toxic, man. And the travel doesn’t suit me. You see, I have a lady in my life!’ Eyes twinkling, he dug out his wallet, and handed Hughie a couple of photos. They were of an exquisite little girl, maybe four or five years old with light skin, a mop of curly dark hair and a pair of startling pale blue eyes.
‘She’s beautiful. What’s her name?’
‘Ella,’ Jez said proudly. ‘Her mother’s Danish.’
Hughie passed the photos back. ‘You’re married?’
Jez’s face clouded. ‘Nah. She left me. Heidi was a model too. The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. We met in Milan one season; we kept working the same designers. By the end of the week, that was it; I knew she was the one. But, well,’ Jez stared at the ground, ‘the truth was, I had a habit.’
‘Oh, I see. Drugs?’ Hughie asked softly.
Jez shook his head. ‘Nah. I knit.’
‘Pardon me?’
Jez narrowed his eyes. ‘I like to knit, man. OK?’
‘Sure.’ Jez was a big guy. And fit. Not a man to be arguing with.
Jez looked across. ‘You want to make something of it?’
‘No. Not at all. Very noble sport. Well, not a sport, is it? Hobby.’
‘Actually,’ Jez straightened, ‘it’s a craft. A highly skilled craft at that.’
‘I have no doubt.’ Hughie crossed his legs. ‘So, what are we talking about? Scarves, jumpers, the odd woolly hat?’
‘You’re doing it!’ Jez pointed a finger in Hughie’s face. ‘Don’t think I can’t tell that you’re doing it!’
‘What? I’m not doing anything!’
‘You’re trying to wind me up, man! I can tell!’
‘Honestly!’ Hughie held up his hands. ‘I’m curious, that’s all! I mean, it’s true – not many men knit. Not many women under the age of fifty-five knit, if we’re honest. But so what? Am I going to judge? Never! As a matter of fact, I’m willing to defend your right to knit. And I’d like to know exactly what it is that you get up to.’
‘For real?’
‘Absolutely.’
Jez considered. ‘OK. Well, take this one,’ he bent down, removing a piece he was working on from his bag. He passed it across. ‘It’s for Ella.’
It was a small pale blue cardigan, with the most intricate design of tiny dancing ballerinas along the hem, made from the softest stuff Hughie had ever touched.
‘My God!’ Hughie sat up. ‘That’s amazing!’
Jez smiled shyly. ‘You’re just saying that!’
‘No, I’m serious! How do you make them so small?’
‘The needles, man. They’re a nightmare.’
‘And these little dancers!’
‘Yeah, yeah! Like, look at that one,’ he leant forward, ‘she’s just about to jump, then she’s jumping, now she’s landed.’
‘Amazing!’
‘Ella’s really into ballet.’
‘And you made this by yourself?’
‘Yeah. My own design too. I’ve been doing it for years. Being a model there’s a lot of waiting backstage or on sets – make-up, hair, whatever. Some people do crosswords, sit on the phone. It’s not like you can eat, right? And all the models are sixteen, seventeen, there’s nothing to talk about. Then one day I met this make-up girl and she had this scarf she was working on and I thought, hey, I could do that. So I made her show me how. And I got hooked. I mean, you end up with something, you know? It’s real. It lasts.’
‘Absolutely. Jez, I’m impressed!’
‘You like that? Here,’ he pulled out a thick black portfolio. ‘Have a look at these! I’m thinking of launching my own label.’
Hughie flipped through page after page of Jez’s knitwear designs – a daring range, quite a bit of it photographed on Ella, who’d obviously inherited her parents’ ability to strike a pose.
‘My God! Put a bit of wool in your hands and it’s clear you have something to say!’ He passed it back. ‘Seems a bit rough though, Heidi walking out.’
‘Some people have to be the centre of attention. Beautiful women are often like that. They’re used to being looked at and if you’re not staring at them, they don’t feel like they exist.’ He smiled sadly at Hughie. ‘If it wasn’t the knitting, it would’ve been something else.’
Hughie tried to think of something profound to say.
Nothing came.
‘After she left, I couldn’t stand modelling. And I didn’t want to leave Ella. Then I got drafted by Valentine one day, waiting at a bus stop. This work suits me.’ Jez rubbed his eyes. ‘Anyway, keeps me busy. I mean, I couldn’t survive another relationship. All those feelings, man!’
The assistant brought their purchases. Jez stretched out his long legs and stood up.
‘Come on, kid,’ he patted Hughie on the back. ‘I didn’t mean to bring you down. I’ve got my Ella. And that’s all that matters. Now, you need a haircut. And then it’s on to Nick’s Smell Shop for some scent.’
‘Nick’s what?’
‘Smell Shop. Now, don’t get all arsey! Nick the Nose is the best in the business. You’ll see.’
As they headed towards Trumper’s for a haircut, Hughie looked across at Jez.
He had the profile of an Adonis, the body of an athlete, and the hobby of an eighty-seven-year-old woman.
The light changed. Jez strode on ahead.
But by gum, the man could knit!
Nick the Nose ran a flower shop in Islington Passage. His real name was Nicolai Verbronsky. From Warsaw, Poland, Nick was about five foot six, in his early sixties. He had a weakness for the classic shell suit, rustling around the narrow space like a plastic shopping bag caught in the wind. In today’s ensemble of silver and metallic green, with his shock of red hair, he looked like an elderly evil nemesis to some second-rate comic-book hero. And true to Jez’s word, there was a sign above that read, ‘Nick’s Smell Shop.’
Nick only sold flowers with scent. Banks of roses, buckets of freesias, baskets crammed with hyacinths, tuberose, verbena and lavender;
