would finally get out there and live! He was ready to grow his hair, experiment with life, see what the world had to offer him, a twenty-five-year-old man with dreams to first create then chase!

Gracie conceded to thirty-two, and was recently divorced. Very recently. Her decree absolute had arrived only the previous morning. But Cagney was bewitched by those blue eyes, and that hair, and the small of her back and the way it curved in to her pert behind. With his army training Cagney could snap the wrist of any full-grown man he encountered, but Gracie’s wrists were so delicate they would have fallen away beneath the pressure of two of Cagney’s fingers. Something so sweet, so weak, so pale and pure would never do anything that might hurt him in any way. It didn’t even occur to him that she might. They were innocent days.

Admittedly theirs had not been a meeting of minds, but Cagney had fallen desperately in love with her none the less, craved her when she left his side, consumed by his need to be near her, driven sick with jealousy at the thought of another man looking at her, no doubt brushing past her, smelling her honeysuckle hair, tinged with peroxide.

Gracie’s smile at the altar, at the barracks, with two of his platoon as witnesses, had promised so much. But Gracie’s rivers did not run deep. When Cagney confided to his new older bride on their wedding night that he would be able
to leave the army in just four months, and then they could do anything in the world, go anywhere in the world, he was met with a shocked silence.

‘What’s wrong, my love?’ Cagney asked, lying naked beside his wife, stroking the space between her shoulder blades, running a finger down her spine to her perfect arse.

‘Why would you want to leave?’ she asked, incredulous.

Cagney had jumped on to his knees, and hollered, ‘To live a little! To taste life! To be beaten and bruised by experience, but to live! To scream from the top of a tall tree, and run naked into a warm Turkish sea!’ He had laughed out loud, throwing back his head, hammering his chest with his fists in a glorious hysteria.

‘You’re mad, Cagney,’ she said, closing her eyes.

‘Well, you married me, Mrs James!’ Cagney laughed and tried to roll her over to him, for a kiss.

But instead she pulled the covers tight to her chin, closed her eyes, and announced to the pillow, ‘Let’s see how we feel in a year. We might have a baby by then …’

This was the point, lying on his back, facing a cracked ceiling, that Cagney realised he barely knew the woman next to him, and yet he had just bound them together for life. Gracie James, née Janowitz, was a stranger to him. He hadn’t thought to check that they wanted the same things.

The next morning they woke early in each other’s arms, twisted in the night like two stockings in the wash, coming together in spite of themselves. Cagney had tenderly kissed his new wife, and silenced the voice of quiet dread lurking in the back of his head. He rolled Gracie on top of him, and tasted her small pointed breasts, and waited for an erection that didn’t come. His penis sat sadly on his balls, like a guest to a party who received an invitation by mistake, standing alone in the middle of the room, spoiling everybody’s fun. His flaccid penis ruined their night, every night.
Cagney, determined to overlook this temporary setback, attempted to surprise both Gracie and his member into action by grabbing them both simultaneously, one with each hand, on the spur of the moment. It made no difference. Any hint at rigidity was deflated by Gracie’s wide-eyed curiosity.

‘Do you think you’ll be able to get an erection this time, Cagney? Because I’ve just given myself a pedicure, and I don’t want to risk smudging it for nothing …’

Cagney really had felt like nothing that day. A couple more botched attempts over the next weeks had petered out, and by the end of their second month as man and wife, Cagney and Gracie had nothing left to say to each other.

Cagney would venture the occasional, ‘How are you, my darling?’ on his arrival home from work.

‘Fine,’ Gracie would acknowledge, in her annoyingly quiet whispery tone, with a vacant smile that betrayed her utter disinterest. Gracie just wanted to be married. Cagney, in the wrong place, and at the wrong time, had asked the wrong lady. Three months of guilt followed. Cagney felt he had only himself to blame. He hadn’t bothered getting to know his new wife, and now he deserved to live with the consequences. Thankfully for them both, Gracie wanted a baby, and as Cagney’s little soldier was proving so unobliging, and she heard the ticking of her biological clock, she took matters firmly into her own hands. Gracie needed an erect and ejaculating penis, and found it, conveniently, at the bottom of the garden where only the fairies are supposed to live. In this case, at the bottom of Cagney and Gracie’s garden lived Brian, the gardener and handyman for the barracks, in a large brick-built outhouse, which doubled up as a tool shed. Gracie had merely to skip down the garden path to find what she needed.

Cagney had almost named it relief the day he returned
to his house for a surprise lunch – trying so desperately to make an effort with his wife that he plotted out potential topics for discussion during the morning to use during their lunchtime conversation – to see a naked back pressed up against the dirt-smeared shed window. A mass of ice-blonde hair was jumping off creamy white shoulders that he knew to be his wife’s. Gracie had left for her mother’s that evening, and Cagney had left the army the following month. Brian the gardener was happy to be named in the divorce proceedings, and the paperwork had come through by Christmas …

Cagney checks his crotch again to confirm what he already knows – his erection has wilted as if Gracie were sitting next to him in the BMW, smiling politely, naming the world ‘fine’ and anything or anybody with any character ‘mad’.

He watches Sophia Young move elegantly back into the house, pulling off her gardening gloves finger by finger, with a look of quiet concentration on her face. ‘You are a beauty,’ Cagney whispers to himself, at which point his phone rings. Checking the number, he flips it open.

‘Iuan.’

‘Boss!’

‘What?’

‘I thought I might reorganise the files.’

‘No.’

‘I could put them in date order.’

‘They are already in alphabetical order, Iuan.’

‘Ahhh, yes, but you see, boss, if they were in date order –’

‘We’d never be able to find anything?’

‘Not if we also kept a spreadsheet on the computer with an alphabetical listing of the clients matched to their details …’

‘Iuan, shut up. Here are my questions: number one, have you already touched the files? Number two, have you
touched the computer? Number three, has anybody actually called with any business, and number four, if somebody did call, did you take their name and number?’

‘No. No. No. No. But …’

Cagney opens his mouth to interrupt but is instead frozen by a finger tapping elegantly on his driver’s side window. He turns and smiles as politely as he can, flipping the phone shut to Iuan’s muffled protestations. His finger hovers above the button that will automatically lower his window. He jabs at it, and the window hisses open.

‘Can I help you?’ Cagney looks with curiosity at Sophia Young, his face a snapshot of sincerity.

‘I think the more pressing question is, can I help you, sir? Given that you have been watching me all morning. You are not going to deny it, I hope. And before you say a word, or move a muscle, I want to let you know that I have my mobile phone set to 999, I have already texted the number plate of your car to my sister, and given her your full description. If I press this button just once I shall be speaking directly with the police. Not that I believe for a second you are a violent man, but I am warning you none the less. Don’t do anything silly. Now, I assume my husband hired you?’

‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know what you are talking about. I was just parked here –’

‘Oh, please, don’t embarrass us both. You certainly aren’t the first man he has paid to sit and spy on me all day, and you won’t be the last. Now admit it, Sheldon hired you, didn’t he?’

Sophia gracefully lifts a strand of hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ear. Her eyes, this close to Cagney, staring straight at him, are clear and bright, the colour of a plunge pool in the middle of the Alps. She places both hands on her small hips, and eyes him accusingly.

‘Well?’ she says evenly.

‘I’m sorry, miss, I really don’t have a clue what you are talking about. I just pulled over to make some calls, and –’

‘Sheldon is having me watched because he thinks I am having an affair with the handyman, I already know that. It’s not true, of course, but his money makes him paranoid.’

Cagney sums up Sophia evenly. Who is fooling who here? How much does she really know? And what must that hair smell like, clean and fresh, after hours spent in the garden?

Cagney juts out his hand to be shaken. ‘Cagney James,’ he says firmly.

Sophia doesn’t move, ignoring his hand, but says, ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr James?’ before turning and walking back towards her house.

Cagney leaves his car and adopts a fast pace, refusing to jog, but still trying to keep sight of Sophia Young as she marches round the back of the house. He follows, and turning the corner, Cagney finds himself in a vast riot of a courtyard filled with marble and terracotta pots. Shovels lie clumsily on the stone floor or are propped against walls, and half-empty bags of all-purpose compost spill their contents everywhere. Cagney watches where he treads. A farmhouse door stands open and Cagney pokes his head round it into a kitchen the size of his entire flat. It looks sharp and clean and impeccably modern. All surfaces are utterly bare, and two huge glass vases hold magnificent white lilies that fill a room even this big with a heady scent. Sophia Young is nowhere to be seen, but then she appears through a doorway to Cagney’s left. She has discarded her wellies, and is barefoot, and Cagney notices the pale pink splashes of colour on her slim toes. She moves gracefully to the kettle, and fills it with a jug of filtered water retrieved from a double-fronted Smeg fridge.