‘Oh shit, I mean... hello.’
She laughed.
Like I said, I liked this girl and on impulse I asked, ‘Want to join me for a spot o’ nosh?’
‘Could I?’
‘Course you could.’
The café specialises in lethal carbohydrates. The do-you-in grub.
Lovely.
Half of the clientele said:
‘Hello, Tone.’
‘Tone.’
‘Yo, Tone.’
They knew me.
The other half were sorry they did and said nowt. We sat by the window, she said, ‘Me ankles are freezing.’
‘You don’t have socks.’
‘I thought it would be warm.’
The owner came over, said, ‘Usual, Tone?’
‘Yeah. Crystal, wotcha want?’
‘Oh just a tea.’
‘Go on, have a feed.’
‘Do you think I could?’
I said to the guy, ‘Two of the usual, bread and butter, large teas.’
Then I said to Crystal, ‘Hang on here a sec...’
And I took off... got to the corner and yeah, the little market was there... made my purchase and got back, as the food arrived.
Talking big fry-ups...
...Sausages, two eggs, tomatoes, fried bread, bacon, hint of mushroom.
‘Jesus,’ she said.
‘Tuck in, girl.’
We did.
She took a sip of tea, said, ‘Hot as Protestants.’
‘Aren’t they supposed to be cold?’
‘Not on a Saturday night, not on the Ormeau Road.’
I didn’t quite follow the logic, but decided not to ask. I was afraid she’d explain. She buttered some bread, popped a wedge of sausage in there, ate heartily. Grease leaked down her chin but she didn’t mind.
Me neither.
Between bites she said, ‘It’s like being a kid again.’
I enjoyed eating but mebbe more, I relished watching her eat. Without any self consciousness or dainty moves, she got to the grub in the shortest, least fussy way. She ate with and for pleasure. How often do you see that? I eat like a convict. With total alertness, aware of all around me.
When she was finished, she let a loud belch, then giggled, putting her hand to her mouth, went, ‘Oops!’
‘Same again.’
She laughed out loud. The best sound in the whole world. She sounded like Dyan Cannon:
earthy
alive
passionate.
I reached into my pocket, took out my purchase, handed it across, said, ‘For you.’
Her face was alight with joy.
‘But... how...? why...? Oh, when you just went out. Can I open it now?’
‘I insist.’
Two pairs of socks tumbled out, pink and red. Mickey Mouse on one set, Minnie on the other.
She leant ever and kissed me, exclaimed, ‘You lovely man, can I wear them now?’
‘Absolutely.’
She did, then presented her leg for inspection. Minnie smiled at me.
I said, ‘Class Act.’
Then her face clouded — she’d have been a lousy poker-player — asked, ‘Can I talk to you about Danny?’
‘Erm... okay.’
‘We’ve been together a long time, people would probably say we’re co-dependant.’
Jeez, I thought, Everyone’s therapy-literate. If you couldn’t label it, it didn’t exist.
I said, ‘When I was young, we called it a good marriage... nor did we know anorexia, that we called poverty.’
She laughed, if not convincingly, said:
‘And I love him. I’d die if anything happened. I know he’s on some job with you and with Reed. I have such a bad feeling.’
‘No need, nothing to worry about.’
‘Will you mind him?’
‘Crystal, he’s a big boy, he doesn’t need minding.’
‘For me... please... without him knowing?’
‘Okay.’
‘Promise me.’
‘Okay... I promise... on Mickey and Minnie’s head... how would that be?’
‘Thank you. I feel relieved now.’
Get me, eh? Giving my word out like a drunken sailor, with about as much control of consequence.
We stood outside the caff and she touched my cheek with her finger, like Barbara Streisand in The Way We Were.
She said:
‘I don’t know why Danny doesn’t like you.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘He’s so intolerant, he used to love Steve McQueen.’
‘I’m sorry, did I miss something?’
‘You know the rumours about him... with the motorbikes ’n’ all.’
I laughed, said:
‘Jeez, the bikes! Give you away every time.’
She didn’t get it, so went back to the beginning. I wish I could.
She said, ‘I like you.’
And off she went. I watched her down the Brixton Road. The flash of pink as she moved and said, ‘Great walking.’
Bemused, I stepped into the road and WALLOP! a courier cyclist piled into me. It felt like a bad voltage of ECT.
All the crap they mouth about suddenly being struck by love, they might have a point. As I sat upright, the cyclist bent down, all concern.
‘You okay, buddy?’
Saw these light lycra shorts and a scrotum that Nick Nolte would kill for... Met a pair of brown gentle eyes that mule-kicked my heart. He helped me up and I gauged him... about twenty-five... with Hugh Grant hair and the lean, sinewy body of a natural athlete. This guy would exercise cos he liked it. I said:
‘I think I love you.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing... I’m okay... you okay?’
‘Yeah... but the bike...’
We looked at it, the front wheel, buckled.
I said, ‘Fucked is what it is.’
And he laughed. Jeez, what a morning! Apart from Jack, I was Mr Congeniality to the world. That and heavily bruised. My 501s were ripped and I could feel the beginning of a massive pain down my left side. He touched my shoulder and I know that touches can be deceptive. They can mean all or nothing.
He said, ‘Can I do anything for you...?’ The eyes locked on mine.
‘Yeah, give me your telephone number.’
As he wrote it down, I added, ‘Jill Clayburgh said in Silver Streak, I give good phone.’
He handed me the slip of paper, our fingers touched. Sing the body electric... Oh Dios Mio. Beyond chemistry, a red hot blend of splendour. I looked at the name...
Jeff.
Said, ‘Well, Jeff, glad you ran into me.’
He lugged the bike on to his shoulder, said, ‘I hope you’ll be all right.’
‘Jeff, I am fuckin A.’
As I limped off, I sure felt it.
Sometimes the movies seem more real than reality. Would it were so. They definitely have the better lines and can soft focus the best moments. Most things, I relate to them; whatever happens, I can pick a parallel scene to emphasise if not downright embellish the reality.
Could I but write the script and slot in a happy ending.
Yeah, I’d like that.
I watch a huge range, from Sebastien to Devil in a Blue Dress. I draw the line at Peter Greenaway, I’m a buff, not a masochist.
14
Reed said, ‘Maan, I got de blues.’
Well, I was edging the jackpot, nobody was going to rain on my parade.
I said breezily, ‘What’s going down?’
‘I dun spoke to Leon, he shoutin’ bout dee vengeance of de Lord.’
‘Ah, he’s pissing in the wind. Just remember, it’s got Jimmy’s Autos on the reverse. How much did you ask for?’
‘Fifty large.’
‘Sweet.’
‘How we gonna collect, tell me dat, bro’?’
‘We’ll have him deliver.’
‘I gots me a bad feelin’, bro’.’