[Phoenix Court 04] - Fancy Man

what she had discovered in Edinburgh: all the things she knew he’d love, the places where people talked and carried on, the colours. She had discovered the paintings of rooms and flowers by Anne Redpath, an artist who had once lived in the Royal Circle. Now Wendy was seeing the town through the smeary brilliance of Redpath’s colours: midnight blues, salmon pinks, crimsons and buttery yellows. She had searched her new city and realised it was for sights and places she could show off to Timon. Now he was here the impulse to drag him off to see the chained Sooty outside the launderette, the slabs of granite across the brown Waters of Leith, where you could sit in the sun between the overhanging mesh of branches. She wanted to buy him the cakes in the French patisserie that she imagined were flown fresh overnight from the continent: the chill of night-flight still on the cream and dusty icing sugar, in the raspberries crammed between pale layers of pastry. She had the textures and smells of the place to offer him. The Timon of old would have relished them, would have followed her anywhere, but now he looked as if he was humouring her. She could see by his face that he was just eager to get back to Belinda, who seemed to leave her bed only rarely now that winter was settling in. Wendy had hardly seen her, just heard the odd, disquieting detail from Timon. It was hard to picture Belinda as quite the sexpot Timon described. He made her over into a chuckling odalisque, an ample, wombless Olympia, welcoming home her Nubian slave. Whatever Nubian meant, added Timon. All Wendy could see was Belinda wrapped up under her duvet, hugging her polar bear girth in a colossal hug, congratulating herself on a wonderful catch.

When Timon actually found the time to go out into town with Wendy, they found it easiest to talk on neutral subjects and on those they still might agree about. Both hated the idea of anything coming in the way of their friendship. Yet Wendy couldn’t find Timon anything but changed.

They were walking up Queen Street, past the iron railings which hemmed the trees in the private park. All the black wood and metal was rimed with frost and the pavement was perilous with dirty ice.

“Did Mandy tell you what her Daniel said about the baby?”

Wendy shook her head. She hadn’t heard a thing from Mandy since she’d sent her a congratulations card.

“The first thing he said was, of course they had to get rid of it. They couldn’t afford it. It was ridiculous. And how could she let it happen.”

“I always thought he sounded like an arsehole. She’s not listening to him, is she?”

“Last I heard, she’d told him where to get off. They aren’t happy bunnies, anyway. He’s just thinking about his PhD, and where the next lot of funding’s coming from.”

“Mandy really wants the kid,” said Wendy. “It’s funny. I never imagined her being like that. In her letter, though, she sounded really happy. Excited. It’s a long time since she’s been like that.”

“She’s got a fight on her hands with Daniel. I met him, you know. Didn’t like him much. Not much chat in him. And he said he couldn’t see the point in anyone ever thinking they should write fiction. All the great fiction has already been written. We don’t need any more, cluttering the place up.”

Wendy plunged her hands into her thick coat pockets. “Mandy should come here! Stay with us!”

“You’re building up quite a little colony here,” he laughed. “What would your uncle think of you inviting all and sundry?”

“She’s our Mandy.”

“Inviting an unmarried pregnant woman for Christmas! We could have a whole nativity. I could be a Wise Man.”

“Why not?” She made to cross the road. She wanted to take back some fresh bread from Hendersons’. Colin was making soup this afternoon, his new passion and pastime this winter. “I like having everyone around me,” said Wendy. “And why shouldn’t I?”

Hands over my eyes in Hendersons’ deli. I hate that, even from people who think they have the right. I’m a touchy-feely person, I think, I mean, I have no problem with proximity and people showing their affection. I wasn’t in the habit of rebuffing my nearest and dearest, no, but I always found being taken by surprise rather difficult. Like I said before, life has too many surprises in store.

So: hands placed coolly over my eyes when I’m looking at the wooden racks of bread and I’m deciding between poppy seeds, nutty malt or a milk loaf. I liked the ones that shed bits and grains and seeds on the table, but that was to do with the pleasure of wiping down the table after the meal. I always liked wiping down surfaces, and shaking out tablecloths. I shook out tablecloths over the Royal Circus, hanging from the kitchen window, and watched the seagulls get aerated.

I’m wondering, anyway, what Colin would want me to bring for his carrot and coriander soup, which he was, at that moment, threshing and pulping in his brand new blender. Hands over my eyes and I whirl around with a shout—drawing glances, because the shop is packed—and it’s David standing there, in a navy polo shirt, his work uniform. He looks pale and unshaven, but you can see the strong lines of his bones and I think, despite myself, that he is extremely good-looking. I haven’t seen him in months. He’s clutching two cartons of semi-skimmed milk to his narrow chest. I loved his chest: the tightness of it, the little collection of hairs that sprang in different directions.

“I’m on a break,” he said. “Come and have coffee with me.”

I looked across the shop and Timon was staring at the salads, the olives and slivers of feta cheese adrift in oil. He was at the stage of romance in which he was finding everything delightful. Getting on my nerves, actually.