surplus baggage, not wanted on voyage. She’s sitting with three people who, thanks to our document and whatever else Perry has managed to bubble to them in the meantime, know a whole lot she doesn’t.
She’s sitting alone in the drawing room of her desirable residence in Primrose Hill at half past midnight with Samson v. Samson on her lap and an empty wineglass beside her.
Springing to her feet – whoops – she climbs the spiral staircase to her bedroom, makes the bed, follows the trail of Perry’s dirty clothes across the floor to the bathroom and stuffs them into the laundry basket. Five days since he made love to me. Will we establish a record?
She returns downstairs, one step at a time, one hand for the boat. She’s back at the window, staring into the street, praying for her man to come home in a black cab with the last two numbers 73. She’s riding buttock to buttock under the midnight stars with Perry in the bumpy people carrier with blackened windows as Baby Face, the short-haired blond bodyguard with the linked gold bracelet, drives them to their hotel at the end of the birthday revels at Three Chimneys.
‘You had good night, Gail?’
This is your driver speaking. Until now, Baby Face hasn’t let on that he speaks English. When Perry challenged him outside the tennis court, he didn’t speak a word of it. So why’s he letting on now? she wonders, alert as never in her life.
‘ Fabulous night, thank you,’ she declares in her father’s voice, filling in for Perry, who appears to have gone deaf. ‘Simply wonderful . I’m so happy for those magnificent boys.’
‘My name is Niki, OK?’
‘OK. Great. Hello, Niki,’ says Gail. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Perm, Russia. Nice place. Perry, please? You had good night too?’
Gail is about to jab Perry with her elbow when he comes to life by himself. ‘Great, thanks, Niki. Fantastic food. Really nice people. Super. Best evening of our holiday so far.’
Not bad for a beginner, thinks Gail.
‘What time you arrive Three Chimneys?’ Niki asks.
‘We nearly didn’t arrive at all , Niki,’ Gail exclaims, giggling to cover for Perry’s hesitation. ‘Did we, Perry? We took the Nature Path and had to hack our way through the undergrowth! Where did you learn your wonderful English, Niki?’
‘Boston, Massachusetts. You got knife?’
‘Knife?’
‘To cut undergrowth, you got to have big knife .’
Those dead eyes in the mirror, what have they seen? What are they seeing now?
‘I wish we had, Niki,’ Gail cries, still in her father’s skin. ‘I’m afraid we English don’t carry knives.’ What gibberish am I talking? Never mind. Talk it . ‘Well, some of us do, to be truthful, but not people like us . We’re the wrong social class . You’ve heard about our class system? Well, in England you only carry a knife if you’re lower-middle or below!’ And more hoots of laughter to see them round the roundabout and into the drive to the front entrance.
Dazed, they pick their way like strangers between the lighted hibiscus to their cabin. Perry closes the door behind them, locks it, but doesn’t switch the light on. They stand facing each other across the bed in the darkness. For an age, there’s no soundtrack. Which should not imply that Perry hasn’t made up his mind what he’s about to say:
‘I need paper to write on. So do you.’ His I’m-in-charge-here voice, normally reserved, she assumes, for errant undergraduates who have failed to turn in their weekly essay.
He draws the blinds. He switches on the inadequate reading light on my side of the bed, leaving the rest of the room in darkness.
He yanks open the drawer of my bedside locker and fishes out a yellow legal pad: also mine. Emblazoned on it, my brilliant reflections on Samson v. Samson : my first case as a top silk’s junior, my quantum leap to instant fame and fortune.
Or not.
Ripping off the pages on which I have recorded my pearls of legal wisdom, he stuffs them
She’s sitting alone in the drawing room of her desirable residence in Primrose Hill at half past midnight with Samson v. Samson on her lap and an empty wineglass beside her.
Springing to her feet – whoops – she climbs the spiral staircase to her bedroom, makes the bed, follows the trail of Perry’s dirty clothes across the floor to the bathroom and stuffs them into the laundry basket. Five days since he made love to me. Will we establish a record?
She returns downstairs, one step at a time, one hand for the boat. She’s back at the window, staring into the street, praying for her man to come home in a black cab with the last two numbers 73. She’s riding buttock to buttock under the midnight stars with Perry in the bumpy people carrier with blackened windows as Baby Face, the short-haired blond bodyguard with the linked gold bracelet, drives them to their hotel at the end of the birthday revels at Three Chimneys.
‘You had good night, Gail?’
This is your driver speaking. Until now, Baby Face hasn’t let on that he speaks English. When Perry challenged him outside the tennis court, he didn’t speak a word of it. So why’s he letting on now? she wonders, alert as never in her life.
‘ Fabulous night, thank you,’ she declares in her father’s voice, filling in for Perry, who appears to have gone deaf. ‘Simply wonderful . I’m so happy for those magnificent boys.’
‘My name is Niki, OK?’
‘OK. Great. Hello, Niki,’ says Gail. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Perm, Russia. Nice place. Perry, please? You had good night too?’
Gail is about to jab Perry with her elbow when he comes to life by himself. ‘Great, thanks, Niki. Fantastic food. Really nice people. Super. Best evening of our holiday so far.’
Not bad for a beginner, thinks Gail.
‘What time you arrive Three Chimneys?’ Niki asks.
‘We nearly didn’t arrive at all , Niki,’ Gail exclaims, giggling to cover for Perry’s hesitation. ‘Did we, Perry? We took the Nature Path and had to hack our way through the undergrowth! Where did you learn your wonderful English, Niki?’
‘Boston, Massachusetts. You got knife?’
‘Knife?’
‘To cut undergrowth, you got to have big knife .’
Those dead eyes in the mirror, what have they seen? What are they seeing now?
‘I wish we had, Niki,’ Gail cries, still in her father’s skin. ‘I’m afraid we English don’t carry knives.’ What gibberish am I talking? Never mind. Talk it . ‘Well, some of us do, to be truthful, but not people like us . We’re the wrong social class . You’ve heard about our class system? Well, in England you only carry a knife if you’re lower-middle or below!’ And more hoots of laughter to see them round the roundabout and into the drive to the front entrance.
Dazed, they pick their way like strangers between the lighted hibiscus to their cabin. Perry closes the door behind them, locks it, but doesn’t switch the light on. They stand facing each other across the bed in the darkness. For an age, there’s no soundtrack. Which should not imply that Perry hasn’t made up his mind what he’s about to say:
‘I need paper to write on. So do you.’ His I’m-in-charge-here voice, normally reserved, she assumes, for errant undergraduates who have failed to turn in their weekly essay.
He draws the blinds. He switches on the inadequate reading light on my side of the bed, leaving the rest of the room in darkness.
He yanks open the drawer of my bedside locker and fishes out a yellow legal pad: also mine. Emblazoned on it, my brilliant reflections on Samson v. Samson : my first case as a top silk’s junior, my quantum leap to instant fame and fortune.
Or not.
Ripping off the pages on which I have recorded my pearls of legal wisdom, he stuffs them
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