LITMIR.BIZ

       7. The Triple Fool

      I am two fools, I know,

      For loving, and for saying so

      In whining poetry;

      ‘Finished with the bench?’

      Finished with the bench?

      Finished with the fucking bench?

      Of course she had finished with the bench, my dear Jasper, she had risen from it, removed her things and walked decisively away. Could there be any clearer evidence than this?

      I told you it was bad. I told you I fell apart. I blame horoscopes. I blame faulty chakra. I blame my parents. I blame her. I blame the shock of her face up close. If she hadn’t looked … Oh Christ, I suppose I can no longer evade my descriptive duty. I’d better get it over with. Up close, she had the pure-skinned features of a perfume model but softer, more delicate and without the strident angles of someone employed to be striking in two dimensions. The day’s sun had left a faint redness across the bridge of her pretty nose and her fleeting smile, when it came, was all the more priceless for the slightest downturn at the corner of her mouth. Her lips – parted a fraction as we passed each other – were neither full nor thin but, I noticed, the lower had been lightly bitten. Her brow, like her hair, was fair. Her eyes were a captivating hazel – quick and self-possessed. Taken altogether, there was, I remember thinking, something in the lines of her face that mingled provocation with her ridiculous beauty.

      And yes, I know: it depresses me too. But the point is that from that desperate moment – down there on the canvas with the head swim and the eye sting and the blood in my ears and the referee already at nine – I was always going to demand a come back fight.

      First, I called William.

      ‘Well how many times have you seen her?’

      ‘Three,’ I replied. ‘The first time I was buggering about with oranges and so I sort of fucked up what I –’

      ‘You were what?’

      ‘I … It’s not important. Then I saw her again yesterday, walking towards the Tube when I was coming home. And now – just now – she’s been out in the garden behind my flat for the last forty minutes. She started sunbathing but it’s clouded over and she’s gone back inside. That’s three times. Anyway, listen, can you come over tomorrow?’

      ‘I’m not sure. I half promised to take Nathalie to Goodwood and –’ The void of a lost voice.

      ‘Will, you’re cutting out.’ Some crackle and snap. ‘Can you come over? She’s killing me. I can’t work in my bloody studio without looking out of the window every two seconds. I can’t go to my local shops in case I run into her. Or worse, in case I don’t run into her. It’s hopeless … I have to know who she is. And I can’t just go down into the bloody garden again, not yet, I … You’re cutting out again. Where are you? What’s all that racket in the background?’

      ‘I am in a gents’ toilet – in the Crowning Glory, actually, just off the Strand. I am on my way to a charity dinner. The sound you can hear is a spate of rather jubilant flushing emanating from some of the nearby cabins. Hang on. Let me get out of here.’

      I waited. A moment of exertion and then the regular click-clack of William’s leather-soled shoes reasserted itself on the London pavement.

      ‘Right. Back on track again. I tell you, Jackson: ever since they started closing all the public conveniences, things have become very tricky. I have to carry this guidebook around in my head with details of all the pubs in London that don’t mind you taking an occasional tinkle and it’s changing by the-’

      ‘William.’

      William cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Jasper. Where were we? A certain mademoiselle has appeared in your garden and she is interfering with your pointless life? Is that it?’

      ‘Yes. It fucking well is it. I’m certain she’s moved into one of the flats opposite. There was a basement for sale that I had to talk Lucy out of making an offer on. Maybe she’s moved in there. Oh God, it’s a bloody nightmare.’ I paused. ‘Will, seriously, I’m under siege here. I’ve never had this happen on my own doorstep before. I don’t know if I can cope. If I don’t speak to her by the end of the week, I will have to move.’

      ‘It’s only been a few days – she might be staying with someone. She might be gone before you know it and then you can relax – get on with your work.’

      ‘She isn’t and she won’t.’

      ‘But you haven’t spoken to her?’

      ‘No. Not exactly.’

      ‘So you don’t know. And all this excitement is based purely on the physical, on how she l—’

      ‘No … Yes. No. Will, honestly, she eats cherries and spits out the stones. She reads maps. She … This is not like when I was twenty-one. Or last weekend with Annette or whatever. This is serious. She’s intelligent. I can tell. No joke. She came out here before with a bottle of wine and this battered red bucket, for Christ’s sake. And guess what she had in the bucket? Ice. Ice – to keep the wine cool. Can you believe it?’

      ‘Amazing.’

      ‘Oh fuck off. Of course it’s physical. That’s how the human race works. Stop being so pious. The whole planet is fucking physical. Look around you, man. She’s very physical.’

      ‘How come you need my help all of a sudden?’

      ‘Because I live here and I can’t go around the place asking questions. It might start to look odd.’

      ‘What questions? You don’t normally need to bother asking any questions.’

      ‘I know I know I know. But she’s … she’s a very different proposition to normal. Will. I know it’s bullshit but I have a … I have a feeling about her. And I don’t want to make any mistakes.’ A passing siren keened in the earpiece. Suddenly embarrassed, I collected myself. ‘I have to know more about her before I proceed. I have to know the right way to go about things before I can … go about things.’

      William was finally beginning to comprehend the gravity of the situation. ‘You mean single or boyfriend or married or lezzer?’

      ‘Yes, that sort of thing. And her name and whatever else.’

      ‘Dear, oh dear. Whatever happened to romantic spontaneity?’

      ‘Balls to spontaneity. She’s far too attractive for that sort of crap. Spontaneity is a luxury available only to people who don’t care about what happens next.’

      ‘You have got it bad, young Jackson. She must be the answer that you’ve spent your whole life look—’ he prevented me interrupting. ‘OK, OK, I believe you.’

      ‘Can you make sure you’re

Скачать книгу