Put them on and went to shoe heaven.
‘Does Sir find them satisfactory?’
‘Beaut. I’ll have two more pairs in black and brown.’
The bill was gulp stuff. I gulped. Sneer asked,
‘Cash or charge?’
I laid down a wedge, said,
‘Take a wild guess.’
Then he did the shoe con of:
‘Those shoes require careful cleaning.’
He began to pile tubes on the counter I said,
‘Naw.’
‘Sir?’
‘You can’t beat a spit and a cloth.’
‘As Sir wishes.’
I took my packages, said,
‘I’ll miss you, pal.’
He didn’t reply.
You gonna shop, you have to take a pit stop. Do the mandatory designer coffee trip. I could do that.
The Seattle Coffee Company. They had coffee nine different ways to Sunday. I ordered a latte. Saying it, you have an instant lisp. The counter assistant was an in-your-face fake friendly. Her name tag read Debi. She asked,
‘Like a shot of something in that, Sir?’
‘Sure; nut a large scotch in there.’
She gave the tolerant smile, said,
‘We have
Vanilla
Blackcurrant
Maple.’
‘Whoo Debi, just the caffeine.’
Plonked myself on the sofa and grabbed a paper. The latte tasted like foam and air. I read about ‘Heshers’ — thirteen-year-olds into heavy metal and ‘Tweakers’ — fifteen-year-olds addicted to crystal meth, known as crank or speed. At weekends, they went out with the gang:
‘Endlessly cruising the same shopping centers and ghost slot machine arcades.’
Getting stoned
drunk
partying
fighting.
Anything to kill the boredom.
The only punctuation was
jail
abortion
suicide.
I put down the paper. The assistant came over, said,
‘Would you like a loyalty card?’
‘What?’
‘Each time you come in, we punch your card and then, after your tenth visit, you get a free coffee.’
‘I don’t do loyalty.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No offence Debi, but you’re far too young to punch my card.’
Outside a guy asked me if I wanted to score some dope. I looked round, no one seemed concerned he was plying his trade in blatant and broad daylight. I asked,
‘Do you do loyalty cards?’
Arriving at Aisling’s, my heart, was pounding. When she opened the door, I went,
‘Wow!’
She was wearing one of those sheath dresses. Looked like a slip that shrank. My eyes fell to her cleavage. She said,
‘The miracle of Wonderbra.’
How could I not say,
‘Wunderbar.’
Inside, we kissed till she pushed me away, saying,
‘Phew... I have dinner cooking.’
‘Me too.’
She produced Jameson, said,
‘Let us begin, Oirish, would you like a hot one?’
‘I’m not even going to pretend I have the obvious reply.’
I gave her the book Chris had given me, said,
‘I had to search London to get you a Galway author.’
She squealed,
‘Kevin Whelan! I love him!’
I said, ‘And...’
Produced the box. She took it slowly, opened it carefully, went,
‘Oh My God!’
It fit.
The smell of good food cooking wafted from the kitchen. I had a look at a framed poem on the wall. It was by Jeff O’Connell.
It read:
SUFFERING SHIPWRECK
He sought the very moment
when one emotion became its opposite,
As if there he could find the explanation
that might excuse his callous treatment of her.
It gave me an eerie feeling. Like I’d just had my palm read. Aisling asked,
‘What do you think?’
‘Phew.’
‘Which means?’
I meant or think I meant, someone walked on my grave. I asked,
‘Where’s he from?’
I heard her laugh then say,
‘That’s so Irish.’
‘What?’
‘Answer a question with a question.’
‘Oh.’
‘He’s from Galway, the home of the Claddagh ring. Isn’t that odd?’
I thought it was downright spooky.
Keeping the Irish theme, the Fureys were doing ‘Leaving Nancy’ and we’d made hot international love. She asked,
‘Do you love me?’
‘I’m getting there.’
‘And will you marry me?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘When?’
‘Soon as.’
She sat up,
‘Oh my God, are you serious?’
‘I am.’
She ran from the bed and returned with the champagne, said,
‘You know, we were to have black velvet.’
‘Yeah.’
In a perfect mimicry of me, she said,
‘Screw the Guinness.’
I was as near to happy as I’d ever get. That’s pretty close.
I tried to do a bad brogue, asked,
‘Will you be wanting the wedding to be big?’
‘I’ll be wanting it to be soon.’
Love or its neighbour must have made me selfish or heedless or simply a bollocks. I’m reaching... trying to lay off the fact that I didn’t check on Briony. Not even a phone call.
Two nights later, I was deep in sleep at Holland Park. Took the phone some ringing to pull me awake. Finally, I grabbed for the phone, muttered,
‘What?’
‘Mr Mitchell?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s Dr Patel.’
‘Who?... Oh yeah... Jeez, what time is it?’
‘Two thirty... there’s an emergency... it’s Briony.’
I sat up.
‘Is she okay?’
‘She’s apparently taken an overdose.’
‘Apparently? What are you doing... guessing?’
‘I’m trying my best, Mr Mitchell.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.’
I thought — ‘No better time to give my new BMW a run.’ I also thought that no way could it really be red. Not even Lillian Palmer could pull off a red BMW.
It was. Bright fucking red.
Well leastways, it was night. How much could it show? Glided up towards the lights in Notting Hill Gate. It was a dream drive. As I waited for the light to change, a blue Mazda cruised up beside me. Packed with brothers, rap streaming. My window was down and the driver clocked me, said,
‘Bro, dat be a righteous colour.’ I nodded. He reached over, handed me a jay, said, ‘Rig like dat, yo gots to git down.’
I took it, inhaled deep. The light went green and the driver gunned his engine, said,
‘Y’all be cool.’
The dope kicked and my vision blurred. I nearly did for a cyclist at the Elephant and Castle roundabout. He shouted obscenities and I answered,
‘Be cool, bro.’
When I got to St Thomas’, I parked in their doctors’ allotted area. A uniform came bundling out, crying,
‘Oi!’
‘Yes.’
‘This is reserved for doctors.’
‘I’m a doctor.’
‘Eh?’
‘How much are you smoking. Good Lord man, look at your pallor, when did you have an ECG?’
‘I...’
‘And cut out those burgers, you won’t last six months.’
I strode past him. Though with the dope, it was more of a mellow sweep.
I met Patel outside the ICU He didn’t shake hands, accused:
‘You’re stoned!’
‘So?’
‘Well, it seems inappropriate.’
‘Is Briony conscious?’
‘No.’
‘So what does it matter a fuck then.’