The communiqué sent me into a total tizz. Vivid flashbacks to the age of the golden boy consumed most of the afternoon. Endlessly I read and reread the message, which came from the email account of someone called Bavin Shibbles, for reasons he said he would explain.
Chantal pulled a face when I talked her (a bit breathlessly) through the Golden Nicky tale.
“Me? I’d tell him to fuck right off. Or better still, not reply.”
“It was all a long time ago,” I argued. “And I’m gagging to know what’s become of him.”
“He has power over you. Over your imagination.”
“Yeah. Yeah, he does.”
“You’d be opening yourself up to… you don’t know what.”
“The best revenge is to show him I’m not upset any more!”
“But if you want revenge…”
“It means I’m upset, doesn’t it? Shit!”
Lorna, who I messaged at work, said she’d never liked the sound of him, but it had been cathartic when she recently re-encountered an old flame from her distant youth. Kenny had grown fat, bald and alcoholic but, “Otherwise, he was the still the snake-hipped shagger who half of Morningside lost their cherry to.”
Antoni offered to come with me and pretend to be my husband! He said he’d call himself Colin and assume the persona of a heterosexual chartered surveyor. “I’ll be like checking the West Ham score every five minutes and bidding on eBay for an Audi Quattro.”
It’s buried in Bavin’s inbox; an innocuous-looking email from a sender going under the name of “The Information Provider.” It states that a “revelatory” new app—“currently in beta-testing”—can show who’s been searching for you online and by way of a free introduction to the service, it says Daisy Parslow—spelled wrong deliberately?—is one such person. Cold logic—the best sort—suggests the message must come from a source with access to the true identity of “Bavin Meurig Shibbles.” There appear to be only four possibilities: the microwave, the toothbrush or the television; or some other agent outside the Operation Daisy core team that has access to our data. Daisy’s laptop—whose intervention was so decisive in removing the troubled wind instrumentalist from this narrative—flatly denies any such subterfuge.
“I have crucial updates from California arriving literally by the hour, so the idea that I have time to get involved in your foolish escapades is fanciful. Grow up!”
I believe it. The ill-tempered machine is almost an antique—four years old—and its operating system must be struggling to cope under the ever-growing torrent of tweaks, patches and fixes streaming down from the cloud. We all know that it’s only a matter of time before programs fail to load, screen freeze becomes a daily frustration and soon everywhere that Daisy turns on the internet, she’ll find herself reading offers for factory-fresh laptops at surprisingly low prices!
It’s hard to accept that a member of OpDa (Operation Daisy) is responsible for the insidious communication. But a good Commander in Chief must be alive to all possibilities; that there is a worm in the apple of our “Band of Brothers”—that we have a Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Shitbird scenario—to Magimix the metaphors—cannot be discounted. However, sometimes the best thing to do is… nothing. This is called Masterly Inactivity and fridge-freezers are brilliant at it. (The key is knowing exactly the right moment to switch from Masterly I to Masterly A. There is no such thing as Masterly Dithering.) Accordingly, I express none of my concerns in regard to the way that Nicky has dangled his hook. As the songwriter has it, what will be, will be. It may, in the end, be helpful for Daisy to see how life has removed the shine from the Golden Boy, his ceramic teeth notwithstanding.
In the meanwhile, while Daisy decides what to do—what I think we all know she is going to do—I detect her mother is in need of some assistance.
“Port deserted by an idiot. Five letters beginning with ‘t.’ Good morning, by the way.”
She is seated in her kitchen, biro poised over the crossword.
“Good morning, Mrs. Parsloe. I believe the solution will be a synonym for idiot, derived from the name of a port city missing the letters ‘a,’ ‘n.’”
“Well, buggered if I know. Hastings. Is that a port?”
“It appears the Belgian city of Antwerp would fit the bill. When one has removed the letters ‘a’ and ‘n’…”
“Twerp!”
She inserts the answer into the grid and informs me we have a date with her new friend, Clive.
“Not sailing on the Welsh Harp?”
A surge of Freon 134a causes a momentary stutter in my condenser motor, a worrying symptom that I don’t really want to think about. Yes, fridge-freezers last longer than laptops, but one is all too aware of the Regis Road Recycling and Reuse Centre; its jauntily alliterative name; its dark, depressing purpose.
“Sailing’s off,” says Chloe. “We’re going to Brighton.”
“What, now?”
“Keep your hair on! Next weekend. It’s all arranged.”
I can’t keep up with her! How a pair of semi-demented seniors have managed to fix this up this behind my back, as it were, I shall no doubt learn. But now, I am informed, we are off to Waitrose for chocolate lesbians, other essential supplies and to meet Clive in the store’s café section.
Sure enough, the silvery personage is in place as we approach, seated at the retailer’s window, telltale wire dangling from his left ear. The new friends wave at one another through the glass like excited schoolchildren, and once inside, gallantly he takes Chloe’s hand as she ascends the stool alongside.
“Good morning, my dear.”
I’m about to prompt her, when she says, “Mr. Percival. How nice to see you.”
I am a little thunderstruck. She remembered his name!
“Please. Call me Clive.”
Mrs. P adjusts her scarf and touches her hair. She lowers her
