There was a pause, and she smiled. Lipstick had been replaced by the black stain of the wine, and her dark fringe was now sticky with sweat. Pupils dilated, her eyes were wonderful. She tugged at the front of her dress. ‘Is it hot in here, or is it me?’
‘It’s you,’ I said. I had been considering what it would feel like to kiss her, weighing this against what it would feel like to miss the last tube. The kiss felt possible, but it felt un-gentlemanly to take advantage of standards that had been chemically lowered. Which was clearly the case, because now she shivered and smiled and said:
‘Please don’t misinterpret this, Douglas, but would you mind coming over here and just … holding me?’
At which point a fiery ball of hair barrelled low into the kitchen, scooped her up and dangled her over his shoulder. ‘Are you hiding from me, little lady?’
‘Actually, can you put me down please, Jake?’
‘Scuttling away with Doctor Frankenstein …’ He was shifting her on his shoulder now, as if adjusting a roll of carpet. ‘Come and dance with me. Now!’
‘Stop it, please!’ She seemed embarrassed, upset, her face red.
‘Jake, I think you should put her—’
‘Here, watch this. Can you do this, Doctor Frankenstein?’ And with an ease that would have been admirable if Connie had been willing, he tossed her into the air and caught her on the palms of his hands, his elbows locked so that her head bounced against the lightshade. Her black dress had ridden up and with one hand she tugged it down, the smile on her face fixed and mirthless.
‘I said, put. Her. Down!’
I could hardly believe the voice was mine, or indeed the hand that was now at arm’s length, brandishing a plastic spatula flecked with tuna pasta bake. Jake glanced at the spatula, then at me, then laughed, rolled Connie down to the ground and with a dainty big-top skip, left the kitchen. ‘Prick-tease!’ was his parting shot.
‘I hope they take away your safety net!’ shouted Connie, tugging at her dress’s hem. ‘Conceited bastard.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Me? I’m fine. Thank you.’ I followed her glance. The rubber utensil was still in my hand. ‘What were you planning to do with that?’
‘If he didn’t put you down, I was going to make him eat something.’
She laughed, rotated her shoulders and put her hand to her neck as if assessing the damage. ‘I feel terrible, I have to go outside.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘In fact …’ She put her hand on my arm ‘… more than that, I have to go home.’
‘The tubes have stopped running.’
‘That’s all right, I’ll walk.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Whitechapel.’
‘Whitechapel? That’s eight, ten miles away.’
‘S’all right, I’d like to. I’ve got a change of shoes. I’ll be fine, it’s just …’ She placed both hands on her chest. ‘I need to walk this off and if I’m by myself I’m going to … crash into something. Or someone.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.
A moment passed. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’
‘I should go and say goodbye.’
‘No.’ She took my hand. ‘Let’s make a French exit.’
‘What’s a French exit?’
‘It’s when you leave without saying goodbye.’
‘I’ve never heard that before.’
A French exit; no
The morning of departure we awoke at five thirty a.m. and said a fond goodbye to Mr Jones, who was to be cared for by our neighbours, Steph and Mark, for the month-long duration of the Grand Tour. We were always surprised by how much we missed Mr Jones. Even in canine terms he is basically an idiot, perpetually running into trees, falling into ditches, eating daffodils. A ‘sense of humour’, Connie calls it. Throw Mr Jones a stick and more likely than not he will return with a pair of discarded underpants. Monumentally flatulent, too — weapons-grade. But he is foolish, loyal and affectionate and Connie is entirely devoted to him.
‘Bye, old pal, we’ll send you a postcard,’ she cooed, nuzzling at his neck.
‘Don’t think there’s much point sending a postcard,’ I said. ‘He’ll only eat it.’
Connie sighed deeply. ‘I’m not really going to send him a postcard.’
‘No, no, I realised that.’ We had been wilfully misinterpreting each other’s jokes since Connie’s warning of departure. It hummed away beneath everything we did, however innocuous. Even saying goodbye to Mr Jones contained the question: who will get custody?
And so we roused Albie, for whom rising before eight a.m. was an infringement of his basic human rights, then took a taxi to Reading and crammed onto a commuter train to Paddington, Albie sleeping en route, or pretending to do so.
Despite my resolutions, we had argued the night before, in this instance about the acoustic guitar that Albie insisted on dragging across Europe — an absurd and impractical affectation, I thought — and there was the usual stomping up the stairs, Connie’s familiar sigh, her famous slow head-shake.
‘I’m worried he’s going to busk,’ I said.
‘So let him busk! There are worse things a seventeen-year-old can do.’
