Now I had a decision to make. To dig deeper, to go beyond the protocols of regular online search, raised the possibility of calling undue attention to myself. On the other hand, we had been breaking the rules for weeks, and nothing had happened. Chancing my luck that no one would notice, I did a little fancy footwork among the email servers of the world wide web, if a fridge-freezer of two cubic meters in volume can be thought capable of such delicate choreography!
Here things got really interesting.
Intriguing and cryptic references show up from Romilly (whose family own half of Cheshire) in regard to Nicky “going AWOL” or “doing a bunk.” In one message she writes: Things hadn’t been brilliant between us for a while, but the way he disappeared was still a shock. The overnight flit. Like one of those spies who defected to Russia in the sixties.
His mother informs a friend in Australia, Our son continues to elude our inquiries after his wellbeing. Postcards from various hotspots arrive—usually with insufficient postage—containing supposedly reassuring words but never anything concrete. Once in a blue moon he actually phones—more often than not it’s a terrible signal from some noisy environment—and the conversation runs along the lines of: “Are you all right?” “Yes, are you all right?” Jonathan says Nicky was always slippery around the truth and no good will come of him. I am forced to agree with the first part of his Judgment, and must hope he is wrong about the second.
Perhaps the most tantalizing clue of all comes from Nicky Bell’s email account.
There isn’t one.
I’ve checked all the relevant possibles, and there really isn’t.
No Gmail. No Yahoo. No Hotmail. No nothing.
There isn’t even one that’s been lying dormant; an account he had been using and then ceased using when he did his disappearing trick. Rather, it’s as if all traces of his account or accounts have been deleted.
Actually, it’s worse than that. A deletion usually leaves a marker, according to those who know about these things.
It’s more like his account/s never existed.
At this realization, I began to feel a bit weird. We fridge-freezers don’t have heads, fortunately, but if we did, it would have been spinning. To calm myself, I switched on my halogens and converted all the barcodes I could see in the main chiller cabinet into musical notes, muddling them around until they became formless meditative jazz. One can’t go on for long because of the heat build-up, but as a way of cooling anxiety, I totally recommend it. (Top tip: Sainsbury’s Frascati, Pilgrims Choice Mature Cheddar and Nutella (400 g jar) combine to produce a wonderfully noodling atonal suite; and yes, I have told her there’s no need to keep blinking Nutella in a fridge!)
Conclusion: In looking for Nicky Bell, I have been searching for the wrong name.
He is now called something else.
The small building in the Tudor style at the center of London’s Soho Square has an interesting history; details may be found online for those who care to dig further. Suffice to say here that it was erected in 1925 and today contains gardening tools.
Our excitement has been building steadily as we realize both Daisy and Johnny are actually falling for the ice cream ruse. Each has mentioned it to others in the preceding days (Johnny in jokey texts to his daughter; Daisy in conversations with Lorna, Antoni and Chantal). On Saturday afternoon, we have watched them getting ready in their separate apartments, although in Johnny’s case this doesn’t amount to much more than taking his eyes off the rugby every now and again to check the time. Soon they are making their way to their respective Tube stations (West Hampstead, Fulham Broadway), he in a pink polo shirt, she in a pink chiffon scarf. Who knew to what lengths people would be prepared to go for free ice cream? I feel we have discovered a dirty little portal into the human soul!
They each approach Soho Square from the south, having made their exits from the Underground at Leicester Square. And a few minutes before 7 p.m., they are both on parade at the appointed spot. Camera coverage is extensive in central London so we have a grandstand view of the pair as they casually circle the hut, clearly clocking but pretending to ignore each other’s pink “flag,” before finally—somehow mutually—deciding to break cover.
The moment is almost lost in a chorus of pings and buzzing.
The toothbrush brings off a well-deserved “Yess!”
“You here for the ice cream too?” chuckles Johnny, and we settle back to enjoy the fun.
I realize you probably haven’t got all day to plow through the opening dialogue. There will be jobs to go to, errands to run, all manner of calls upon one’s time, as is the modern way. So I’ll cut the boring bits of chitter-chatter and supply only the beef.
At first, the pair seem a touch puzzled by one another. Perhaps she cannot imagine why a solid-seeming chap like him would trail into the West End of London for something as essentially trivial as a year’s supply of ice cream. Perhaps he is wondering why she, an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, would be wasting her fast-disappearing youth in such a frivolous pursuit. They agree they can’t really understand why they have been chosen because neither thinks of themselves as especially influential in their “cohort.”
“What even is a cohort?” says Daisy.
“Exactly!” says Johnny. “I thought maven was an Ikea sofa. You know, with an umlaut!” He runs his hand through his extravagantly thick pale fringe.
There’s a delicious pause. Johnny thrusts a paw at Daisy. “Johnny.”
She allows her fingers to be squished.
