She didn’t hear me set down my cup and saucer. She didn’t hear my footfalls. She didn’t hear the door. She just sobbed. And now I’m clear, I’m in the street and I’m walking with confident strides towards his flat. Nothing can touch me now. I’ve survived the cab ride with George — that’s good karma, good magic. It means that I’ll make it back to him and his heartfelt, contrite embrace.
Sometimes — I remember as a child remembers Christmas — we used to drink a bottle of champagne together. Drink half the bottle and then make love, then drink the other half and make love again. It was one of the rituals I remember from the beginning of our relationship, from the springtime of our love. And as I pace on up the hill, more recollections hustle alongside. Funny how when a relationship is starting up you always praise the qualities of your lover to any third party there is to hand, saying, ‘Oh yes, he’s absolutely brilliant at X, Y and Z. . ‘ and sad how that tendency dies so quickly. Dies at about the same time that disrobing in front of one another ceases to be embarrassing. . and perhaps for that reason ceases to be quite so sexy.
Surely it doesn’t have to be this way? Stretching up the hill ahead of me, I begin to see all of my future relationships, bearing me on and up like some escalator of the fleshly. Each step is a man, a man who will penetrate me with his penis and his language, a man who will make a little private place with me, secure from the world, for a month, or a week, or a couple of years.
How much more lonely and driven is the serial monogamist than the serial killer? I won’t be the same person when I come to lie with that man there, the one with the ginger fuzz on his white stomach; or that one further up there — almost level with the junction of Barnsbury Road — the one with the round head and skull cap of thick, black hair. I’ll be his ‘little rabbit’, or his ‘baby-doll’, or his ‘sex goddess’, but I won’t be me. I can only be me. . with him.
Maybe it isn’t too late? Maybe we can recapture some of what we once had.
I’m passing an off-licence. It’s on the point of closing — I can see a man in a cardigan doing something with some crates towards the back of the shop. I’ll get some champagne. I’ll turn up at his flat with the bottle of champagne, and we’ll do it like we did it before.
I push open the door and venture inside. The atmosphere of the place is acridly reminiscent of George’s minicab office. I cast an eye along the shelves — they are pitifully stocked, just a few cans of lager and some bottles of cheap wine. There’s a cooler in the corner, but all I can see behind the misted glass are a couple of isolated bottles of Asti spumante. It doesn’t look like they’ll have any champagne in this place. It doesn’t look like my magic is going to hold up. I feel the tears welling up in me again, welling up as the offie proprietor treads wearily back along the lino.
‘Yes, can I help you?’
‘I. . oh, well, I. . oh, really. . it doesn’t matter. . ’
‘Ay-up, love, are you all right?’
‘Yes. . I’m sorry. . it's Just. . ‘
He’s a kindly, round ball of a little man, with an implausibly straight toothbrush moustache. Impossible to imagine him as a threat. I’m crying as much with relief — that the offie proprietor is not some cro-magnon — as I am from knowing that I can’t get the champagne now, and that things will be over between me and him.
The offie proprietor has pulled a handkerchief out of his cardigan pocket, but it’s obviously not suitable, so he shoves it back in and picking up a handi-pack of tissues from the rack on the counter, he tears it open and hands one to me, saying, ‘Now there you go, love, give your nose a good blow like, and you’ll feel better.’
‘Thanks.’ I mop myself up for what seems like the nth time today. Who would have thought the old girl had so much salt in her?
‘Now, how can I help you?’
‘Oh, well. . I don’t suppose you have a bottle of champagne?’ It sounds stupid, saying that rich word in this zone of poor business opportunity.
‘Champagne? I don’t get much of a call for that round here.’ His voice is still kindly, he isn’t offended. ‘My customers tend to prefer their wine fortified — if you know what I mean. Still, I remember I did have a bottle out in the store room a while back. I’ll go and see if it’s still there.’
He turns and heads off down the lino again. I stand and look out at the dark street and the swishing cars and the shuddering lorries. He’s gone for quite a while. He must trust me — I think to myself. He’s left me here in the shop with the till and all the booze on the shelves. How ironic that I should find trust here, in this slightest of contexts, and find so little of it in my intimate relationships.
Then I hear footsteps coming from up above, and I am conscious of earnest voices:
‘Haven’t you shut up the shop yet?’
‘I’m just doing it, my love. There’s a young woman down there wanting a bottle of champagne, I just came up to get it.’
‘Champagne! Pshaw! What the bloody hell does she want it for at this time of night?’
‘I dunno. Probably to drink with her boyfriend.’
‘Well, you take her bottle of champagne down to her and then get yourself back up here. I’m not finished talking to you yet.’
‘Yes, my love.’
When he comes back in I do my best to look as if I haven’t overheard anything. He puts the bi-focals that hang from the cord round his neck on to his nose and scrutinises the label on the bottle: ‘Chambertin demi-sec. Looks all right to me — good stuff as I recall.’
‘It looks fine to me.’
‘Good,’ he smiles — a nice smile. ‘I’ll wrap it up for you. . Oh, hang on a minute, there’s no price on it, I’ll have to go and check the stock list.’
‘Brian!’ This comes from upstairs, a great bellow full of imperiousness.
‘Just a minute, my love.’ He tilts his head back and calls up to the ceiling, as if addressing some vengeful goddess, hidden behind the tire-resistant tiles.
‘Now, Brian!’ He gives me a pained smile, takes off his bi-focals and rubs his eyes redder.
‘It’s my wife,’ he says in a stage whisper, ‘she’s a bit poorly. I’ll check on her quickly and get that price for you. I shan’t be a moment.’
He’s gone again. More footsteps, and then Brian’s wife says, ‘I’m not going to wait all night to tell you this, Brian, I’m going to bloody well tell you now — ‘
‘But I’ve a customer — ‘
‘I couldn’t give a monkey’s. I couldn’t care less about your bloody customer. I’ve had it with you, Brian — you make me sick with your stupid little cardigan and your glasses. You’re like some fucking relic — ‘
‘Can’t this wait a minute — ‘
‘No, it bloody can’t. I want you out of here, Brian. It’s my lease and my fucking business. You can sleep in the spare room tonight, but I want you out of here in the morning.’
‘We’ve discussed this before — ‘
‘I know we have. But now I’ve made my decision.’
I take the crumpled bills from my purse. Twenty quid has to be enough for the bottle of Chambertin. I wrap it in a piece of paper and write on it ‘Thanks for the champagne’. Then I pick up the bottle and leave the shop as quietly as I can. They’re still at it upstairs: her voice big and angry; his, small and placatory.
I can see the light in the bedroom when I’m still two hundred yards away from the house. It’s the Anglepoise on the windowsill. He’s put it on so that it will appear like a beacon, drawing me back into his arms.