The painting was coming along. The blocking was complete, the key, the composition, and the shape was pleasing; the sweep of the hip, the depth of one smooth thigh as it curved in against the other, drew the eye to the shadow caused by her dress.
The noise had ceased. The old bell had rung out a beautiful silence broken only by the sounds of tapping on the studio door. The door eased open and Laura glided in. Laura, she glided everywhere. A black streak of cover-girl potential hugged by a tight black skirt. A wide shiny belt bridged her skirt and a loose crimson top. No naked midriff for Laura. Not a hint of that firm, flat landscape with its glittering omphalos. Not that he had any reason to believe that she wore a bellybutton ring but he could fantasize as well as anyone. More to the point, Laura was fashion conscious and mutilation was the fashion. There were none of the flatlands of the Chinese delta about Laura, no paddy fields by gosh, more the lush hills of West Africa, he would say, or some bursting volcano in the Philippines. Somewhere jolly warm, anyway.
Her glossy lips widened into a tropical smile. There was a breathless honesty in Luscious Laura, the black vixen of The British, unusual in women, for there was no threat. No threat at all.
“Mr Lawrence,” she said.
“What is it, Laura?”
“The phone went. You didn't hear it.”
“My hearing isn't what it was. Who was it?”
“Paul, it was. He's gone now.”
“Ah, Paul.”
“He phoned from the hospital. They're keeping him in an extra night for observation and there’s nothing to worry about. He didn't want you to worry.”
“Thank you, Laura. I'll try not to.”
With a flourish she closed the door behind her. The air, still stirred by her breathless words, was touched with Wrigley's Spearmint. Having got used to the idea of Paul's return a slight disappointment drew in with the evening. Even the short walk to The British seemed stale. There was little sense of anticipation. He knew that the feeling would change. A few drinks would change it. In the pet shop window a hamster was going nowhere as it raced a plastic wheel.
In The British Rasher's absence hung heavily. In the early evening the barmaids were even more indifferent as they contemplated their evening shift and the majority of the punters were on their way home, a swift half of courage to get them there. These were not serious drinkers. These people had families and were simply keen on a slight delay, a little pause in the perfunctory day before their perfunctory evening, train-spotters who were merely passing through. He was early. The familiar faces had yet to arrive.
The malevolent day was drawing to its close and alcohol, would speed it on its way.
“Good riddance!” he said and the barmaid in a tight black dress blinked and looked over the bar at him as though he was mad. She was quite right, of course.
Beneath red-flocked wallpaper with its nicotine-stained edges they'd begun with 6 and 7, moved to 23 and 26 and finished with lychee and fresh mango. Two bottles of Wan-King, the house white, proved slightly more satisfying than its promise.
Laura came back from the loo. He noticed the dilation of her pupils and her sudden elation.
Laura giggled, wasted. The Wan-King was lethal; drink enough and you'd go blind, so they said, that's why the Chinese squinted, but that was probably an old Chinese wives’ tale. She let him into a secret. “Paul asked me to look after you. He thought you would be lonely. That's why I made an exception. I normally keep to my regulars. I owe him one for the telly and video he got me. The DVD is coming, on a promise. He's so grateful that you put him up and for the grapes that he wanted to give you something in return. So I agreed to perform a little trick for you, later. I have a whole box of them, Mr Lawrence. A whole box of tricks.”
He lifted an overblown eyebrow. Leaving the tricks aside he knew a thing or two about boxes. Get to his age and, if the memory was up to it and that had a lot to do with diet – plenty of mackerel and walnuts and Heinz Tomato Ketchup – most men could remember the odd performance when they might have excelled. Even so, he was rather crestfallen and stuck out his lower lip. Eventually he said, “So it wasn't a coincidence then, our meeting in The British?”
“Mr Lawrence,” she giggled like a teenager contemplating her first blow job. “Grown-ups don't believe in coincidence, do they? Come on. Swallow these and lighten up. You're much too dark.”
Still downhearted Mr Lawrence said, “And what are these?” “A bit of Adam, to use an old-fashioned term, that's all. Down them with your wine.”
“All of them?”
“Go on, be an old devil.”
“Well, perhaps this once, and only because it's been such a dreadful day. I'm not a druggie, you know? I’m not one of your long-haired surfers from Newquay.”
“Come on, Mr Lawrence, take me home. Let me tuck you in and blow out your candle.”
“I have electricity. It’s back on, no thanks to my lodger.”
“Yes, he told me about that.”
“How about a cup of coffee and a brandy and we'll leave it like that?”
“As you like. It's all paid for anyway.”
“Where does Paul get his money?”
“Who knows? Why do some birds hop and some birds walk? Why do some birds come and some birds can't? Who knows? But I have enjoyed talking to you. Maybe, one day, you could teach me to paint. I would love that. There is something about watching an artist work, you know, painting, that's really like, a turn on. I don't know. Understand?” Perplexity pulled down his hairline. He said, “No. Not a word of it. It sounds like balderdash. But it doesn't matter. One day, Laura, I will teach you to paint. But you have too much living to do first.” As though she hadn't heard him she continued, “It's like, creating. That’s it. Going after perfection. You should paint me, Mr Lawrence for I'm as close to perfection as you can get.”
“I know that, Laura. My goodness, I can see that. But you're the wrong colour. Only the members of the Caucasian race can be perfect
– pale white-skinned people. People like me. God made us in his own image and he was white, wasn't he? Sunday school teachers don’t tell lies. Whiter than white with flowing blond curls and a perfectly trimmed beard. And his only forgotten – begotten – son, was even whiter, even after forty days in the wilderness. And no matter how I look at you, and in what light, you’re not white and you certainly don't have a beard.”
“Oh, Mr Lawrence, you've been looking in the wrong place.” He chuckled. “I've no answer to that.”
“You might have later, if you play your cards right.”
“That's the problem. I've never been a card player.”
“Well, there you are then. They say unlucky at cards lucky in love.” He was pleasantly drunk and so was Luscious Laura. Her eyes were black and intense.
“I have another confession to make,” she said coyly. The pretence made her even more delicious.
“What was your first? Remind me?”
“Paul, for goodness sake. That we didn't meet by accident.” “Oh yes, all these confessions. I feel like a priest.”
“Those pills, they wasn't all disco biscuits. It was Paul's idea. He said you'd need them.”
“What have I been fed, exactly?”
She blew out her cheeks and eventually admitted, “Two were adams, and they'll get you all loved-up, but the other two were Viagra, Mr Lawrence, and they'll keep you up all night.”
“I'll probably have a heart attack. I can feel something throbbing even as we talk. You’ve deceived me, Laura, and I should be angry but I’m not.”
Everything was outrageously funny: the total on the bill presented by a puzzled waiter, the look on a flattened duck's face in the window and the sign hanging on the huge brick Pentecostal walls opposite, the one frequented by Mrs Puzey and her brood, which read CHRISTIANS, SING
OUT WITH EXULTATION.
Even the sting of the night air could not dent their gaiety and it came as a surprise when he suddenly said, “I hate Christmas.” But the twinkle in his eye gave him away. “It reminds me most of chocolates in bright sparkling wrappers and the orange and strawberry creams that are always left in the tin?”