For some moments they observe the waves of humanity heading into Soho to begin their evenings. The few passers-by dressed in pink do just that: They pass by. By seven fifteen, the pair begin to wonder if they have the wrong day.
“Shouldn’t there be people here with clipboards?” says Johnny. “Where are all the blooming clipboards?”
By half past, they develop the idea that someone has been taking the piss.
Johnny appears resigned to the non-appearance of the ice cream, though now perhaps begins waking to the fact that he’s somehow created a bond with a strikingly attractive young woman with a broad face.
“Shall we drown our sorrows?” he asks.
Daisy cannot think of a single reason why not.
He leads her to a nearby pub, where a pint of bitter and a large gin and tonic are quickly summoned. They jam themselves into a cozy corner and clink glasses. I shan’t bother with any further description; it looks like a pub.
“I don’t know what I’m going to tell my daughter. I was going to be her ice cream hero.”
“You still could be.”
“It won’t be Schmaltzgruber.”
“Get some from Lidl. She won’t care.”
“In the email, where it said you won’t find us online. That should have rung alarm bells, in all honesty.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Hayley? She’s eight. Her mother and I are divorced. I only see her every other weekend.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“How about yourself?”
“I never see her. I don’t even know her.”
Johnny smiles. “Like it.” He tips away about a third of a pint of beer, his throat doing that gluggy thing. He smacks his lips when it’s over. “Thirsty work, chasing after miasmic ice cream.”
“I can’t believe I ever thought this was a good idea,” says Daisy. And she takes a good, long pull on her G and T. Even in the low light, it’s possible to see the red flush rising up her neck into her face.
They slip into a conversation about what they do when they’re not hunting down free dessert products. You already know the essentials; I shall not quote the dialogue. However it’s plain to those who witness it—self, toothbrush, microwave, television—that a certain amount of below the line flirting is taking place. He does the thing again where he rakes back his floppy fringe; she fiddles with the fine silver chain at her throat and tugs the edge of her skirt closer to her kneecap (all textbook stuff, apparently). The Fitbit, who we check with, reports her heart rate is up twelve percent; the microwave swears he sucked in his gut, another telltale sign of the adult male trying to impress a female in estrus.
For some reason she is now telling Johnny about Eggstain’s theory of time. That when one is in one’s mid to late thirties, one’s life feels seventy percent over, even though there may be four or more decades to come.
“You think of yourself as approaching the top of the hill, when in fact, viewed from the end, you’re already halfway down the other side. Well, that’s what my mum’s memory doctor reckons.”
Johnny seems skeptical. He asks her to hold that thought while he visits the bar to fetch more drinks.
“It’s bollocks,” he declares when they have clinked and set about their new glassfuls. “Memory man is full of horse manure.”
“But time does seem to speed up as you get older,” says Daisy.
“Not in an antiques showroom, it doesn’t. Time is so slow in the shop, right, if there’s a low sun in the big window, you can see dead cells actually falling off the customers’ skin and turning into dust as it hits the carpet.”
“Shut. Up!”
“True fact.”
Nine and a half seconds of time tick by. They do not zip past, neither do they appear to drag.
“So, Mum has dementia, yeah?”
Daisy sighs. “Probably.”
“Sorry to hear it. My pops is the same way. They’ve developed a simple test now to find out if you’re liable to get it. Want to try?”
“I don’t know!”
“You’re in a race, okay? And you overtake the person in second place. What place are you in now?”
“First?”
Johnny imitates the uhhh-ohhhh klaxon noise from a TV quiz show. “If you overtake the person in second, you’re now in second! Question two. If you overtake the person in last place, what place are you in now?”
She thinks about it for a bit. “Second to last?”
Johnny shakes his head sadly. “You can’t overtake the person in last place!”
Daisy’s smile is wintry. “Can we stop now?”
But Johnny’s not having it. “Last question. A chap who can’t speak, right, he goes into the chemist to buy a toothbrush. And he shows the chemist what he wants by doing the action.”
Johnny parts his lips and imitates a vigorous brushing motion.
“So next, a blind man comes into the shop for a pair of sunglasses. How does he indicate to the chemist what he wants?”
“This bloke is beginning to annoy me,” says the TV set.
“Shocking brushwork,” says the electronic toothbrush.
Daisy shakes her head. Shrugs. It’s rather as if she has lost the will to live.
Johnny narrows his eyes in victory. “He says.” And he leaves a pause for dramatic E. “He says, I’d like to buy a pair of sunglasses, please!”
“Do men do it to feel superior?” says the microwave.
Daisy seems to stir from a trance. She actually shakes herself. Drains her gin and tonic.
“Sorry to be so pig thick. It was nice meeting you. Shame about the ice cream and everything.”
She doesn’t sound like she means it, in all honesty. The nice meeting him bit.
“I hope that quiz didn’t upset you. They were trick questions. Everyone gets them wrong. At least let me buy you an ice cream for the way home. Since we were so cruelly denied.”
“That’s okay.”
“Can I phone you?”
“You know what? I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You’re still angry about the ice cream. I can relate to that.”
“I’ll probably get over it.”
“You won’t give me your number?”
“I really don’t think so.”
“So let me give you a card.” He begins fumbling inside his blazer.
But Daisy is on her feet. The
