Sally

‘I took her home. Fancy a drink? My shout.’

Bob watched his friend as he dressed and preened.

Good Lord, he’s gone! A goner! Not that he knows it yet. Goodbye, Old Mister Pump-and-Dump, Sir Love ’Em and Leave ’Em. Or Rather Lord Leave ’Em Before You Fallinlovewith ’Em. I don’t believe it!

Bob felt a wave of fondness and happiness for his pal so he slapped his back and squeezed his delts.

‘Your shout. Just a swift half, mind. Promised Catherine that we’d go to the flicks.’

Their swift half turned into a leisurely two-pinter. Bob decided not to pry further. This one needed nurturing. Instead, they indulged in a trip down Memory Lane, recalling wild times shared at college, remembering, try for try, every rugby game that they’d played together, remarking on how far they had both come since moving to London to make their respective marks on the world of Law and Architecture. Bob talked about Catherine, their next holiday to Northern Portugal, the extension to the house, the current discord over the baby issue – her desire, his reluctance. (‘But me, a dad? I mean, I’m not old enough! I’ve got a dad of my own still! Catherine’s broody though, very. I’ve even checked her Pill packets recently to make sure she’s not forgetting accidentally-on-purpose.’)

Richard was simultaneously envious of Bob’s security, his constant and loving relationship, and yet also thankful that he had no one but himself to think of. Poor old Bob, soon to be dragged off to a schmaltzy American weepy that he’d never go to see out of choice. But there again, didn’t he seem to beam with affection when, on the way to the pub, he’d made a detour to buy tissues and wine gums?

‘Hey, look at the time! I’ve got fifteen minutes to get to Leicester Square! Great to see you, Richie.’ (Don’t call me that.) ‘Still on for squash on Sunday morning? Great. You going to call her? You are going to call her! Must dash. Later!’

‘Later! Love to Catherine. Don’t sob too hard!’

Bob left the pub backwards, making a telephone gesture as he did so. Richard raised his pint and smiled. A minute or two later he left it, half-full, and caught a cab home to Notting Hill.

0181 348 6523.

‘Hullo?’

‘Sally! Richard here.’

‘Hu-low!’

‘How are you?’

‘Well! Yes! You?’

‘Mmm!’

A pause verging on embarrassing silence.

‘Sally, would you like to have dinner with me? Friday night? At mine?’

‘That would be nice. Why, yes. Thank you. Address? Time? Lovely!’

‘Friday, then.’ And wear those lovely little knickers.

‘Friday.’ And make sure the sheets are fresh.

SIX

With the mock-Georgian folly taking good form on the drawing-board, Richard felt justified, for the first time in his working career, in packing up at lunch-time and taking the afternoon off.

Goodbye Sandra, goodbye Mary. Goodbye, Mr Stonehill. Goodbye navy suit and calf muscles. Sandra plunged herself into a chasm of pessimism rescued only by a chocolate éclair tactfully provided by Mary. No, Mary, he’s far too fit ever to need a doctor. It can only mean a woman.

What a delight, thought Richard, to shop at Sainsbury’s on a weekday afternoon. What a revelation it was that a supermarket could look like that. No obstacle course of trollies and baskets, plenty of everything left, no people-snake at the check-out. No men, realized Richard.

As he trollied his way to the cereals, he thought what a mercy it was that he was unmarried. He pondered how it was that shopping for groceries became such a trial for the married man. On your soap box, Richard, away you go.

Take any ordinary Saturday – tomorrow for instance – they’ll be here in force, frantic and bewildered, chained to The List. It says baked beans so Married Man stops by the baked beans, and regards them. Look at the list, look at the produce, look at the list. Move on a couple of paces, walk backwards knocking over a child before finally plucking two tins of said beans. Place them carefully in the trolley but manage somehow to bruise the avocados in the process. Wipe brow, unscrunch List and go in search of Free-range Eggs. Buy Farm Fresh instead – they’re cheaper after all. Little does M.M. realize that they will ultimately work out twice as dear when Wife sees them, bins them and hollers: ‘FREE-RANGE!’ Don’t they know that there’s a reason for lard, crinkle cut chips, white sliced bread and bumper-pack beer not to be on The List?

Richard Stonehill, I think you will find that a packet of SuperNoodles lurks behind that box of lo-fat, lo-salt, sugar free lite-bran (organic) which you have strategically positioned in your trolley.

It is at the check-out, Richard rued whilst searching for an eco-friendly bleach, where M.M. comes most unstuck. You can see them gaze in wonder at the well-spaced items processing along on the conveyor belt of the female shopper (or that of Mr Stonehill). The contents of M.M.’s trolley are in a veritable profiterole pile as they head towards the black looks of the check-out assistant. M.M. wonders how women know instinctively how to pack – is it passed down from Mother to Daughter?

More to the point, why on earth does M.M. insist on packing eggs and pastry cases, watercress and tomatoes first; soap powder, bottles and tins last? What happens to men when they marry? Richard pondered as he sashayed past the beverages and preserves (choosing Broken Orange Pekoe and Damson Extra respectively). Do these married men – erstwhile bachelors after all – lose all notion, every shred of common sense as to what constitutes a well-stocked larder? Why and how does this innate and irrational fear of supermarkets suddenly develop?

Is there a cure?

Divorce?

Richard was relieved, on that decadent afternoon, that this sub-species was busy elsewhere (probably making important decisions at business, running the city, organizing the country, designing buildings, ministering law, order, justice and peace) so that he could cruise the aisles without incident or irritation. Deftly he swooped and plucked and picked as he breezed along. Under his expertise, his trolley behaved impeccably. Gone were those forever-spinning wheels; it became some kind of miniature hovercraft. Such was his skill and grace at handling corners, the elegant stops and effortless starts, the two of them became the Torvill and Dean of Sainsbury’s. Packed to perfection – frozen goods in one bag, bottles, tins and tubes in a box, fresh produce in another bag – Richard headed home.

It never occurred to him that Married Man is the beast he is because he thinks not only for himself. He has responsibilities to others. Commitment. After all, Richard has had fifteen years to bring his shopping – content and technique – to a fine art for he has bought and thought only for himself. He has been his own man. And nobody else’s.

The few special ingredients, those which would make his meal for Sally a veritable and memorable feast, were brought from Gambini’s, the specialist Italian delicatessen that was, by a useful turn of Fate, Richard’s corner shop. Now here was a place he would browse and deliberate at leisure. Pappardelle or Orecchiette or Gigli del Gargano? Ciabatta or Focaccia? Stuffed olives or those marinating happily in thyme-flavoured cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil? The shop was cramped, the smell almost overpowering as cheese mingled with salami and olives jostled for olfactory recognition against garlic-drenched sauces. From floor to ceiling, the Gambinis had packed the shelves tight with the necessities for maintaining Italian culinary standards in England. All the regions of Italy were represented under this one roof in Notting Hill. From Umbria, Tuscany, Sicily and Pugilia was extra virgin olive oil spanning the spectrum from pale gold to deep khaki. Small pots of Pesto Genovese rubbed shoulders with little jars of capers from Lipari. Jams of wild chestnut and wild fig jostled for space next to jars of chocolate hazelnut cream, and packets of Cantucci biscuits were balanced precariously against a tower of boxed Panforte.

Richard was caught, quite compliantly, in the Gambinis’ web of luxury and tantalizing variety. When it came to vinegar there was Chianti, Balsamic, peach or plum to choose from. Impossibly fat olives vied for attention, gleaming up at him from their bowls of marinades. Although the porcini secchi seemed somewhat ordinaire next to dry morels from Tibet and Fairy Ring Champignons, Richard bought some anyway and Sardinian Saffron proved to be a must-have, despite its imaginative price tag (in fact, because of its price tag).

Signora Gambini, known to the select few (Richard amongst them) as Rosa, watched as he smelt, felt and tasted his way through her wares. His shopping list was at once forgotten as his eyes, nose and mouth traversed the shop. His eyes lingered over the chargrilled baby onions in olive oil, the wild mountain goat pâté and the grilled polenta but his nose pulled him away and positioned him in front of the cheeses where the Taleggio, with its peach rind striated with powder grey, solicited him uncompromisingly. The Torta al Limone proved even harder to resist, glinting up at him wickedly with its creamy golden heart dusted delightfully with icing sugar, the whole encased by crisp, caramel-coloured pastry.

‘Someone special for dinner, Signor?’ cooed Rosa. ‘I give to you my special menu, guaranteed to win her heart. With it, I captured Germano and for forty-three years he is with me.’

Rosa was a clever lady. Her suggestions, made shyly, were each concluded with a question mark. Consequently, Richard bought exactly what she planned he should, but believed himself to have conceived the entire selection. With his wallet pleasurably empty and his bags satisfyingly full, he bade Rosa farewell and promised to tell her how the meal went. With plump arms folded triumphantly across a magnificent bosom encased by straining floral polyester, she sent him on his way with a ‘Ciao’ and a conspiratorial wink.

Back at his flat, Richard took the shopping into the kitchen, simultaneously undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. He draped his tie (Hermès) around the bedroom door handle, his shirt (Thomas Pink) he bundled into the washing machine from whose drum stared the crumpled faces of four other white, worn-once shirts (Turbull & Asser, Hilditch & Key, Hawes & Curtis, Lewin). His suit (Hugo Boss) was given a good shake, placed over a thick wooden hanger and hung in the far left section of the wardrobe where it joined a regiment of other finely tailored suits (David Rose, Yves Saint Laurent, Armani – Giorgio, not Emporio). Socks (Ralph Lauren – we already know that) and boxer shorts (Calvin Klein – we would have guessed) were put in the laundry basket (Richard never mixes his washes). Shoes (Church’s?) (Yes) were shoe-treed and placed at the foot of the cupboard. They will of course be polished before they are next worn.

Naked, Richard was heading for the shower when he stopped and philosophized. No, cook first, then clean, then shower.

He jumped into jogging pants and a faded polo shirt (both Timberland) and selected the music for the afternoon’s industry. He’d cook to Mendelssohn’s Italian, he’d clean to the Scottish, then relax and await Sally with Brahms. Più animato, Richard joined the strings of the first movement and skittered around his kitchen, gathering utensils and food stuffs and placing them in rational order according to the menu.

Richard, you could have been a Michelin-starred chef. Just look at you with your Sabatiers, how fast you chop, so evenly and accurately. Why don’t the onions make your eyes water, why do you not subconsciously lick a finger and find it coated with garlic? How can you cook so exquisitely without using every utensil in your kitchen? Why is there no mess on the floor? You remember to preheat the oven, you wash up as you go, you do not splash tomato juice on your shirt, no bits of parsley wedge themselves under your nails. There really is no need for you to wear an apron but you look dinky in one anyway. All is cooked to perfection, you needn’t taste it but you do, with a special spoon for the very purpose because you wouldn’t dream of using the spoon with which you stirred the sauce (à la Marco Pierre White) and with which you were compelled to conduct the fourth movement saltarello. Talking of salt, you even know intuitively what constitutes a definitive pinch.

Finito.

The perfect four hours left for the flavours to mellow and the pungent fumes in the kitchen to subside into provocative wafts.

On with the second task. Cleaning. No Shake ’n’ Vac short cuts for Richard. He glides around the sitting-room, eyes constantly searching out invisible dust, ears tuned to the oboe, serene above the crowded strings of the opening of the Scottish Symphony. Dust first, plump the cushions, straighten the tulips. Hoover. Spick and span.

Bedroom. Change the sheets, open the window. Hoover. Next.

Bathroom. Clean the bath, the sink; disinfect the toilet, change the pot pourri; wash the tiles and the mirror, rinse well. Buff up. Hoover. Done. Next?

Body. ‘Go running’ is next on the Stonehill Schedule. Put on Nikes, put the wine in the fridge, look once round the flat, feel pleased, proud and at ease. Off you go.

Richard’s daily run took him four miles and twenty-six minutes. Usually he thought of nothing, and thinking of nothing ensured he was relaxed and psychologically out of the office by the time he returned. Today, however, his mind was running faster than his feet.

Say she doesn’t turn up? Say she’s a vegetarian? Say my mother rings? Say Bob and Catherine pop round? Shit, did I turn the gas off? Have I got any condoms at home? Shall I buy Beaumes de Venise too? Yes, definitely. But I’d better buy that now so it can chill thoroughly. Wait, work this through. Get home, check condoms … no, check gas first. Then condoms. Shower? No, buy the pudding wine, then shower, then phone Mother. Other way round. Let’s just get home.

Sprint, Richard, sprint!

Home, James. You didn’t spare the horses today: 23 minutes 34 seconds. Not bad, not bad.

The gas was, of course, off.

Half an hour later, with condoms and wine bought and placed in bedside table and fridge respectively, Mother was phoned, the table laid, the sauce checked and fresh purple basil scattered through it. At last, Richard can start the final, crucial lap. Preening.

Hands on hips, upper lip sucked in by lower, wardrobe doors thrown open, he peruses his clothes. He touches nothing, just looks and assesses. Navy cotton chinos, brown suede belt, shirt striped thickly in blue and thinly in peppermint, white boxers, navy socks and navy nubuck loafers.

Navy, navy, navy, do you think that’s too conservative? No, Richard, you look wonderful in navy. Anyway, if you want to be pedantic, there’s a subtle but effective difference between the French Navy of your shoes and the true navy of your trousers. If you’re not happy, why not wear the shirt striped with olive and pink?

I’ll go for the olive and pink.

In the tiler’s delight bathroom, Richard showers. It is his routine to take it moderately hot and to finish off with a prolonged blast of freezing cold which, he assures himself, is invigorating and good for the circulation. Old habits die hard and this one stemmed from eight not always easy years at boarding school.

With a towel wrapped effortlessly around his trunk and another draped nonchalantly over his shoulder, Richard gives himself a close shave. To a fly on the wall, or on a majolica tile, the scene has all the features of a classic after-shave advert, bar the transatlantic voice-over drawl proclaiming: ‘L’Homme, one hundred per cent.’ But this is Notting Hill and our Richard, towel now slipping irretrievably, is standing with eyes watering from the healthy smart of his one-hundred-per-cent manly after-shave. A few strange and not desperately appealing physiognomic contortions aid recovery but his towel still lies, somewhat comically, about his feet. No need and no time to rescue it and save his style. There is pressing work to be done involving a comb, an agile wrist and a damp mop of light-magnetic, sand-coloured hair. Comb it this way, then that. Run through a little mousse, comb again then lightly shake through with your fingertips. Result: the perfect, tousled look.

Get dressed, Richard, Sally will arrive in the hour. No, there’s another job; out with the nail clippers and emery board, ensure that fingers and toes are neat and tidy. They are, they always are. Step into your boxers, slip on your trousers, pull on your shirt and slide into your loafers. You’re ready, you’re gorgeous. Now just lounge about, reinstate Mr Mendelssohn where your run so rudely cut him off, relax and await the arrival of Ms Lomax.

Miss Lomax was late back from school. An emergency meeting had been held to determine whether to expel or merely suspend an eleven-year-old boy for smoking in the girls’ toilets. Sally suggested doing neither but making him smoke the entire packet. In front of his friends. However, the boy was suspended and sent home directly, with his packet of cigarettes. After school the teachers gathered to formulate the Monday morning assembly on the evils of smoking. It’s bad for your health, very expensive and not clever at all.

But she’s home now and is perturbed to find that she does not have time for her customary Friday evening bath, her luxuriate. Instead, a quick shower must suffice.

The Lomax legs are shaved and two stray hairs are tweezed from the bridge of her nose. Sally gives her hair an energetic brush and thanks the stars that she’d washed it the previous evening. She swirls a soft brush around a pot of bronze balls of rouge and carelessly but effectively whispers it over her cheeks and eyes. And cleavage, why not! After a quick spritz of Ysatis, she deftly flosses her teeth. Into the bathroom she goes, humming absent-mindedly ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’, that morning’s hymn. It’s black velvet skirt time. She teams it with the olive silk shirt and black suede pumps with just the right height of heel to give her unremarkable legs an elegant send-off. Under it all, her little white cotton broderie anglaise knickers, for good luck.

Sally, you won’t need it.

Before leaving the flat, she stops for a prolonged glance in the mirror and gives herself a slightly bashful smile.

Off you go, you old slapper! Shall I seduce him in between hors d’oeuvres and main course? Or before?

That’s something for you to ponder on the Highgate-Notting Hill drive. Off you go, Sally.

Adjusting the choke, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her skirt, Sally mirrored, signalled and manoeuvred – and then reversed straight back into the space she had just vacated. She unclipped her seatbelt and walked briskly back to her flat. She stopped in the sitting-room and gazed at the telephone which was ringing pleadingly. Beaming an ecstatic smile at it, she marched assertively into the bathroom. Giving her reflection a conniving wink, Sally plucked her toothbrush from the beaker and slipped it into her bag.

SEVEN

As soon as Sally entered Richard’s flat, it was she who was seduced. And not by Richard. It was the smell of cooking: a mellow base of tomato and something she couldn’t put her finger on, laced with top notes of garlic and basil. She realized how ravenous she was. For food. For sex too, but for food first and foremost. She’d passed on the shepherd’s pie offered for lunch that day at school and had had to make do with a floury Cox’s and a rubbery chunk of cheddar.

Sally was surprised that she wasn’t in the least nervous. Richard, however, was. Unseen, and feeling queasy with excitement, he had watched Sally drive up and down the street looking for a parking place. He had gone straight to the kitchen and kept his hands motionless under the cold tap – sweaty palms would not be a turn on and were most unStonehill.

And here they are now, together again less than a week since their first meeting. How do they look to each other? How do they feel? Knowing full well how memory can often play havoc with reality and turn reptiles into royalty, Sally is relieved that Richard is just as good-looking and suave as she remembered. Richard is thrilled, his flat seems instantly infused with energy and light and his palms remain cool and dry. He thinks she looks scrumptious and has to fight back an impulse to scoop her up and twirl her around.

Nonchalant ‘Hi’s were followed with the briefest of pecks on the cheek. Richard led Sally through and lowered the volume of the Brahms. While he fixed her the obligatory drink (‘Spritzer will be lovely, thanks’), she perused his books – just as Richard had at Sally’s. She was amused that many of her dog-eared paperbacks were duplicated in here in pristine hardback. She wondered if he really enjoyed Nietzsche and what his favourite Shakespeare was.

‘Seize her,’ Richard murmured.

‘I like the History Plays too,’ Sally agreed.

Mentally, she catalogued all she saw and it all seemed to add up to the man she thought and hoped Richard was. Tulips in November, how decadent. A gleaming kitchen, ten out of ten. Leather recliner, lose five points. Cream sofa piled high with cushions, five points restored.

‘Can I use your bathroom?’

‘Sure, through there.’

Full marks for hygiene, bonus marks for the thickness of the towels, an overall gold star for taste. She flushed the loo just to make it seem that her trip to the bathroom had been for a purpose other than a snoop. Coming back into the lounge she had a furtive glance into the bedroom – it seemed quiet, airy and muted. Good.

‘Sally, let’s eat.’

For Sally, this meal was to be a sounding board for her scheme. All week, in the privacy of her flat and with a mirror propped close as the harshest of critics, she had practised a new technique on a variety of foods. Food, she had decided, was not so much to be eaten to be digested, as eaten to seduce. Hitherto she had merely cut asparagus into spearable, bite-sized chunks, now she could devour them whole with slow, sensual appeal. Although she had never really got to grips with the taste or method of oysters, she could now sip and gulp them with the alluring grace of a film star. To her relief, neither was on the menu tonight – anyway, asparagus had a strange effect on her bladder and she simply did not like those slithering detritus feeders, full stop.

Richard had prepared a meal that was as chic and delicious as it was simple. He had laid the table with a fine white damask cloth, dark red linen napkins, and cutlery and glass that shone proud. He’d toyed with the idea of a candle and a rose but was instantly repelled by the corniness of it (they would have had minus marks from Sally anyway). Instead, he dimmed the lights just slightly and, at Sally’s request, replaced Brahms with Van the Man. ‘My Brown-eyed Girl’ indeed, thought Richard.

He brought out the Prosciutto S. Daniele which he had rolled around grissini.

Shall I lick at it and suck at it suggestively?

Hold off a while, Sally. You don’t want to be too obvious.

Ultimately, it was far too delicious to do anything to but eat and enjoy.

Richard stared at her, held her gaze for a groin-stirring moment and then dropped his eyes to her mouth.

Just look at that crumb nestling in the corner of her lips. A peony mouth, just like Hardy’s Tess. Don’t realize it’s there, Sally, let me linger on it a while longer. I have to have that crumb, your mouth.

He leant forward, driven by the desire to lick the crumb, but Sally’s tongue beat him by a split second. He’d lost the crumb but was awarded a tantalizing taste of her tongue tip. Her eyes spoke of the wry smile her lips wore but which he could not see, so close was he to her face. Unfortunately, it was not a pose he could hold comfortably indefinitely, propped as he was on his elbows and precariously close to the jug of vinaigrette. He sat back and saw how Sally’s wry smile was not confined to her lips but covered her whole face. It raised her cheekbones, it caused delicate lines around her eyes, it dimpled her chin just very slightly.