The gas was, of course, off.
Half an hour later, with condoms and wine bought and placed in bedside table and fridge respectively, Mother was phoned, the table laid, the sauce checked and fresh purple basil scattered through it. At last, Richard can start the final, crucial lap. Preening.
Hands on hips, upper lip sucked in by lower, wardrobe doors thrown open, he peruses his clothes. He touches nothing, just looks and assesses. Navy cotton chinos, brown suede belt, shirt striped thickly in blue and thinly in peppermint, white boxers, navy socks and navy nubuck loafers.
Navy, navy, navy, do you think that’s too conservative? No, Richard, you look wonderful in navy. Anyway, if you want to be pedantic, there’s a subtle but effective difference between the French Navy of your shoes and the true navy of your trousers. If you’re not happy, why not wear the shirt striped with olive and pink?
I’ll go for the olive and pink.
In the tiler’s delight bathroom, Richard showers. It is his routine to take it moderately hot and to finish off with a prolonged blast of freezing cold which, he assures himself, is invigorating and good for the circulation. Old habits die hard and this one stemmed from eight not always easy years at boarding school.
With a towel wrapped effortlessly around his trunk and another draped nonchalantly over his shoulder, Richard gives himself a close shave. To a fly on the wall, or on a majolica tile, the scene has all the features of a classic after-shave advert, bar the transatlantic voice-over drawl proclaiming: ‘L’Homme, one hundred per cent.’ But this is Notting Hill and our Richard, towel now slipping irretrievably, is standing with eyes watering from the healthy smart of his one-hundred-per-cent manly after-shave. A few strange and not desperately appealing physiognomic contortions aid recovery but his towel still lies, somewhat comically, about his feet. No need and no time to rescue it and save his style. There is pressing work to be done involving a comb, an agile wrist and a damp mop of light-magnetic, sand-coloured hair. Comb it this way, then that. Run through a little mousse, comb again then lightly shake through with your fingertips. Result: the perfect, tousled look.
Get dressed, Richard, Sally will arrive in the hour. No, there’s another job; out with the nail clippers and emery board, ensure that fingers and toes are neat and tidy. They are, they always are. Step into your boxers, slip on your trousers, pull on your shirt and slide into your loafers. You’re ready, you’re gorgeous. Now just lounge about, reinstate Mr Mendelssohn where your run so rudely cut him off, relax and await the arrival of Ms Lomax.
Miss Lomax was late back from school. An emergency meeting had been held to determine whether to expel or merely suspend an eleven-year-old boy for smoking in the girls’ toilets. Sally suggested doing neither but making him smoke the entire packet. In front of his friends. However, the boy was suspended and sent home directly, with his packet of cigarettes. After school the teachers gathered to formulate the Monday morning assembly on the evils of smoking. It’s bad for your health, very expensive and not clever at all.
But she’s home now and is perturbed to find that she does not have time for her customary Friday evening bath, her luxuriate. Instead, a quick shower must suffice.
The Lomax legs are shaved and two stray hairs are tweezed from the bridge of her nose. Sally gives her hair an energetic brush and thanks the stars that she’d washed it the previous evening. She swirls a soft brush around a pot of bronze balls of rouge and carelessly but effectively whispers it over her cheeks and eyes. And cleavage, why not! After a quick spritz of Ysatis, she deftly flosses her teeth. Into the bathroom she goes, humming absent-mindedly ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’, that morning’s hymn. It’s black velvet skirt time. She teams it with the olive silk shirt and black suede pumps with just the right height of heel to give her unremarkable legs an elegant send-off. Under it all, her little white cotton broderie anglaise knickers, for good luck.
Sally, you won’t need it.
Before leaving the flat, she stops for a prolonged glance in the mirror and gives herself a slightly bashful smile.
Off you go, you old slapper! Shall I seduce him in between hors d’oeuvres and main course? Or before?
That’s something for you to ponder on the Highgate-Notting Hill drive. Off you go, Sally.
Adjusting the choke, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her skirt, Sally mirrored, signalled and manoeuvred – and then reversed straight back into the space she had just vacated. She unclipped her seatbelt and walked briskly back to her flat. She stopped in the sitting-room and gazed at the telephone which was ringing pleadingly. Beaming an ecstatic smile at it, she marched assertively into the bathroom. Giving her reflection a conniving wink, Sally plucked her toothbrush from the beaker and slipped it into her bag.
SEVEN
As soon as Sally entered Richard’s flat, it was she who was seduced. And not by Richard. It was the smell of cooking: a mellow base of tomato and something she couldn’t put her finger on, laced with top notes of garlic and basil. She realized how ravenous she was. For food. For sex too, but for food first and foremost. She’d passed on the shepherd’s pie offered for lunch that day at school and had had to make do with a floury Cox’s and a rubbery chunk of cheddar.
Sally was surprised that she wasn’t in the least nervous. Richard, however, was. Unseen, and feeling queasy with excitement, he had watched Sally drive up and down the street looking for a parking place. He had gone straight to the kitchen and kept his hands motionless under the cold tap – sweaty palms would not be a turn on and were most unStonehill.
And here they are now, together again less than a week since their first meeting. How do they look to each other? How do they feel? Knowing full well how memory can often play havoc with reality and turn reptiles into royalty, Sally is relieved that Richard is just as good-looking and suave as she remembered. Richard is thrilled, his flat seems instantly infused with energy and light and his palms remain cool and dry. He thinks she looks scrumptious and has to fight back an impulse to scoop her up and twirl her around.
Nonchalant ‘Hi’s were followed with the briefest of pecks on the cheek. Richard led Sally through and lowered the volume of the Brahms. While he fixed her the obligatory drink (‘Spritzer will be lovely, thanks’), she perused his books – just as Richard had at Sally’s. She was amused that many of her dog-eared paperbacks were duplicated in here in pristine hardback. She wondered if he really enjoyed Nietzsche and what his favourite Shakespeare was.
‘Seize her,’ Richard murmured.
‘I like the History Plays too,’ Sally agreed.
Mentally, she catalogued all she saw and it all seemed to add up to the man she thought and hoped Richard was. Tulips in November, how decadent. A gleaming kitchen, ten out of ten. Leather recliner, lose five points. Cream sofa piled high with cushions, five points restored.
‘Can I use your bathroom?’
‘Sure, through there.’
Full marks for hygiene, bonus marks for the thickness of the towels, an overall gold star for taste. She flushed the loo just to make it seem that her trip to the bathroom had been for a purpose other than a snoop. Coming back into the lounge she had a furtive glance into the bedroom – it seemed quiet, airy and muted. Good.
‘Sally, let’s eat.’
For Sally, this meal was to be a
