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‘What a wonderful place,’ said Helen half an hour later as we strolled through the Jardins du Luxembourg in the late afternoon sun. Middle-aged men played chess under the plane trees; people walked their dogs across the lawns, and children spun their yo-yos back and forth, flinging them out with theatrical flourish, then reeling them in again, fast. Lining the paths were flowerbeds filled with roses, and, in the distance, we could hear the soft ‘thwock!’ of tennis balls. Helen consulted the guide.
‘Isadora Duncan danced here,’ she said. ‘And Ernest Hemingway used to come and shoot the pigeons.’
‘That’s nice.’
We passed the octagonal pond in front of the Palais, and walked down an avenue of chestnut trees. Joggers ran past us, working off their foie gras; sunbathers and bookworms lounged in park chairs. We could hear the yapping of small dogs, and the chattering of birds. This unhurried existence was a million miles from the fume-filled avenues of the centre. There was childish laughter from a playground. We stopped for a second and watched a group of children rise and fall on their swings.
‘Do you want kids?’ I asked Helen.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe …Oh, I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘Only if I meet the right chap. But even then I wouldn’t want them for at least – ooh, three or four years. I’m much too busy,’ she added happily, as we turned out of the gardens. ‘And do you know, Mint, I really like being single.’
‘I wish I did,’ I said. Then I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven. We decided to get something to eat.
‘Chez Marc’, announced the bar in a narrow cobbled street off the Rue de Tournon. The tables outside were all taken, so we went inside. Waiters with white aprons whizzed round with trays on fingertips as though on invisible skates. A cirrus of cigarette smoke hung over the bar, and we could hear the chink of heavy crockery, and staccato bursts of male laughter. We could also hear the crack of plastic on cork. By the window a game of table football was in progress. Four young men were hunched over the rods, their knuckles white, as the ball banged and skittered around the pitch.
‘I used to love playing that,’ I said, as we sipped our beer. ‘On holiday, when we were little. I used to be quite good.’ The players were shouting encouragement, expostulating at penalties and screaming their heads off at every goal.
‘– hors-jeu!’
‘– c’est nul!’
‘– veux-tu?!’
‘French men are so good-looking, aren’t they?’ said Helen.
‘Aah! Putain!’
‘Espèce de con!’
‘Especially that one, there.’
‘That was a banana!’ he shouted, in a very un-Gallic way. ‘Bananas are not allowed. You’ve got to throw the ball in straight. Got that? !’
‘Bof!’ said his opponent. ‘Alors …’
‘And only five seconds to size up a shot! OK? Cinq secondes!’
‘D’accord, d’accord! Oh, le “Fair Play”,’ muttered his opponent crossly.
A free kick was awarded. A quick flick of the wrist, and the ball shot into the net.
‘Goal!’ Helen clapped. She couldn’t help it. They all turned and smiled. I didn’t have the energy to smile back. Then the waiter appeared with our pasta. I had eaten what I could when two of the players put on their jackets, shook hands with their opponents and left. The Englishman remained at the table. I looked at him discreetly. Helen was right. He was rather nice-looking, in an unshowy sort of way. His hair was dark, and a bit too long. His face looked open and kind. He was wearing jeans and Timberlands, and a rather faded green polo shirt. To my surprise he turned and looked at us.
‘Vous voulez jouer?’
‘Sorry?’ I said.
‘Would you like to play?’
‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said with a bitter little smile. ‘I’ve had enough penalty kicks recently.’
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘It’s fun.’
‘No, thank you,’ I said.
‘Oh, but my friend and I need partners,’ he urged.
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to.’ I looked at Helen. She had a funny expression on her face.
‘You play with them,’ I said to her.
‘Not without you.’
‘Go on. I’ll watch.’
‘No, no – we’ll both play.’
‘No, we won’t,’ I said, ‘because I don’t want to.’
‘Well, I do, but I don’t want to play without you. Come on, Minty.’
‘What?’ Why on earth was she insisting?
‘Come on,’ she said again. And now she was on her feet. ‘We would like to play, actually,’ she announced to the waiting men.
Oh God. And in any case I couldn’t even get out. I was jammed in behind the table. Suddenly the English boy came over to me and stretched out his hand.
‘Come and play,’ he said. I looked at him. Then, very reluctantly, I held out my hand.
‘I’m Joe,’ he said, as he pulled me to my feet. ‘Who are you?’
‘Minty. That’s Minty Malone, by the way,’ I added. ‘Not Lane.’ And, again, my sardonic tone took me aback. I think it took Joe aback, too, because he gave me a slightly puzzled look. Helen was already at the table, partnering the French boy, whose name was Pierre.
‘Do you want to be forward?’ Joe enquired.
‘What?’
‘Centre forward?’
‘Oh. No, I prefer to defend.’
‘Right. No spinning, OK?’ I looked blank. ‘No spinning the rods,’ he cautioned. ‘It’s cheating.’ I nodded. ‘And no bananas.’
‘I don’t even know what they are.’
‘It means putting the new ball in with a spin so that it goes towards your own side. Not done.’ I looked at the figurines. Twenty-two plastic men dressed in red or yellow jumpers stared vacantly on their metal rods. They looked as empty and lifeless as I felt.
We grasped the rods. Pierre put the money in, and the ball appeared. He placed it between the two centre forwards, whistled, and the game began. The ball reeled and ricocheted around the pitch as Pierre and Joe competed for possession, then it came to my half-back. I stopped it dead, then kicked it forward to Joe. The tension was unbearable as he hooked the player’s feet round the back of the ball, lifted the rod, and then – bang! He’d shot it straight into the goal. ‘Great team work, Minty,’ he said. ‘Fantastic!’ I smiled and blushed with pride, and despite myself I could feel my spirits begin to lift. Two minutes later, Pierre equalised. It was my fault. It was perfectly saveable, but I didn’t move my goalie fast enough. I felt like David Seaman when England lost the penalty shoot-out to Argentina in the World Cup.
‘Sorry about that,’ I groaned.
‘Forget it,’ he said with a laugh. ‘We’ll still win.’ Now my heart was pounding as Joe and Pierre wrestled for the ball again. The excitement was high as it skidded around the pitch, and it was hard to concentrate, because Joe talked all the time.
‘What do you do, Minty?’
‘Oh, er …I’m a radio journalist,’ I said, amazed that he could simultaneously concentrate on the game and converse. ‘What about you?’ I enquired, though I was only being polite.
‘I’m a writer,’ he replied. ‘And where do you work?’
‘London FM. On a magazine programme called Capitalise.’ ‘Oh, I know it. Current affairs and features.’ Suddenly, Helen’s half-back kicked the ball so hard that it bounced right off the pitch. Play stopped for a few seconds as she went chasing after it.
‘I like Capitalise,’ said Joe. ‘I listen to it quite a bit.’
‘Do you live in London, then?’ I asked him.
‘On and off,’ he replied. ‘I’m teaching a creative writing course here for the summer, but I’ll be back in London in mid October. Where are you staying?’
Why all the questions? I wondered. And then Helen reappeared with the ball.
‘OK – le throw-in!’ said Pierre.
‘So where are you staying?’ Joe asked again, as the ball bounced on to the pitch.
‘Umm, the George V, actually.’ I didn’t want to explain why. He gave a long, low whistle, then he passed the ball back to me.
‘Le George V. Wow!’
‘Only for four days,’ I said, as I moved my goalie across to counter the threat from Pierre’s centre half.
‘Good save, Minty!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘And when do you go back?’
‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.’
Why was he so inquisitive? I didn’t even know the man. He fired at the goal. And in it went.
‘Thank you! That’s two-one,’ he yelled. ‘Can I give you a ring?’ he said suddenly, as Helen put a new ball down.
‘What?’ I said, as play resumed.
‘Can I call you?’ he repeated. ‘Can I call you when I’m back in London?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I replied, surprised.
‘We could play table football,’ he said. ‘We could play at Café Kick.’
‘Oh.’ How forward. And how very depressing, I thought. He was trying to pick me up. He obviously did this all the time. With women he hardly knew. I didn’t need this, I thought crossly. I’d just been jilted, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t want a man ringing me ever again. Humiliating me ever again. Hurting me ever again.
‘Penalty!’ shouted Pierre.
‘Would it be all right if I took your number, Minty?’ Joe asked me again, as he passed the ball back.
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ I repeated tersely. I struck the ball, hard, and a shout went up.
‘Own goal, Minty!’ everyone cried.
August (#ulink_abb41fdb-a529-5e93-b638-af041bb4979e)
‘’Ad a nice time, luv?’ enquired the driver of the cab I flagged down outside Waterloo. Helen had gone to Holland Park to see her parents.
‘Sort of. Well, not really.’
‘What was it, ‘oliday?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Honeymoon.’
‘Where’s your ‘usband then?’
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘You ain’t got one?’
‘No. He ran away.’
‘ ‘E did a runner?’ said the driver incredulously. He turned round to face me and almost crashed the cab.
‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘During the service. So I went with my bridesmaid instead.’
‘’E did a runner!’
He was chortling and shaking his head.
‘Bleedin’ ‘ell. I ‘ope you never catch him.’
‘I shan’t even try,’ I said.
My spirits drooped like dead flowers as we drove through the dusty streets. My brief holiday was over; reality was rolling in. I could have wept as we passed the Waldorf. And the sight of a church made me feel sick. I thought, sinkingly, of work and dreaded having to return. How would I face my colleagues, and what on earth would they say? I would be an object of pity and derision, I decided as we bounced north. I would be suffocated by their sympathy, choked by their concern.
We drew up outside my flat and I saw the ‘For Sale’ sign. It would have to come down, I realised; I wouldn’t be going anywhere now. And for the first time I felt a flutter of something like relief, because Clapham Common isn’t really my scene. And I knew that the one thing I wouldn’t miss about seeing Dom was that twice-weekly fifteen-stop trip down the Northern Line. Then I realised, with a stab of dismay, that I’d have to retrieve my stuff from his flat. There wasn’t much; very little, in fact, considering that we’d been engaged. Just my toothbrush, an old jacket and some books. Dom said he didn’t want me to leave too much there in case Madge thought we were ‘living in sin’. And I was just wondering how I’d get my things back, and thinking how agonising this would be, when I noticed two bulging Safeway bags leaning against the front door. Stapled to one was an envelope marked ‘Minty’ in a familiar backward-sloping hand. I turned the key in the lock, picked them up, and went into the silence of my flat. I grabbed a knife from a kitchen drawer and opened the envelope with a pounding heart.
I thought this would make it easier for you, Minty. Sorry, but I just knew it wasn’t right. No hard feelings?Best wishes, Dom.
Best wishes! Best wishes? The man who just four days ago I was set to marry; the man whose children I was going to have; the man whose boxer shorts I had washed – and ironed – was now politely sending me best wishes? And actually, if you don’t mind my saying so, I do have hard feelings, Dom! In fact, they’re as hard as granite or flint. No hard feelings? They’re as hard as an unripe pear. And look how quickly he’d returned my things! Hardly am I back from my honeymoon before I’m bundled out of his life in two plastic bags. Outrageous! After what he did. Outrageous! For all he knew, I might have thrown myself in the Seine.
Fired up by a Vesuvius of suppressed anger, I tore off my jacket, threw open the windows, and put on my rubber gloves. Others may drink or take drugs to relieve stress. Personally, I clean. So I hoovered and dusted and tidied. I mopped, and polished and washed. In a frenzy of fastidiousness, I even scraped the gunge out of the oven, and wiped the grime from the window panes. Only then, when I’d spent three hours in a state of hysterical hygienicity, did I feel my blood pressure drop.
