“You didn’t ask me,” comes Nell’s voice, upbeat but just a little tense. “Don’t leave me out, Maud!”
As I turn to look at Nell, she’s smiling broadly enough—but in her Nell-ish way. It’s a determined smile, Nell has. A strong smile. It says, “Just for now, I’m not going to punch you, although I can’t speak for the next five minutes.”
“Don’t leave me out,” she repeats. And she’s kind of joking—but she’s not. I force myself not to glance at her cane in the corner, because she’s having a good patch at the moment and we don’t bring up the subject except when she does. We’ve learned that over these last few years.
“Nell!” Maud looks stricken. “I’m so sorry. What an oversight. Will you pick up Arthur for me?”
“No,” shoots back Nell. “Sod off. Do your own chores.”
Sarika snuffles with laughter, and I can’t help grinning.
“Of course,” replies Maud, in the same earnest way. “I totally understand. By the way, Nell, my sweet, I meant to say, there’s a revolting-looking man standing by your car, writing a note. Shall I have a word?”
At once, Sarika lifts her head and glances at me. Sensing the atmosphere, Harold gives an ominous whine.
Nell frowns. “Does he look like a miserable git?”
“Yes. Gray trousers. Mustache. That kind of thing.”
“It’s that bastard John Sweetman,” says Nell. “Moved in a month ago. He’s always on at me. He wants to have that space for unloading his shopping. He knows I’ve got a blue badge, but…” She shrugs.
“No bloody way,” says Sarika, clapping her laptop shut and getting on her feet. “These people!”
“You stay here, Nell,” I say. “We’re on it.”
“You don’t need to fight my battles for me,” says Nell gruffly.
“Not for you. With you.” I squeeze her shoulder and follow the others out into the forecourt of Nell’s block, our faces equally set and determined.
“Hello, good evening, is there a problem?” Maud is already greeting the man in her posh boarding-school voice, and I see him taking in her appearance, a little stunned.
I mean, she’s quite a sight. Six feet tall in platforms, trailing red hair, drifty skirt, two equally stunning red-haired children at her sides, and a third clambering onto her shoulders from the top of a nearby 4X4. (That’s where Bertie was.)
“Spider-Man!” he yells, before climbing back onto the car roof.
“Is there a problem?” Maud repeats. “I believe my friend is parked here entirely legally, and writing this unfounded note would count as—”
“Harassment,” chimes in Sarika deftly. She’s whipped out her phone and is taking photos of the guy. “Harassment on several counts. How many letters is it you’ve written to my client?”
The man’s eyes bulge at the word “client,” but he doesn’t retreat.
“This is a blue-badge area,” he says tetchily. “Blue badge. Disabled.”
“Yes.” Nell steps forward. “I’ve got a blue badge. As you can well see. You, on the other hand, do not have a blue badge.”
“The point is, my flat is right there,” he says testily, pointing to the window behind Nell’s car. “In the absence of any genuinely disabled persons, I should be able to park in this space. It’s common sense.”
“She’s got a blue badge!” exclaims Sarika.
“You’re disabled?” He scoffs at Nell. “Young healthy woman like you? Do you mind sharing the nature of your ailment?”
I can see him taking in her appearance, and I look at Nell through his eyes for a moment. Her squat, determined body, her jutting chin, her six earrings, her pink hair, her three tattoos.
I know Nell would rather keel over in the street than have this guy feeling sorry for her. For a few moments she’s silent. Then, with the deepest reluctance, her face like thunder, she says, “I have…a chronic condition. And even that’s none of your bloody business.”
“My friend has a blue badge from the authorities,” says Maud, her eyes flashing dangerously. “That’s all you need to know.”
“The authorities can be mistaken,” persists John Sweetman, undeterred. “Or hoodwinked.”
“Hoodwinked?” Maud’s voice rises in rage. “Hoodwinked? Are you seriously suggesting—”
But Nell raises a hand to stop her.
“Don’t waste your energy, Maudie,” she says a little wearily, then turns to John Sweetman. “Fuck. Off.”
“Seconded,” says Maud briskly.
“Thirded,” I add.
“Fourthded,” puts in Sarika, not to be outdone.
“Spider-Man!” yells Bertie from the top of the 4X4, and lands with an almighty thump on John Sweetman’s shoulders. John Sweetman gives an agonized yell and I clasp my hand over my mouth.
“Bertie!” exclaims Maud reprovingly. “Do not thump the man and call him ignorant.”
“Ignorant!” yells Bertie at once, and punches John Sweetman. “Ignorant!”
“Children these days,” says Maud, rolling her eyes. “What can one do?”
“Get him off!” John Sweetman’s voice is muffled and furious. “Argh! My leg!”
“Harold!” squeals Romy gleefully, and I realize that Harold has dashed out to join in. He’s grabbed John Sweetman’s trousers between his teeth and is snuffling with excitement, and any minute now we’ll be paying for a new pair of gray flannel slacks.
“Come here.” I grab Harold’s collar and with a supreme effort manhandle him away, while Maud reclaims Bertie. Somehow we all make it back inside, close the door of Nell’s flat, and look at one another, breathing heavily.
“Fuckers,” says Nell, which is what she always says.
“Onward,” says Sarika firmly, because she’s all about eyes forward, stay tough.
“Drink?” says Maud, which is what she always suggests. And now it’s my turn to pull everyone in for a group hug.
“It’ll be OK,” I say into the dark, cozy warmth of us, our foreheads touching; our breaths mingling. The rest of the world is shut out; it’s just us four. Our squad.
At last we draw apart, and Nell pats me reassuringly on the back.
“It’ll be OK,” she says. “It always is. Ava, go and have your hot date. Go to Italy. Write your book. And do not give that bad dog a single thought.”
Two
Hot date. What a joke. What a joke.
The most humiliating thing is: I’m still thinking about it. Here I am at my expensive writing retreat in Italy. Our instructor, Farida, is giving her introduction to the week, and my pen is poised dutifully over my notebook. But instead of listening properly, I’m having flashbacks.
It felt wrong from the first moment we met in the pub. He was different from how I expected—which, to be fair, they always are. All online dates. They walk differently from how you imagined, or their hair’s longer, or their accent isn’t what you conjured up in your head. Or they just smell wrong.
This guy smelled wrong and drank his beer wrong and sounded wrong. He also had a lot to say about cryptocurrency, which…you know. Is only interesting for so long. (Ten seconds.) And the more I realized that he was wrong, the more I felt like a fool—because what about my instincts? What about the look in his eyes?
I kept peering at his eyes, trying—but failing—to find the life and intelligence and charm that I’d seen in his profile photo. He must have noticed, because he gave an awkward laugh and said, “Have I got foam on my eyebrow or something?”
I laughed, too, and shook my head. And I was going to change the subject—but I thought, Sod it, why not be honest? So I said, “It’s weird, but your eyes don’t look exactly like they did on the website. Probably the light or something.”
Which is when the truth came out. He looked a bit shifty and said, “Yeah, I’ve had some problems with my eyes recently? They went a bit septic. Gunky, you know? This one was kind of greeny-yellow.” He pointed to his left eye. “It was bad. I went through two lots of antibiotic cream.”
“Right,” I said, trying not to heave. “Poor you.”
“So hands up,” he continued. “I didn’t use my own eyes in my profile picture.”
“You…what?” I said, not quite following.
“I photoshopped in someone else’s eyes,” he said matter-of-factly. “Same color, so what’s the difference?”
In disbelief, I got out my phone and summoned up his profile picture—and at once it was obvious. The eyes opposite me were flat and dull and insipid. The eyes on the screen were crinkly and charming and inviting.
“So whose eyes are these?” I demanded, jabbing at them. He looked even more shifty, then said with a shrug, “Brad Pitt’s.”
Brad Pitt’s?
He lured me into a date with Brad Pitt’s eyes?
I felt so angry and stupid, I could barely get out another word. But he didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong. In fact, he suggested that we go on to a restaurant. What a nerve! As I left, I nearly said sarcastically, “FYI, my boobs are Lady Gaga’s.” But that might have sent the wrong message.
I should complain to the website, only I can’t be bothered. I can’t be bothered with any of it. I’m having a pause from men. Yes. That’s what I’m doing. My instincts can just have a holiday—
“The most important thing, of course, will be for you to stay focused.” Farida’s voice penetrates my thoughts. “Distraction is the enemy of productivity, as I’m sure you know.”
I look up, to realize Farida’s gaze is resting appraisingly on me. Shit! She knows I’m not listening. I feel a tremor, as though I’m in fourth-form geography and have been caught passing notes. Everyone else is listening. Everyone else is concentrating. Come on, Ava. Be a grown-up.