So, my worst fears have been realized.
‘I should send you a copy of the prospectus. I bet you know lots of people who’d love to get in on the ground floor of something like this — hey,’ his voice becomes loud and sharp, ‘if that paper clip gets stuck there, I’m not pulling it out. Sorry, Claude, where were we? You were interested in having a look at the prospectus?’
‘No, I am simply returning your call,’ I say, although now I wish I hadn’t.
‘Oh, right. Well, listen here, I’ve been pretty swamped with Hotwaitress the last few days, but I did find time to speak to your waitress friend this morning, and that whole mix-up the last time, that’s all been squared away.’
‘Squared away?’ I stop right there on the street; I feel a surge of omnidirectional gratitude, like a patient being given the all-clear. ‘How did you manage that?’
He laughs. ‘That’s my job, right? Think of it as an editorial intervention.’
‘But what did you say to her?’
‘It’s not important what I said. The point is, if you want to try again with her, you can do it with a clean slate.’
‘That is very good news,’ I say — and yet a sliver of doubt keeps niggling away at me. ‘Although a clean slate — you cannot simply erase her memory …’
‘I explained it to her, that’s all. I went in and casually brought you up and asked if she’d noticed you acting oddly lately. Then I told her you’d just been diagnosed as bipolar.’
I stop again, this time without the all-consuming sense of well-being. ‘Bipolar?’
‘Yeah, when you think about it it’s really the only explanation that makes sense.’
‘But … but …’ For a moment I can do little more than splutter. ‘But the whole point was to stop me from looking like a madman,’ I manage at last. ‘How can you call it a blank slate, if she thinks I am some kind of lunatic?’
‘I said you were bipolar, not that you were a lunatic. Everybody’s bipolar these days. It’s practically à la mode! At the very least, it’s not contagious. Or wait — is it contagious?’
This seems to me the exact opposite of a clean slate.
‘I’m telling you, Ariadne’s fine about it. And from a narrative point of view, it’s strong. Gives you a bit of edge, you know? So now we can move on to the next chapter. I’ve had a few ideas for what we might do …’
Can it hurt to hear what he has to say? ‘Go on.’
‘This time, instead of creating a whole new persona, I think we should work with what’s there. Find out your good points and build on them. Now, the fact is that most of the qualities women look for in a man are ones you don’t have. Are you tall? No. Are you handsome? I might not be the best judge, but I would have to say no. Are you brave? That would be a tough sell, given that the last time Ariadne saw you, you were fleeing in terror. But you do have one thing that sets you apart: wealth.’
‘I told you before, Ariadne isn’t impressed by money,’ I say, with a certain amount of frustration. If she was, why would I need you?’
‘I’m not saying you should go in there in a fur coat and stuff a fifty down her cleavage. But nobody’s immune from money. It’s a matter of how you present it.’
‘Present it?’ I say, simultaneously suspicious and intrigued.
‘Wealth means money, and money means power, and power means transforming one situation into another situation. And waitresses, I’ve learned from my extensive research, are all waiting to be transformed. This one wants to be an actor, this one wants to be a dancer, this one wants to be a children’s book illustrator. While you’re sitting there eating your cheesecake and fantasizing about her, she’s dreaming of the day someone gives her her big break.’
‘Modern life is being somewhere else,’ I remember.
‘Exactly. Being a waitress is all about not being a waitress. Ariadne’s a perfect example. She wants to paint, but she spends her days kowtowing to people who’d burn down the Louvre if they thought there was a buck in it. She’s crying out for someone to recognize her talent and set her free. That’s where you and your money come in. Suddenly you’re not a grasping, malevolent banker any more. You’re a sensitive, art-loving, bipolar-but-not-overly-so Frenchman who wants to be her benefactor.’
‘Her benefactor,’ I repeat, trying out the word. ‘How would I become her benefactor?’
‘Well, how about you tell her you’re thinking of opening a gallery? A gallery devoted to feminist art. You want to exhibit her, in the meantime you’re going to bankroll her painting. She can’t believe her ears! It’s what she’s been dreaming about all this time — the regular customer who reveals himself to be the guy with the magic wand. So she goes and paints, and for a while you stay in the shadows, being munificent and mysterious. But then at last you arrange to meet her, and you confess that being around her amazing paintings has made you realize you’ve got all these other, deeper feelings for her. Which is practically true! You’re just tweaking the chronology a little bit.’
‘It sounds like I am paying her to love me,’ I say, flipping my ID at the Transaction House security guard.
‘What are you talking about? It’s a classic love story. Two people from different walks of life, who realize they each hold the key to the other’s dream. It’s straight out of Hollywood.’
‘But if your idea is that she will love me only because she feels obligated …’
‘Grateful, Claude. Grateful. What’s wrong with that? In many ways it’s like a traditional marriage. You protect her financially. She rewards you with love. Everybody wins.’
I decide I can work on the moral mechanics later. The truth is that I am quite taken by his art-gallery idea. But how would it work?
‘Don’t worry about those details for now. That’s all Act Two stuff. Just buy her a few dinners, show her your chequebook, make encouraging noises. See how it goes.’
‘Hold the lift!’ A tanned arm thrusts itself between the closing doors, followed by a patent-leather pump with a charm bracelet dangling over it. ‘Hey Claude! Oh, you’re on the phone, sorry.’ Slowly but inevitably I feel myself turning bright pink, as though Ish has caught me engaged in some crime.
‘Well,’ I say to Paul. ‘That is most satisfactory. I will proceed as instructed, and revert to you —’
‘One more thing,’ Paul cuts in. ‘She’s going away.’
‘Ariadne?’ I blurt; and then, more quietly, ‘For how long?’
‘She told me she’s going back to Greece for a fortnight. She’s leaving tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ I blurt again. Beside me, Ish is examining her phone in the way one does when one is pretending not to be listening in.
‘Yeah. So, look, I said you might call in, just to put the whole you-being-mad thing to bed once and for all. But it’d need to be — actually, I suppose it’d have to be this afternoon.’
‘How can I see her this afternoon?’ I demand, feeling Ish’s eyes flick on to me and back again and experiencing a wave of irrational fury.
‘I don’t know, call in for a muffin or something. You don’t have to bring the benefacting up yet. Or you could just advert to it.’
‘Advert to it?’
‘Yeah, you know, mention it in passing.’
‘While I am explaining to her that I am bipolar, but in a good way.’
‘Yeah, exactly.’
I end the call. The lift eases to a halt and the doors glide open.
‘I didn’t know you were bipolar,’ Ish says as we step out.
‘I’m not.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it, Claude. My Uncle Nick’s bipolar. For a while there he was convinced he was a koala bear. Used to hang off the satellite dish all day, thought it was a eucalyptus.’