Читать книгу Sally - Freya North - Страница 12

With the mock-Georgian folly taking good form on the drawing-board, Richard felt justified, for the first time in his working career, in packing up at lunch-time and taking the afternoon off.

Goodbye Sandra, goodbye Mary. Goodbye, Mr Stonehill. Goodbye navy suit and calf muscles. Sandra plunged herself into a chasm of pessimism rescued only by a chocolate éclair tactfully provided by Mary. No, Mary, he’s far too fit ever to need a doctor. It can only mean a woman.

What a delight, thought Richard, to shop at Sainsbury’s on a weekday afternoon. What a revelation it was that a supermarket could look like that. No obstacle course of trollies and baskets, plenty of everything left, no people-snake at the check-out. No men, realized Richard.

As he trollied his way to the cereals, he thought what a mercy it was that he was unmarried. He pondered how it was that shopping for groceries became such a trial for the married man. On your soap box, Richard, away you go.

Take any ordinary Saturday – tomorrow for instance – they’ll be here in force, frantic and bewildered, chained to The List. It says baked beans so Married Man stops by the baked beans, and regards them. Look at the list, look at the produce, look at the list. Move on a couple of paces, walk backwards knocking over a child before finally plucking two tins of said beans. Place them carefully in the trolley but manage somehow to bruise the avocados in the process. Wipe brow, unscrunch List and go in search of Free-range Eggs. Buy Farm Fresh instead – they’re cheaper after all. Little does M.M. realize that they will ultimately work out twice as dear when Wife sees them, bins them and hollers: ‘FREE-RANGE!’ Don’t they know that there’s a reason for lard, crinkle cut chips, white sliced bread and bumper-pack beer not to be on The List?

Richard Stonehill, I think you will find that a packet of SuperNoodles lurks behind that box of lo-fat, lo-salt, sugar free lite-bran (organic) which you have strategically positioned in your trolley.

It is at the check-out, Richard rued whilst searching for an eco-friendly bleach, where M.M. comes most unstuck. You can see them gaze in wonder at the well-spaced items processing along on the conveyor belt of the female shopper (or that of Mr Stonehill). The contents of M.M.’s trolley are in a veritable profiterole pile as they head towards the black looks of the check-out assistant. M.M. wonders how women know instinctively how to pack – is it passed down from Mother to Daughter?

More to the point, why on earth does M.M. insist on packing eggs and pastry cases, watercress and tomatoes first; soap powder, bottles and tins last? What happens to men when they marry? Richard pondered as he sashayed past the beverages and preserves (choosing Broken Orange Pekoe and Damson Extra respectively). Do these married men – erstwhile bachelors after all – lose all notion, every shred of common sense as to what constitutes a well-stocked larder? Why and how does this innate and irrational fear of supermarkets suddenly develop?

Is there a cure?

Divorce?

Richard was relieved, on that decadent afternoon, that this sub-species was busy elsewhere (probably making important decisions at business, running the city, organizing the country, designing buildings, ministering law, order, justice and peace) so that he could cruise the aisles without incident or irritation. Deftly he swooped and plucked and picked as he breezed along. Under his expertise, his trolley behaved impeccably. Gone were those forever-spinning wheels; it became some kind of miniature hovercraft. Such was his skill and grace at handling corners, the elegant stops and effortless starts, the two of them became the Torvill and Dean of Sainsbury’s. Packed to perfection – frozen goods in one bag, bottles, tins and tubes in a box, fresh produce in another bag – Richard headed home.

It never occurred to him that Married Man is the beast he is because he thinks not only for himself. He has responsibilities to others. Commitment. After all, Richard has had fifteen years to bring his shopping – content and technique – to a fine art for he has bought and thought only for himself. He has been his own man. And nobody else’s.

The few special ingredients, those which would make his meal for Sally a veritable and memorable feast, were brought from Gambini’s, the specialist Italian delicatessen that was, by a useful turn of Fate, Richard’s corner shop. Now here was a place he would browse and deliberate at leisure. Pappardelle or Orecchiette or Gigli del Gargano? Ciabatta or Focaccia? Stuffed olives or those marinating happily in thyme-flavoured cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil? The shop was cramped, the smell almost overpowering as cheese mingled with salami and olives jostled for olfactory recognition against garlic-drenched sauces. From floor to ceiling, the Gambinis had packed the shelves tight with the necessities for maintaining Italian culinary standards in England. All the regions of Italy were represented under this one roof in Notting Hill. From Umbria, Tuscany, Sicily and Pugilia was extra virgin olive oil spanning the spectrum from pale gold to deep khaki. Small pots of Pesto Genovese rubbed shoulders with little jars of capers from Lipari. Jams of wild chestnut and wild fig jostled for space next to jars of chocolate hazelnut cream, and packets of Cantucci biscuits were balanced precariously against a tower of boxed Panforte.

Richard was caught, quite compliantly, in the Gambinis’ web of luxury and tantalizing variety. When it came to vinegar there was Chianti, Balsamic, peach or plum to choose from. Impossibly fat olives vied for attention, gleaming up at him from their bowls of marinades. Although the porcini secchi seemed somewhat ordinaire next to dry morels from Tibet and Fairy Ring Champignons, Richard bought some anyway and Sardinian Saffron proved to be a must-have, despite its imaginative price tag (in fact, because of its price tag).

Signora Gambini, known to the select few (Richard amongst them) as Rosa, watched as he smelt, felt and tasted his way through her wares. His shopping list was at once forgotten as his eyes, nose and mouth traversed the shop. His eyes lingered over the chargrilled baby onions in olive oil, the wild mountain goat pâté and the grilled polenta but his nose pulled him away and positioned him in front of the cheeses where the Taleggio, with its peach rind striated with powder grey, solicited him uncompromisingly. The Torta al Limone proved even harder to resist, glinting up at him wickedly with its creamy golden heart dusted delightfully with icing sugar, the whole encased by crisp, caramel-coloured pastry.

‘Someone special for dinner, Signor?’ cooed Rosa. ‘I give to you my special menu, guaranteed to win her heart. With it, I captured Germano and for forty-three years he is with me.’

Rosa was a clever lady. Her suggestions, made shyly, were each concluded with a question mark. Consequently, Richard bought exactly what she planned he should, but believed himself to have conceived the entire selection. With his wallet pleasurably empty and his bags satisfyingly full, he bade Rosa farewell and promised to tell her how the meal went. With plump arms folded triumphantly across a magnificent bosom encased by straining floral polyester, she sent him on his way with a ‘Ciao’ and a conspiratorial wink.

Back at his flat, Richard took the shopping into the kitchen, simultaneously undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. He draped his tie (Hermès) around the bedroom door handle, his shirt (Thomas Pink) he bundled into the washing machine from whose drum stared the crumpled faces of four other white, worn-once shirts (Turbull & Asser, Hilditch & Key, Hawes & Curtis, Lewin). His suit (Hugo Boss) was given a good shake, placed over a thick wooden hanger and hung in the far left section of the wardrobe where it joined a regiment of other finely tailored suits (David Rose, Yves Saint Laurent, Armani – Giorgio, not Emporio). Socks (Ralph Lauren – we already know that) and boxer shorts (Calvin Klein – we would have guessed) were put in the laundry basket (Richard never mixes his washes). Shoes (Church’s?) (Yes) were shoe-treed and placed at the foot of the cupboard. They will of course be polished before they are next worn.

Naked, Richard was heading for the shower when he stopped and philosophized. No, cook first, then clean, then shower.

He jumped into jogging pants and a faded polo shirt (both Timberland) and selected the music for the afternoon’s industry. He’d cook to Mendelssohn’s Italian, he’d clean to the Scottish, then relax and await Sally with Brahms. Più animato, Richard joined the strings of the first movement and skittered around his kitchen, gathering utensils and food stuffs and placing them in rational order according to the menu.

Richard, you could have been a Michelin-starred chef. Just look at you with your Sabatiers, how fast you chop, so evenly and accurately. Why don’t the onions make your eyes water, why do you not subconsciously lick a finger and find it coated with garlic? How can you cook so exquisitely without using every utensil in your kitchen? Why is there no mess on the floor? You remember to preheat the oven, you wash up as you go, you do not splash tomato juice on your shirt, no bits of parsley wedge themselves under your nails. There really is no need for you to wear an apron but you look dinky in one anyway. All is cooked to perfection, you needn’t taste it but you do, with a special spoon for the very purpose because you wouldn’t dream of using the spoon with which you stirred the sauce (à la Marco Pierre White) and with which you were compelled to conduct the fourth movement saltarello. Talking of salt, you even know intuitively what constitutes a definitive pinch.

Finito.

The perfect four hours left for the flavours to mellow and the pungent fumes in the kitchen to subside into provocative wafts.

On with the second task. Cleaning. No Shake ’n’ Vac short cuts for Richard. He glides around the sitting-room, eyes constantly searching out invisible dust, ears tuned to the oboe, serene above the crowded strings of the opening of the Scottish Symphony. Dust first, plump the cushions, straighten the tulips. Hoover. Spick and span.

Bedroom. Change the sheets, open the window. Hoover. Next.

Bathroom. Clean the bath, the sink; disinfect the toilet, change the pot pourri; wash the tiles and the mirror, rinse well. Buff up. Hoover. Done. Next?

Body. ‘Go running’ is next on the Stonehill Schedule. Put on Nikes, put the wine in the fridge, look once round the flat, feel pleased, proud and at ease. Off you go.

Richard’s daily run took him four miles and twenty-six minutes. Usually he thought of nothing, and thinking of nothing ensured he was relaxed and psychologically out of the office by the time he returned. Today, however, his mind was running faster than his feet.

Say she doesn’t turn up? Say she’s a vegetarian? Say my mother rings? Say Bob and Catherine pop round? Shit, did I turn the gas off? Have I got any condoms at home? Shall I buy Beaumes de Venise too? Yes, definitely. But I’d better buy that now so it can chill thoroughly. Wait, work this through. Get home, check condoms … no, check gas first. Then condoms. Shower? No, buy the pudding wine, then shower, then phone Mother. Other way round. Let’s just get home.

Sprint, Richard, sprint!

Home, James. You didn’t spare the horses today: 23 minutes 34 seconds. Not bad, not bad.

The gas was, of course, off.

Half an hour later, with condoms and wine bought and placed in bedside table and fridge respectively, Mother was phoned, the table laid, the sauce checked and fresh purple basil scattered through it. At last, Richard can start the final, crucial lap. Preening.

Hands on hips, upper lip sucked in by lower, wardrobe doors thrown open, he peruses his clothes. He touches nothing, just looks and assesses. Navy cotton chinos, brown suede belt, shirt striped thickly in blue and thinly in peppermint, white boxers, navy socks and navy nubuck loafers.

Navy, navy, navy, do you think that’s too conservative? No, Richard, you look wonderful in navy. Anyway, if you want to be pedantic, there’s a subtle but effective difference between the French Navy of your shoes and the true navy of your trousers. If you’re not happy, why not wear the shirt striped with olive and pink?

I’ll go for the olive and pink.

In the tiler’s delight bathroom, Richard showers. It is his routine to take it moderately hot and to finish off with a prolonged blast of freezing cold which, he assures himself, is invigorating and good for the circulation. Old habits die hard and this one stemmed from eight not always easy years at boarding school.

With a towel wrapped effortlessly around his trunk and another draped nonchalantly over his shoulder, Richard gives himself a close shave. To a fly on the wall, or on a majolica tile, the scene has all the features of a classic after-shave advert, bar the transatlantic voice-over drawl proclaiming: ‘L’Homme, one hundred per cent.’ But this is Notting Hill and our Richard, towel now slipping irretrievably, is standing with eyes watering from the healthy smart of his one-hundred-per-cent manly after-shave. A few strange and not desperately appealing physiognomic contortions aid recovery but his towel still lies, somewhat comically, about his feet. No need and no time to rescue it and save his style. There is pressing work to be done involving a comb, an agile wrist and a damp mop of light-magnetic, sand-coloured hair. Comb it this way, then that. Run through a little mousse, comb again then lightly shake through with your fingertips. Result: the perfect, tousled look.

Get dressed, Richard, Sally will arrive in the hour. No, there’s another job; out with the nail clippers and emery board, ensure that fingers and toes are neat and tidy. They are, they always are. Step into your boxers, slip on your trousers, pull on your shirt and slide into your loafers. You’re ready, you’re gorgeous. Now just lounge about, reinstate Mr Mendelssohn where your run so rudely cut him off, relax and await the arrival of Ms Lomax.

Miss Lomax was late back from school. An emergency meeting had been held to determine whether to expel or merely suspend an eleven-year-old boy for smoking in the girls’ toilets. Sally suggested doing neither but making him smoke the entire packet. In front of his friends. However, the boy was suspended and sent home directly, with his packet of cigarettes. After school the teachers gathered to formulate the Monday morning assembly on the evils of smoking. It’s bad for your health, very expensive and not clever at all.

But she’s home now and is perturbed to find that she does not have time for her customary Friday evening bath, her luxuriate. Instead, a quick shower must suffice.

The Lomax legs are shaved and two stray hairs are tweezed from the bridge of her nose. Sally gives her hair an energetic brush and thanks the stars that she’d washed it the previous evening. She swirls a soft brush around a pot of bronze balls of rouge and carelessly but effectively whispers it over her cheeks and eyes. And cleavage, why not! After a quick spritz of Ysatis, she deftly flosses her teeth. Into the bathroom she goes, humming absent-mindedly ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’, that morning’s hymn. It’s black velvet skirt time. She teams it with the olive silk shirt and black suede pumps with just the right height of heel to give her unremarkable legs an elegant send-off. Under it all, her little white cotton broderie anglaise knickers, for good luck.

Sally, you won’t need it.

Before leaving the flat, she stops for a prolonged glance in the mirror and gives herself a slightly bashful smile.

Off you go, you old slapper! Shall I seduce him in between hors d’oeuvres and main course? Or before?

That’s something for you to ponder on the Highgate-Notting Hill drive. Off you go, Sally.

Adjusting the choke, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her skirt, Sally mirrored, signalled and manoeuvred – and then reversed straight back into the space she had just vacated. She unclipped her seatbelt and walked briskly back to her flat. She stopped in the sitting-room and gazed at the telephone which was ringing pleadingly. Beaming an ecstatic smile at it, she marched assertively into the bathroom. Giving her reflection a conniving wink, Sally plucked her toothbrush from the beaker and slipped it into her bag.