style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Someone new is appearing?’
‘Yes.’
He gazes down at the sofa. ‘Is Elizabeth Taylor?’
‘No.’
‘Is Jean Harlow?’
‘No.’
‘Is Ava Gardner?’
‘No.’ I lower my voice, though I couldn’t really tell you why. ‘It was … Grace Kelly.’
Just for a moment, Bogdan looks impressed. ‘I am loving her.’
‘Right, well …’
‘Seriously. Am being in love with her. She is my … how are you saying? Perfect woman.’
I glance at his Harry Styles Is Cute T-shirt. ‘Er … are you quite sure you have a perfect woman?’
‘There is no need for the being snarky. Am I ever asking you the personal questions about your specific sexual persuasions?’
‘Well, OK, no, you don’t ask me questions about my sexual persuasion, as such, Bogdan, no. But you’ve never exactly been shy about digging for details on my sex life with Dillon.’
My ex-boyfriend Dillon is – along with Harry Styles, Harry Styles’s ‘boyfriend’ and now, apparently, Grace Kelly – another person Bogdan has a heartfelt crush on.
‘Am falling in love with her,’ he goes on, lyrically, ‘from the moment am first seeing her in Mogambo. Was even trying to be growing moustache like Clark Gable, but is difficult as was only eleven at time.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought growing a Clark Gable moustache was difficult at age eleven. I’d have thought it was impossible.’
‘No, no. For me, this is perfectly possible. Is simply difficult as world is not ready for eleven-year-old boy with Clark Gable moustache. Am being on receiving end of the terrible mocking in streets of Chis¸ina˘u. Perhaps would have been different in London.’
‘I highly doubt that, to be honest with you.’
‘But Grace Kelly …’ Bogdan heaves a sigh. ‘Has ever there been such classical beauty? And such style! When am thinking of her in that wedding dress, am feeling—’
‘Yes, well, that wedding dress is what she popped up in last night,’ I say, hastily, before Bogdan can go any further down the route of the way Grace Kelly in her wedding dress makes him feel. ‘Right here on the Chesterfield.’
‘Right here?’ Bogdan murmurs, sitting down on the sofa and caressing, with one of his huge hands, the cushion beside him. ‘This is very exciting news, Libby. Very exciting indeed.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is exciting, kind of … I mean, she was a little bit bossy, to be honest with you. And she’s adamant that she’s the real one and I’m just popping up in a dream. As the manifestation of her subconscious.’
‘Is honour indeed,’ Bogdan says, ‘to be subconscious of Grace Kelly.’
‘Bogdan! I’m not her subconscious! Obviously.’
‘Of course. Am forgetting.’
‘And I don’t even know if she’s going to come back again, because she accidentally saw a magazine cover with her son on it and – well, I don’t know why, exactly – that made her vanish in a puff of smoke …’
‘Ah,’ says Bogdan, wisely. ‘This is very interesting Chicken McNugget of information.’
‘So, do you agree with me that we ought to try to find out a bit more? I wanted to ask you about that aunt you told me about the last time.’
‘Aunt?’
‘You told me once that you had an aunt who’s some sort of … I don’t know … mystic, or something.’ I feel foolish, to be honest, even saying the word. ‘And that she’s experienced this kind of thing before.’
‘The enchantment of the soft furnishings?’
OK, now I feel even more foolish.
‘Yes, Bogdan, the enchantment of the soft furnishings,’ I say, glad that it’s only me and him (and, possibly, the faint stirrings of Grace Kelly) in the room right now.
‘Ah, you are speaking of my Aunt Vanya. The sister of my father’s cousin’s second wife.’
This doesn’t sound much like an aunt to me, but I’m absolutely not about to get into a discussion of Moldovan cultural practices with Bogdan.
‘I was wondering if you could call her – this Aunt Vanya – and ask if she’d mind having a chat to me about it. Through you, obviously, so you can … er … translate.’
‘There is no need for making the call.’
‘Oh, OK, well, Skype, or something, then. I mean, whatever’s easiest, what with her being in Moldova.’
‘But Aunt Vanya is not living in Moldova. She is living in London. She is married to leading member of Haringey Council.’
‘Oh! That’s … I didn’t expect that.’ I’m really curious now. ‘And her husband – the Haringey Council man – he doesn’t mind that she’s a … a mystic? With a specialist knowledge of enchanted furniture?’
Bogdan shrugs. ‘He is man of world. Besides, he is experiencing some pretty strange things himself, in the cut-throat world of the politics of Haringey.’
‘Right. Well, I’d really appreciate it, Bogdan, if you could let me meet her some time soon?’
‘Will be getting in touch with her,’ he says, in a mysterious tone that makes me wonder if he’s planning to contact her by smoke signal, or Ouija board, or something, and then leaves me surprised when he simply pulls out his mobile phone. ‘The text message is probably the safest way. Last time I am speaking to her she is convinced her phone is being monitored by husband’s greatest rival, head of North London Waste Authority.’
‘OK, well, I’ll just nip up the road and get some milk for our tea, and maybe you could start taking a look at the flat-pack stuff while I’m gone?’
‘Yes, can be doing this. And after, we can be taking serious look at your hair.’
‘I’m fine with my hair, Bogdan.’
‘This is what is worrying me,’ he sighs. ‘Am sympathizing, Libby, that you are losing your soulmate. But this is no reason to be letting self go.’
‘I haven’t let myself go!’
‘Is important to be looking good for yourself, Libby, not just for man.’
‘I don’t have a man!’
He arches an eyebrow. ‘And you are never wondering
