“Please. Call me Clive.”
Mr. P may have made something of an effort himself today. The blazer buttons seem shinier than usual and the hair looks recently barbered.
“Am I getting limes, Clive ?”
I think—I hope—she is referring to his aftershave.
“Clever girl! What a nose!”
“Where you two off then?” inquires Endrit, piloting the vehicle onto the A1000.
Chloe and Clive stare at one another in a delicious moment of elderly confusion. It’s rather as if neither can remember, and both Clive’s Boomwee FrostPal and I speak the same word into our respective client’s earbuds.
“Brighton!” they chorus, before dissolving into a fit of giggles.
“I feel quite giddy,” says Chloe in what Daisy would surely call MMR mode (minor member of royalty).
“Would you care for a glacier mint?” offers Clive. “Important to keep one’s strength up.”
For a while there is companionable sucking in the rear of the vehicle.
“Tell me something,” says Chloe.
“Yes, my dear.”
There is a long pause.
“Oh, bugger. It’s completely gone. Honestly, my memory these days is like a fucking sponge.”
Clive roars.
“I do like a woman who’s not afraid of a bit of salty language. Don’t you mean sieve?”
“Sorry?”
“Don’t you mean you’ve got a memory like a sieve?”
“What?”
“A sieve. You know, the thing with holes. That stuff falls through. Or doesn’t.”
Chloe’s eyebrows draw together and I fear we are about to lose the happy mood.
“Ask him about his tie,” I prompt.
“I know what it was!” she cries. “I was admiring your lovely tie. Is it regimental?”
This is an excellent question and both me and the FrostPal breathe a metaphorical sigh of R.
“It’s from Italy. Present from my daughter.”
“The one that lives in Camden.”
“Canada.”
“Are there any grandchildren, Clive?”
“Just the one. Little Freddie. Well, I say little. He’s nearly seven, the scamp. I’ve never actually met him, you know. We’ve talked on the phone. And there are photos…”
Clive spots something through his passenger window that requires all his attention for a while.
Chloe allows a few moments to pass and then touches his arm.
“I have a gift,” she says softly.
“Really? You shouldn’t have.”
“Not that sort of gift. I can tell people’s names just by looking at them. Do you have a middle name, Clive?”
The silvery G brightens. “I have two. And if you can guess them I’ll buy you lunch!”
“Is this done how I think it’s done?” asks Clive’s fridge-freezer, a touch wearily.
“I’m afraid so,” I admit.
“Arthur Lancelot.”
“Really?”
“Don’t mention it.”
Chloe is staring deeply into the eyes of her mug punter—sorry, companion—trusting that the fix is in, and that shortly I will divulge the vital information. A small part of me is tempted to whisper Elvis Garibaldi.
“No!” cries Clive at the denouement of the illusion.
“It’s a gift,” trills Chloe. “I don’t know myself how I know.”
“You’re scaring me, madam!” he says. But he’s enjoying the drama. “Here, I’ve got one for you.” He glances about for comic effect. “What makes love like a tiger and winks?”
Chloe’s face clouds as she attempts to ponder the riddle. Then her expression clears to one of the purest vacancy. Okay, let’s hear it, it seems to be saying.
Clive Arthur Lancelot Percival’s eyes glitter in high amusement. And then one of them—the right—winks.
Even Endrit, who has been following the dialogue in the rear-view mirror, can’t help snorting at that.
I won’t say Eggstain was a changed man after the epic snogging session, but when he came through the doorway the following Friday, I almost didn’t recognize him. Yes, he was still handsome in his new beardless condition, but the thing was, he was wearing a suit! A smart charcoal jobbie with a fresh white shirt, although the effect was undermined by the tragic trainers that puffed and squeaked as he made his way into the flat.
I think we had both felt awkward the morning after the epic ss. And we were awkward again now, Eggstain thrusting a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers at me.
“You shouldn’t be cooking me dinner,” he said. “I should be taking you to the Ritz for rescuing me that night.”
“Okay, I’ll get my coat.”
For a split second I think he believed me. Fear flared in his eyes, but then he smiled.
I made us White Russians—vodka, Kahlúa and milk—in honor of his ancestors who he’d told me had been obliged to flee the Cossacks a hundred years ago. Not a hundred percent appropriate, possibly, but he raised no complaints, clinking drinks and croaking “wow” with a red face at the extraordinary potency of the legendary cocktail whose recipe I’d torn from Metro only that morning.
“Should we hurl our glasses into the fireplace?” he asked at the bottom of the first installment.
“There isn’t one. You can chuck it at the radiator, if you want.”
We gobbled blinis and I realized that tonight’s menu was identical to one I prepared in another lifetime for a lying estate agent whose name I have forgotten and who never turned up to eat it anyway. Eggstain explained that he’d been staying in a spare room in his sister’s house in Holland Park; she and her husband were both City lawyers and Eggstain now lived in terror of the various cleaners, nannies, therapists and personal trainers who attended upon the couple and their four children.
“Four!?” I heard myself bellowing.
“Two sets of twins.”
“Jesus.”
“She used to tell me, anyone can have just one kid. But as soon as there are two, you’ve basically got a zoo.”
“So she has two zoos. Or like, one big zoo. Zoo with an attached safari park.”
“They’re beautiful children. But I got up from dinner last week to find my shoelaces had been tied together under the table.”
“I’m an only,” I told him. “They broke the mold before they made me.”
We clinked glasses again. “Funny,” he said.
“How many children would you like?” I found myself saying. “That’s if you want any at all. Though you do seem like the sort of person who would want some. Do you think these White Russians are a bit fierce? I seem to be gabbling.”
“The answers to your questions are: Yes. Extremely fierce. And therefore
