Sally (4 page)

‘Oh, shut it. Let me have my hopes and fantasies. It's all right for you, with your mortgage and your steady Steve and your … oh my God, he's coming! Oh my Gordon Flipping Bennett. Keep cool and sophis, San. Hello, Mr Stonehill!'

‘Good morning, Sandra. Morning Mary.'

Morning, morning. Mourning.

Sandra's gaze followed him down the corridor. Mary watched her closely. Smitten. Sandra absorbed every detail, storing it for later, for the arduous journey that she would make, always made, seatless and depressed, back to High Barnet.

I love that navy suit, I love the way he walks. His hair lifts slightly with each stride, the trousers outline his calf muscles with every step. Why was he late? How can I find out? Please, please, please not a woman in his life. Pretty please a gas leak or something. One day, me, please. One day, me. Or, for one day, me. All I ask.

0181 348 6523. No answer. Of course not, Sally's at school. But does she have an answering machine? Richard wonders, hanging on. Obviously not. But does she go home for lunch? he wonders two hours later as he re-dials. Obviously not. Does school end at 3.30 nowadays? No, apparently it does not.

Richard has done little work. As the working day nears a close, his drawing board remains irritatingly bare. He just could not seem to settle down to concentrate on the plan for the quasi-Georgian building commissioned by the Americans. Instead, he doodles and a Play School house stares back, with a chimney, a door, and windows; one, two, three, four. You never know the Americans, they might like it. He twirls around in his swivel chair; his jacket is off, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow revealing beautifully tanned forearms brushed with a down of flaxen hairs. He clasps his hands behind his head and places his left foot on his right knee. Fine ankles can be discerned beneath Ralph Lauren socks. Out of the window he sees the river, a pleasure boat, captivated tourists on board, the guide changing her microphone from hand to hand as she points to the left, to the right. On the opposite bank, a crane performs its slow-motion task. Up river, Waterloo Bridge straddles south and north banks. Matisse is showing at the Hayward Gallery, he read the review in yesterday's paper. Maybe Sally would like to go? Maybe Titian at the Royal Academy is more her thing? Something to find out. 0181 348 6523. Was that dialled correctly? 0181 348 6523. She's his first 0181 girl.

638 5454. ‘Bob Woods, please … Bob? Hey! Fancy a
sesh
at the gym? Great. In an hour? Fine.'

Keeping at a constant 80 r.p.m., Bob and Richard tackle the simulated hill programme on the
Lifecycle
. They've broken the twenty-minute, red-face barrier and are working through into the serious sweat zone. Speech comes in staccato gasps, whole sentences interspersed with long pauses. However, having worked out together for many years, Bob and Richard have brought such conversation to a fine art, barely comprehensible to those uninitiated but utterly intelligible between these two.

‘So, you and Sally Lomax left together and then what?'

‘What do you know about her?'

‘Not a lot. Friend of a friend of Catherine. Met her once before, about six months ago. So, you left and
then
what?'

‘Does Catherine know her?'

‘And then WHAT?'

‘What?'

They pedalled on, then pedalled down, then stopped. Both leant forward and dropped their heads on to folded arms and huffed in unison for a few moments.

‘
Stairmaster?
'

‘After you, I'll work on my abs.'

Delts, quads, glutes, abs. Half an hour later, they met up over the bicep curls, heaving their limbs, exhaling and grimacing in such perfect time as to make any synchronized swimming corps envious. They were, unknowingly, the centre of attention, the brawniest there, the handsomest. Admiring women, in fluorescent, up-the-bum all-in-ones, strutted their well-toned stuff in the hope that they might be seen and even achieve a date. Less brawny blokes were suddenly inspired to work harder, to up the level on the
Lifecycle
, to increase their weights by 10 Ks. Today, like any other day past or to come, Bob and Richard were unaware of their audience. To them, the gym was less a place to see and be seen as it was their sanctuary where they could dissolve the pressures of work or relationships and simply enjoy their easy friendship which spanned well over a decade. And keep their bodies in peak condition too, of course.

Over the gush of the shower, the waft of shampoo-conditioner and the clatter of lockers, Bob picked up where Richard had left off.

‘Have you phoned her?'

‘Who?'

‘Who-my-arse!'

‘Sort of.'

‘
Sort of
! What's “sort of”? How can you
sort of
ring a person? Either you have or you have not. She was either there or she was not. She either said: “Yes, I'd love to”, or she said “No” and thanked you for calling. Enough “sort of”. Did you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Yes?'

‘Yes.'

‘And? And?'

‘No reply.'

‘Try again?'

‘No reply.'

‘
Will
you try again?'

‘What do you know about her?'

‘Ri-
chard
! She's a friend of a friend of Catherine's. I met her once before. I am sure – in fact, there can be no question about it – she'll be sitting in all evening willing the phone to ring with your dulcet tones offering dinner
chez Ricardo
. So, stop skirting the issue. You left together and then what?'

‘I took her home. Fancy a drink? My shout.'

Bob watched his friend as he dressed and preened.

Good Lord, he's gone! A goner! Not that he knows it yet. Goodbye, Old Mister Pump-and-Dump, Sir Love 'Em and Leave 'Em. Or Rather Lord Leave 'Em Before You Fallinlovewith 'Em. I don't believe it!

Bob felt a wave of fondness and happiness for his pal so he slapped his back and squeezed his delts.

‘Your shout. Just a swift half, mind. Promised Catherine that we'd go to the flicks.'

Their swift half turned into a leisurely two-pinter. Bob decided not to pry further. This one needed nurturing. Instead, they indulged in a trip down Memory Lane, recalling wild times shared at college, remembering, try for try, every rugby game that they'd played together, remarking on how far they had both come since moving to London to make their respective marks on the world of Law and Architecture. Bob talked about Catherine, their next holiday to Northern Portugal, the extension to the house, the current discord over the baby issue – her desire, his reluctance. (‘But me, a dad? I mean, I'm not old enough! I've got a dad of my own still! Catherine's broody though, very. I've even checked her Pill packets recently to make sure she's not forgetting accidentally-on-purpose.')

Richard was simultaneously envious of Bob's security, his constant and loving relationship, and yet also thankful that he had no one but himself to think of. Poor old Bob, soon to be dragged off to a schmaltzy American weepy that he'd never go to see out of choice. But there again, didn't he seem to beam with affection when, on the way to the pub, he'd made a detour to buy tissues and wine gums?

‘Hey, look at the time! I've got fifteen minutes to get to Leicester Square! Great to see you, Richie.' (
Don't call me that.
) ‘Still on for squash on Sunday morning? Great. You going to call her? You
are
going to call her! Must dash. Later!'

‘Later! Love to Catherine. Don't sob too hard!'

Bob left the pub backwards, making a telephone gesture as he did so. Richard raised his pint and smiled. A minute or two later he left it, half-f, and caught a cab home to Notting Hill.

0181 348 6523.

‘Hullo?'

‘Sally! Richard here.'

‘Hu-
low
!'

‘How are you?'

‘Well! Yes! You?'

‘Mmm!'

A pause verging on embarrassing silence.

‘Sally, would you like to have dinner with me? Friday night? At mine?'

‘That would be nice. Why, yes. Thank you. Address? Time? Lovely!'

‘Friday, then.'
And wear those lovely little knickers.

‘Friday.'
And make sure the sheets are fresh.

W
ith the mock-Georgian folly taking good form on the drawing-board, Richard felt justified, for the first time in his working career, in packing up at lunch-time and taking the afternoon off.

Goodbye Sandra, goodbye Mary. Goodbye, Mr Stonehill. Goodbye navy suit and calf muscles. Sandra plunged herself into a chasm of pessimism rescued only by a chocolate éclair tactfully provided by Mary. No, Mary, he's far too fit ever to need a doctor. It can only mean a woman.

What a delight
, thought Richard,
to shop at Sainsbury's on a weekday afternoon
. What a revelation it was that a supermarket could look like that. No obstacle course of trollies and baskets, plenty of everything left, no people-snake at the check-out.
No men
, realized Richard.

As he trollied his way to the cereals, he thought what a mercy it was that he was unmarried. He pondered how it was that shopping for groceries became such a trial for the married man. On your soap box, Richard, away you go.

Take any ordinary Saturday – tomorrow for instance – they'll be here in force, frantic and bewildered, chained to The List. It says baked beans so Married Man stops by the baked beans, and regards them. Look at the list, look at the produce, look at the list. Move on a couple of paces, walk backwards knocking over a child before finally plucking two tins of said beans. Place them carefully in the trolley but manage somehow to bruise the avocados in the process. Wipe brow, unscrunch List and go in search of Free-range Eggs. Buy Farm Fresh instead – they're cheaper after all. Little does M.M. realize that they will ultimately work out twice as dear when Wife sees them, bins them and hollers: ‘FREE-RANGE!' Don't they know that there's a reason for lard, crinkle cut chips, white sliced bread and bumper-pack beer not to be on The List?

Richard Stonehill, I think you will find that a packet of SuperNoodles lurks behind that box of lo-fat, lo-salt, sugar free lite-bran (organic) which you have strategically positioned in your trolley.

It is at the check-out
, Richard rued whilst searching for an eco-friendly bleach,
where M.M. comes most unstuck. You can see them gaze in wonder at the well-spaced items processing along on the conveyor belt of the female shopper
(or that of Mr Stonehill).
The contents of M.M.'s trolley are in a veritable profiterole pile as they head towards the black looks of the check-out assistant. M.M. wonders how women know instinctively how to pack – is it passed down from Mother to Daughter?

More to the point, why on earth does M.M. insist on packing eggs and pastry cases, watercress and tomatoes first; soap powder, bottles and tins last? What happens to men when they marry?
Richard pondered as he sashayed past the beverages and preserves (choosing Broken Orange Pekoe and Damson Extra respectively).
Do these married men – erstwhile bachelors after all – lose all notion, every shred of common sense as to what constitutes a well-stocked larder? Why and how does this innate and irrational fear of supermarkets suddenly develop?

Is there a cure?

Divorce?

Richard was relieved, on that decadent afternoon, that this sub-species was busy elsewhere (probably making important decisions at business, running the city, organizing the country, designing buildings, ministering law, order, justice and peace) so that he could cruise the aisles without incident or irritation. Deftly he swooped and plucked and picked as he breezed along. Under his expertise, his trolley behaved impeccably. Gone were those forever-spinning wheels; it became some kind of miniature hovercraft. Such was his skill and grace at handling corners, the elegant stops and effortless starts, the two of them became the Torvill and Dean of Sainsbury's. Packed to perfection – frozen goods in one bag, bottles, tins and tubes in a box, fresh produce in another bag – Richard headed home.

It never occurred to him that Married Man is the beast he is because he thinks not only for himself. He has responsibilities to others. Commitment. After all, Richard has had fifteen years to bring his shopping – content and technique – to a fine art for he has bought and thought only for himself. He has been his own man. And nobody else's.

The few special ingredients, those which would make his meal for Sally a veritable and memorable feast, were brought from Gambini's, the specialist Italian delicatessen that was, by a useful turn of Fate, Richard's corner shop. Now here was a place he would browse and deliberate at leisure.
Pappardelle
or
Orecchiette
or
Gigli del Gargano
?
Ciabatta
or
Focaccia
? Stuffed olives or those marinating happily in thyme-flavoured cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil? The shop was cramped, the smell almost overpowering as cheese mingled with salami and olives jostled for olfactory recognition against garlic-drenched sauces. From floor to ceiling, the Gambinis had packed the shelves tight with the necessities for maintaining Italian culinary standards in England. All the regions of Italy were represented under this one roof in Notting Hill. From Umbria, Tuscany, Sicily and Pugilia was extra virgin olive oil spanning the spectrum from pale gold to deep khaki. Small pots of
Pesto Genovese
rubbed shoulders with little jars of capers from Lipari. Jams of wild chestnut and wild fig jostled for space next to jars of chocolate hazelnut cream, and packets of
Cantucci
biscuits were balanced precariously against a tower of boxed
Panforte
.

Richard was caught, quite compliantly, in the Gambinis' web of luxury and tantalizing variety. When it came to vinegar there was Chianti, Balsamic, peach or plum to choose from. Impossibly fat olives vied for attention, gleaming up at him from their bowls of marinades. Although the
porcini secchi
seemed somewhat
ordinaire
next to dry morels from Tibet and Fairy Ring
Champignons
, Richard bought some anyway and Sardinian Saffron proved to be a must-have, despite its imaginative price tag (in fact,
because
of its price tag).