March 1997. The vernal equinox will be on Friday. This is Thursday. Lula Mae will be seeing a client in the New King’s Road and Max has arranged to meet her at The White Horse in Parson’s Green at half-past five. He’s pretty sure he’s going to tell her it’s over but he’s not altogether sure it is. He’s having lunch now at Coffee Republic in Fulham Broadway. He’s grateful for the little hubbub of noise and people around him, he’d rather not be alone with his mind. He’s finished his sandwich, and while he lingers over his second coffee the lunchtime rush has subsided and he notices, alone at a table across the room, a short white-haired man who could pass for an older version of himself. He recognises Harold Klein, the art historian, from his TV series, The Innocent Eye. Klein seems approachable so Max approaches. ‘Mr Klein,’ he says, ‘may I join you?’
‘Please do,’ says Klein. ‘I know you from your photo. I’ve read your books and liked them. They’re the kind of thing I might have written if I could write novels.’
‘Thank you,’ says Max, ‘I’m flattered. I enjoyed The Innocent Eye but what really knocked me out was your monograph on Odilon Redon.’
‘Well, he tells it like it is,’ says Klein, ‘and I tried to do the same.’
‘You succeeded brilliantly.’
‘You’re very kind,’ says Klein.
‘I feel that I can talk to you,’ says Max.
‘So do I,’ says Klein. ‘So talk.’
‘I’m too sober,’ says Max. ‘Let’s go get pissed.’
‘OK,’ says Klein, and they remove to The Pickled Pelican in Moore Park Road. Max brings pints of Pedigree, doubles of Glenfiddich, and bags of crisps to their table. ‘Mud in your eye,’ he says as they clink glasses.
‘Down the hatch,’ says Klein as the football on the TV bursts into a roar. ‘Unburden yourself.’
‘What did you say?’ shouts Max.
‘Unburden yourself,’ shouts Klein.
‘I’m not a good man,’ shouts Max as the TV goes quiet and the rest of the pub turns to look at him.
‘That makes two of us,’ says Klein.
Max then spills his guts and tells Klein all about Lola and Lula Mae, his doubts, his fears, his indecision and his confusion. Klein listens patiently and nods his head while Max keeps the Pedigree and Glenfiddich coming. When Max has finished, they down their third boilermakers in silence. At length Klein, with a Godfather gesture, index finger pointing upward, says, ‘I look at you and I see myself twenty-five years ago, always greedy for more love and other love. Always unfaithful.’
‘What can you tell me?’ says Max.
‘Probably,’ says Klein, ‘you’re a little bit in love with Lula Mae and maybe she’s a little bit in love with you. If she weren’t, she’d have moved on by now. You want to end it with her and at the same time you don’t. You don’t want to end it with Lola but you’re backing away from This-Is-It. Shall I be honest with you?’
‘Not necessarily,’ says Max.
‘You’re bad news,’ says Klein. ‘If you care about these women at all, the best thing you can do is get out of their lives before you get in any deeper. Better a small heartbreak now than a big one later.’ With that, Klein falls asleep. Max wakes him up, they visit the Gents, then leave The Pickled Pelican.
26 Two Little Words
March 1997. Max at The White Horse. The day is cold and windy but he doesn’t want to sit inside. The smoke and the uproar of the braying crowd make him feel trapped. He gets a pint of Bass at the bar and takes it to an outside table. There he sits looking past the Parson’s Green Clinic and Lady Margaret’s School towards the corner of the New King’s Road where Lula Mae will appear.
‘Better a small heartbreak now,’ says his mind.
‘When she comes around that corner,’ says Max, ‘my heart will leap up at the sight of her. Then I’ll tell her it’s all over.’
‘Are you in love with her?’ says his mind.
‘I’m so comfortable with her!’ says Max. ‘I don’t know if it’s love but we really like each other.’
There she is now, coming around the distant corner. Max’s heart leaps up and so does the rest of him. He waves to Lula Mae and she waves back as she walks towards him.
‘Ah!’ sighs a nearby drinker.
Max’s eyes fill with Lula Mae. He tries to imagine her as a little girl with pigtails, sitting on her father’s lap while he reads her Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu. His throat aches.
‘Hi, Cowboy,’ she says.
‘Hi,’ says Max. Big hug, big kiss. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Same as you,’ says Lula Mae. When Max returns from the bar they lift their glasses to each other.
‘Here’s how,’ says Max.
‘I think we already know how,’ says Lula Mae. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Max notices an aeroplane high overhead. Is it trailing a banner that says THIS IS IT? He looks back at Lula Mae. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he says. ‘L’haim! To life!’
‘L’haim,’ says Lula Mae. ‘You think I should have it?’
‘Of course you should have it,’ he says. ‘A child from you and me! Wow.’
‘You’re not going to ask me if I’m sure you’re the father?’
‘If I weren’t, you’d have told me,’ says Max.
‘You just got a foot taller,’ says Lula Mae.
‘There’s more to me than Lesser,’ says Max. Big hug, big kiss, broad grins, more schmoozing, two more pints. ‘So what’s our next move?’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’ says Lula Mae.
‘Well, some people when they have a child, they all live together and it’s a family,’ says Max. ‘Sometimes the parents get married.’
‘Are you proposing to me?’
‘I’ve been listening to the words coming out of my mouth,’ says Max, ‘and I don’t really know what I’m doing.’
‘Take deep breaths and calm down. It’s not as if my father’s coming after you with a shotgun.’
‘I know that,’ says Max, ‘and I’m calm. What do you think we should do?’
‘Double scotches,’ says Lula Mae. ‘My shout. This requires careful thought.’
27 Ursa Major, Lesser Minor
21 March 1997. Morning of the vernal equinox. Max is waiting on his front steps with a sleeping bag and a small rucksack. At ten o’clock Lola pulls up in a seriously green E-type convertible with a black top. ‘Hi,’ she says.
‘Hi,’ says Max. ‘Nice ride.’
‘Birthday present from Daddy. It’s a ’62, three point eight litre. They made them with bigger engines later but Daddy says this one’s a Stradivarius and it does a ton without breathing hard.’
‘I’m breathing hard just looking at it,’ says Max.
‘This colour is British Racing Green,’ says Lola.
‘A fast colour,’ says Max.
‘Nothing illegal today,’ says Lola. She notes the sleeping bag and smiles. ‘Expecting to get lucky?’
‘You never know,’ says Max.
‘Put it in the boot with mine,’ says Lola. The picnic hamper takes up most of the boot but Max jams his things in and sinks into the leather upholstery beside Lola. They kiss good morning, the Jaguar roars and they’re off. Up the North End Road, through West Kensington, on to the Great West Road, Hogarth Roundabout, and the M4. Motorway miles moving towards them, passing under them, the Jaguar purring sweetly at seventy and sometimes more. ‘When is your birthday?’ says Max.
‘Today,’ says Lola. ‘I’m a vernal-equinoctial kind of girl. My first quarter-century.’
‘You never told me,’ says Max. ‘I’d have got you a present.’