“That’s the ignition, Mum.”
Everybody laughed at that one, even Dr. Eggstain. (His name was actually Epstein but Mum and I both noticed the egg stain on his knitted tie and that’s what she called him after he left, and of course that’s what he shall be for evermore.) The note, btw, said close your eyes. He said we could try it again next time.
Every now and again I found myself thinking of my old schoolfriend Geraldine Butler working in Antarctica researching climate change. (I pictured her poking a retractable tape measure through a hole in the ice, but it was probably more complicated than that.) There was something about her life down there that I envied; the cold pure air, perhaps, with the seriousness of purpose (to say nothing of the muscly sex-starved geographers!). Here everything was scratchy and provisional and—oh, I’m not really putting this very well—but I’m sure the timeless silence of the ice cliffs would have spoken to my soul more powerfully than the snarled-up traffic on West End Lane, the late nights and the takeaways. It killed me that I could no longer fit into the lovely green silk outfit that I’d bought for a wedding. The sodding fitness tracker kept sending me reminders to take more steps. Speaking of which, the smart fridge had told my mobile that we needed more milk—love that we—and it had been guilt-tripping me about the potato salad going off! Probably it should have gone to the interview with Saluki woman instead of me. Would have aced it.
Daisy’s workday ends in a busy bar in nearby Bloomsbury, where she meets a man she has found on Match.com. The assignation, arranged in the days before the formation of OpDa (Operation Daisy), will be the final date under the old regime (i.e., leaving it all to her). In future, any romantic introductions to members of the opposite sex will be mediated—under the radar, in such a way that she will never realize—by myself and my team.
(Pretty cool, one has to admit!)
The Internet of Things allows us to witness this evening’s encounter—the bar security cameras are manufactured by a Chinese company owned by the same corporation as the TV in Daisy’s sitting room—though it’s not always easy to follow conversations in such a noisy environment and many promising marketing leads are doubtless lost in the babble.
Greg—oh, the irony—works in online marketing. The pair are planted on high stools set next to a shelf for drinks attached to one of the pillars that hold up the ceiling. Daisy has glamourized herself for the occasion; there is lipstick and there are earrings where before there were not. She has also done something to the surface of her skin; a fresh blush has appeared upon the pale cream of her face; none of these things being necessary in my view, as Daisy is a classic English rose (if you will forgive the horticultural car crash) but hey, what do I know, I’m only a fridge-freezer.
They clink glasses. Daisy is drinking a blue cocktail; Greg has selected artisan beer. He, I would say, is attracted. Very attracted. Daisy is looking lovely, and she actually appears interested in the yawn-inducing account of Greg’s adventure on the London Underground this evening (a failed train at Baker Street). As the tale slogs into its terminus, her head drops to one side and she touches her throat, which to a bloke like Greg must be equivalent to a full set of green lights. He adjusts his seating position, pelvis tipping forward, thighs spreading, necessarily calling attention to the mighty organ coiled and brooding within the blue denim.
I’ll be frank. I feel a little nauseated. I’m sure he’s a decent chap and everything—okay, let’s put it like this: He’s probably not criminally insane—but Daisy Can Do Better. She deserves to find A Good Man. A Man As Special As She Is. Or, Frankly, No Man At All if a Good One is Temporarily Unavailable. (Sorry about the capital letters.) She must no longer allow herself to be entered by the repellent Whittle; even if she is unaware of his deception, it ought to be obvious he’s as dodgy as a bottle of chips. Nor should she agree to meet someone whose idea of a sparkling anecdote includes the phrase “Metropolitan line southbound platform.” She Must Make Better Choices.
She will. We shall make sure she does.
Then she does the thing.
Daisy doesn’t notice, but Greg actually flinches.
I should explain: Daisy has a tic.
It has to be purely unconscious; she cannot be aware that every now and again (usually once per day, but sometimes more) she wrinkles her nose and allows it to remain wrinkled for three to nine seconds.
Why? Who can say? When? Whenever. The only time it never happens is when she is speaking (perhaps it’s impossible to wrinkle and speak at the same time; I cannot confirm for reasons you will understand). Anyhow—the effect? The effect is that, momentarily, she appears ridiculous. Not endearingly ridiculous. It’s more ridiculously ridiculous, albeit that the habit in itself is somewhat endearing. Probably everyone has an unconscious tic; this is less true of machinery although Daisy’s TV sometimes swears in Chinese—without noticing the language slip, I’m certain.
Perhaps I do something similar myself. How would I know?
Does the thought flash through young Greg’s mind: I am sitting with a madwoman? We shall never learn. It’s even possible this gesture of abandonment actually makes Daisy more attractive to him because now he thrusts himself closer to the edge of his seat and asks her what kind of week she has had.
“Oh, pretty rubbish,” she replies, swallowing some of her blue cocktail, possibly a bit too much because her eyes goggle a smidgeon. “I spent most of it trying to find someone who wanted to change places with a fish-gutter in Grimsby. It’s all irrelevant now, anyway.”
“Hmm.
