“Larry came up last night,” he said. “It was terrible. He’s an alcoholic. He’s definitely an alcoholic.”
She smiled. “What did you do?”
“We went to the pub for a quiet one and then into Camden… Ended up drinking in some pig-packed shit hole until Christ knows when.”
“Fun?”
“At the time.”
“Sounds it.”
“Actually, it wasn’t.”
“When did you get in?”
“Two.”
“Larry meet anyone?”
“No, he just got a cab home.”
“At least none of your friends can stay over when they’re drunk at the moment, so you don’t have to go through all the rigmarole with the futon.”
What she really meant was not all the rigmarole of turning the futon into a bed but the secondary rigmarole of putting a sheet down —one of her pet insistences. She was the most hygienic woman in the world. She would physically cringe at the thought of a man falling asleep on their furniture without the prophylactic of a clean sheet, duvet, pillowcase. And yet there was never a word of censure about what he was doing until two in the morning. He could have turned up three days later without his trousers and said that he had been in Rio judging the Miss Porniverse Pussy-Pumping Pageant and she would have been just as calm. And he loved her for that.
Her coffee (decaffeinated) appeared, his tea hot on its trail with a jug of milk. There was a sudden sizzle of sausages arriving for the workmen on the next table. She spoke over the top of her raised mug. “You should get him a girlfriend. Then you could both go out and do something you actually enjoy.”
“What do we enjoy? I’ve lost track.”
“Swimming on the Heath.”
“Lins, it’s absolutely freezing at this time of year.”
“Joke.” She eyed his hand, gauging his minor thumb injury as he gingerly removed the teabag.
“He wants you to get him a girlfriend.”
“Me?” She raised her eyebrows.
“He thinks you know loads of beautiful Swedish women.”
“What? From ten years ago?” She affected consideration. “Well, there’s Anya—she’s thirty-one and about to have a cesarean any day. She’s my oldest friend and happily married, but I could ask if she’d like to give it all up for an overweight TV producer.”
“No. Forget it. She goes out clubbing. Larry only goes out eating.”
Someone swore at a bottle of ketchup that could not be bullied into dispensing its chemical treasure.
“I could have a look at the office. What type does he like?”
He also loved it that Lina wasn’t on some phony high horse about womankind; he loved it that she could talk about other girls—minds, bodies, behavior—without all the invidious ancillary crap that so many women had to shovel into such conversations all the time.
“Medieval barmaid type.”
“Blond?”
“Yes. Blond, big baby eyes, breasts…”
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s such an easy look.”
“…comely, honest but saucy, daughter of local miller, weaver, wainwright. You get the idea.”
“I’ll do a round-robin e-mail.”
“You still want me to order your mum music for Christmas?”
“Yes. Thanks for doing that, Gabe. Choose things she would like, though. Nothing too weird. Maybe those cello pieces you listen to.”
“Nothing too weird.”
“I’ll give you the money.”
Their breakfast danced into view. He was starving. Having poured her milk—she always swamped her cereal, causing Gabriel to think that what she really wanted was muesli-flavored shake—Lina did not start eating but instead began to watch him with mild disapproval (which she never could hide) at the sheer speed with which he was devouring his food.
“Try not to eat so quickly, honey—it’s really bad for you.”
“I know.”
Maybe that was it: the fact that she couldn’t hide a single thought that came into her head… This relentless compulsion for honesty, transparency, as if the epitome of human goodness was merely the willing ability to broadcast every last waking thought, no matter how trivial. Was it actually possible to resent someone for being so honest? What kind of a monster was he becoming? Anyway, why was he attacking her all of a sudden? Her request was perfectly reasonable. Slow down, Gabriel. Slow the fuck down.
“I’ve got an easy couple of days,” he said.
She made a start on her muesli. “What’s the next issue again?”
“‘Inner Voices.’” He forced himself to stop eating. “I should try to make this one better. I think… I think I lost it a bit with the last one. I’m already struggling with the whole idea, though—I mean, how can anybody trust their inner voice when inner voices are universally famous for coming and going at random? And when they tell you all kinds of contra—”
“What you should do is take a break from living and thinking on behalf of the rest of the world.” There was concern as well as humor in her tone. “Leave it to someone else for a while—the pope or the president or someone.”
“People in power can’t think on behalf of anyone else. They get cut off. That’s the problem, Lina. Power may not corrupt every time, but it always isolates.” He raised a fist to his chest in a gesture of mock heroism. “That’s why everything is up to you and me.”
She smiled but shook her head. “We should go on holiday and you should not be allowed to think about anything except pizza toppings and ice cream flavors. Have you thought any more about doing the play?”
“No. I need to call the man in Highgate again.”
“You should do it.”
Care, consideration, and total, unquestioning support.
“I know.”
“I think May is perfect,” she said. “And I was working it out on the plane this morning… If you can start everything at the beginning of your working month, like now—just after an issue is out—then you can probably get loads done from your office and sneak out for rehearsals. Then take your holiday for the next fortnight, while the issue is actually coming out—let your deputy do some work for once—and then put on the play the week after, when you are back at work but when it’s easy again. That way you get a six-week run. Have you thought any more about which play you want to put on?”
“Steven Berkoff.” He picked up his fork.
“You’ve gone off the Shakespeare idea?”
“No. Just… not the first one.”
“Shakespeare is not necessarily very commercial anyway.” She nodded. “You want something that the audience can get to grips with easily.”
Maybe that was it. Something lurking behind that “not very commercial” or that “get to grips with”—that attitude. Which, again, was fair enough.
“And if you have to take a month off unpaid, then you should do that. You know the money is not an issue. I’ll support you.”
Or maybe that was it: maybe the money was an issue—though not in the way Lina thought. He had never borrowed; the house and the holidays were strictly fifty-fifty, his expenses were his own, but she paid more restaurant bills than he did, paid for more tickets, furniture, food. He finished his breakfast as slowly as he could manage.
“You need a new coat,” she said.
“I know.”
“How come Frank managed to persuade you to go and fetch the permit?”
“It just kind of happened. The buzzer went and he let on as if I was supposed to have organized it all… and I… I said I would go. I don’t exactly know how it happened.”
She laughed lightly. “Well, don’t bother becoming friends with him like you did with Bernie. It doesn’t seem to help. You don’t have to be friends with everyone in the world. Let’s keep Frank at arm’s length. I have given him pretty strict instructions, so we’ll see… He’s doing the new sink, then he’s going to sort out the dishwasher, and I’ve told him not to fit the new surfaces until he has properly sealed them.”