Perfect Blend: A Novel (13 page)

“Hello. If you can describe his eyes in this much detail after one meeting, you are definitely smitten.”

Amy felt herself blush. “Look, finding somebody attractive doesn’t amount to being smitten. I don’t even know the man.”

“Maybe not, but you’re smitten.”

“Stop it. I’m not smitten.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” Bel singsonged.

“I am not.”

“Are, are, are, and are.”

“Behave,” Amy said, giggling. “So how do you intend to wean yourself off sex with Mark?”

Bel shrugged. “Dunno. I’m going to have to find some other activity to take its place.”

“Like what? Crochet?”

They both laughed.

“Don’t worry,” Bel said. “Something will turn up.”

IKEA WAS
mobbed as usual. As the three of them worked their way past the room settings and frazzled couples doing battle with their irritable, noncompliant offspring, Bel wondered if the company ever ran out of Swedish names for the furniture. “And how do they decide on the names in the first place? Do they have meetings? Take votes? Or does somebody just look at a shelving unit and decide it looks like a Knut or an Ingvar?”

Amy chose a chest of drawers called Toborg and a desk called Stig, both of which met with Charlie’s approval because they were painted blue and red, his favorite colors.

Bel found two beds that she liked but couldn’t choose between them. After half an hour of bouncing, hemming and hawing, and Charlie demanding to be fed, she gave up and said she would come back another time. Amy said this was daft because they’d laid out for the van, but Bel said there was no point making a decision if she wasn’t sure.

Once they’d loaded the van with the chest of drawers and desk, they went to the restaurant and devoured Swedish meatballs and fries. Before they left, Amy bought a jumbo bag of chocolate Dime bars, most of which they demolished on the way home.

Back home, the women carted Stig and Toborg out of the van and into Charlie’s room. Amy hated building IKEA flat packs because she could never understand the instructions, but Bel, who had never done it before and kept asking “How hard could it be?” insisted on having a try. “Maybe this is just the kind of activity I need to take my mind off sex with Mark.”

Amy put the kettle on and set Charlie up at the kitchen table with his poster paints. Afterward she went to check on Michelangelo. Still no change. She was wondering whether to take him to the vet in the morning so that he could be put out of his misery when she heard swearing coming from Charlie’s room. It was Bel, fulminating about the inadequacy of the building instructions.

“I told you so,” Amy said as she handed Bel a mug of tea. Bel was sitting cross-legged on the floor in a sea of nuts, screws, and drawer knobs. The instruction sheet was spread out in front of her.

Bel sipped some tea and carried on studying the sheet. “Hang on,” she said eventually. “These instructions aren’t for a Toborg, they’re for a shelving unit called Ingmar.”

“You’re kidding,” Amy said, running her fingers through her hair. “God, now we’re going to have to pack it all up and go back.”

“Unless …” Bel said, grinning in a way that suggested she’d had a brain wave to end all brain waves.

“What?”

“Okay, I’ve got this Swedish neighbor called Margit. Anyway, we got chatting the other day, and she happened to mention that one of her friends has moved in a few streets from you.”

“So?”

“Duh, he’s Swedish. What if I go around there and ask if he would mind helping us build Charlie’s desk and chest of drawers?”

“What? That’s outrageous. You cannot possibly knock on some strange person’s door and ask if they’d mind dropping everything to come and help us build flat pack furniture. Plus you’re assuming that because this bloke is Swedish, he will automatically know how to do it.”

“But he will.” Bel had started laughing. “Swedes are practically born in flat packs. Plus Margit says he’s totally gorgeous. This would be an excuse to get a good look at him. I’m going to phone her and get his address.”

“Don’t you dare!” She tried to grab Bel’s phone, but she was too late. Bel was already on her feet, dialing her neighbor’s number. She listened as Bel told Margit her plan. A few moments later Bel had the address. “Margit says he’s all on his own today and would probably love to come over. I’m going around there.”

“But what will you say? How will you put it? I’m going red just thinking about it. It’s such cheek.”

“Stop being a wuss. Leave it to me.” Bel headed for the door.

“Whatever you do,” Amy called out after her, “please don’t mention the bit about all Swedes being born in flat packs. He might not take it very well.”

“Ooh, you think?”

Twenty minutes later, Bel was back. Accompanying her was a six-foot-six, blond-haired, blue-eyed Viking hunk.

“Amy, I’d like you to meet Ulf.” Bel was looking up at him, her false eyelashes fluttering nineteen to the dozen. Amy couldn’t help thinking that any minute now drool would start running down her chin. “Ulf has very kindly agreed to help us build Charlie’s furniture.”

Amy got up off the floor, where she had been gathering up screws and nuts. “Hello, Ulf,” she said, extending her hand toward him. “This is so kind of you. But surely you’ve got better things to do on a Sunday afternoon than build furniture for strange women.”

“Oh, no. It is not a problem. I am more than happy to help.” Like most Scandinavians, he spoke perfect, albeit rather formal, English in a constantly changing tone that suggested melody rather than speech. “I have just finished my shift at the hospital. It will be soothing to do some practical activity.”

“Ulf’s a neurosurgeon,” Bel announced. “That means he operates on people’s brains. Isn’t that just awesome?”

Amy agreed that it was truly awesome.

“He actually drills into skulls.” She turned to Ulf again. “How do you do that?”

Cue matinee idol smile: “With a very steady hand.”

“And that’s not all. He even finds time to work at a homeless shelter.”

Amy let out an inadequate “Wow.” Under normal circumstances she would have been more than eager to show an interest in Ulf’s work, but right now it felt like Bel was showing enough interest for both of them.

Ulf colored. “It’s not much, only twice a month. So far I have only been once.”

“You’re too modest,” Bel said. “It’s wonderful what you’re doing. Most people don’t give a stuff about the poor and needy.”

“Now, then,” Bel said to Ulf, “what can we get you? Some herrings, maybe? Sourdough? Gravlax? Lingonberry jam? Brill?”

“Yes, I have a fridge full of herrings and brill,” Amy chirruped, shooting Bel a “what planet are you on” look.

“Coffee would be great,” Ulf said.

“Coming up,” Amy said. “Bel, maybe you’d like to help me?”

Bel followed Amy into the kitchen. “I have found it,” she squealed. “I have found it.”

“Found what?” Amy said.

“The activity I was looking for. I’m going to get over Mark by getting under Ulf. He’s sensitive and caring … I’ve found the new type of man I was looking for.” She started to giggle. “You could say that I’ve finally turned over a new Ulf.”

“My God, Bel, you only decided to dump Mark five minutes ago. What about taking some time to lick your wounds?”

“I’ve licked them already … God, I am so in lust.” She slapped her hand to her chest.

“Great. So what are you planning to tell Mark? I seem to remember you’re due over there later with pizza and beer.”

“Bugger. Okay, I’ll phone him. I’ll tell him I’m ill. I’ll say I’ve got some kind of sudden-onset skin fungus. That’ll put him off for a bit and give me time to think about how I’m going to dump him. Now let’s make that coffee. I want to get back to King Canuty.”

ULF FINISHED
the desk and chest of drawers in a couple of hours. It would have been sooner, but Charlie running in and out demanding to help slowed him down.

Everybody agreed—especially Charlie, who was thrilled to bits with his new desk—that Ulf had done a perfect job building Stig and Toborg. Amy wanted to say thank you and suggested she buy everybody Chinese. Ulf seemed up for it, but it was clear that Bel had other plans. “Ulf,” she purred, “why don’t you and I go back to your place? And if you’re very good, I’ll let you explore my cerebral cortex.”

In the end they stayed for Chinese and left together just after eight.

After they’d gone, Amy went to run Charlie’s bath. While it was filling up, she went to check on Michelangelo. She found him rigid and lifeless. She broke the news to Charlie as gently as she could but wasn’t really surprised when he showed a complete lack of interest. “We’ll bury his body in the ground,” she persisted, “and that will help fertilize the soil and nourish new life.”

“Mum, please, please can we get a snake?”

“Charlie, for the last time, we are not getting a snake. Now, are you going to come into the garden after your bath and help me bury Michelangelo?”

He gave a vigorous shake of his head.

Apart from a paper towel holder, Amy couldn’t find anything to bury the poor animal in. She didn’t possess a shoe box, and anyway, that would have been too big. She had loads of takeout containers, but they were the plastic kind that would delay Michelangelo’s decomposition. He needed to be buried in cardboard. She looked in the recycling container, which lived just outside the kitchen door. It was empty save for a jumbo-sized Tampax box. She grimaced. She couldn’t even contemplate burying Michelangelo in a tampon box. He might be only a hamster, but he was still one of God’s creatures. How did that song go? “All God’s critters got a place in the choir …” No, Michelangelo deserved some respect. On the other hand, she was bereft of ideas. It would be unthinkable to put him out with the rubbish. That left her with the Tampax option. Would it really be so terrible? After all, he was a dead rodent. He was hardly going to know the difference.

She hemmed and hawed a bit longer, before wrapping the furry corpse in several sheets of Bounty and placing it in the Tampax box. Afterward she dug a hole under the greengage tree in the garden and committed Michelangelo’s body to the ground. As she covered his Tampax coffin with soil, she found herself humming “All Things Bright and Beautiful” and wondering if Charlie could be a psychopath, after all.

Chapter 6

THE NEXT MORNING
, Charlie hardly spoke as he sat eating his Coco Pops.

Amy asked him if he was okay.

“Has Michelangelo arrived at heaven yet?” he asked by way of reply.

“Oh, I would think so,” Amy said. “By now the hamster angels will probably be showing him around. I bet you anything they’ve got this amazing hamster wheel and some great tunnels for him to explore.” She took an apple and a small bunch of grapes from the fruit bowl and placed them in Charlie’s Incredibles lunch box, alongside the tuna sandwich and organic low-fat, no-salt potato chips. Charlie was less than keen on the healthy potato chips, and most mornings he pleaded for Hula Hoops or Quavers. Amy saw no reason not to give him the occasional treat, but since his school had a policy of confiscating junk food, it was the approved option or nothing.

“So, how did he get there?” Charlie persisted.

“To heaven? I’m not sure. What do you think?”

Charlie became thoughtful. “I think he went by plane or maybe in a space rocket.”

With that, Charlie ran to get his crayons and some paper. Soon he was drawing a smiley Michelangelo looking out of the window of a rocket. Brilliant red, orange, and yellow flames were bursting from the engine. A boy and a woman were waving him goodbye from the ground. “That’s me and you,” Charlie explained.
“We’re
happy that he’s not ill anymore, but we’re sad, too, ’cos we won’t see him again.”

Amy felt her eyes filling up. If she was honest, she had had no real doubts last night as she buried Michelangelo that Charlie was anything other than a regular kid, in possession of all the normal human emotions. Nevertheless, it was comforting to have it confirmed. “Come here and give me a hug,” she said. Charlie jumped down from his chair and ran over to his mother. “Love you,” she said, squeezing and kissing him.

“Yuk, I’ve got your lick on my face.” He pulled a face and began rubbing his cheek.

AMY HAD
just gotten off the bus and was making her way to the café when she got a text from Brian. He was going to be late because he had a doctor’s appointment.

G
ETTING MOOBS CHECKED OUT
. S
ORRY, ONLY APPT THEY HAD LEFT
. H
OPE U
2 CN MANAGE
.

The early-morning rush was never easy, but she knew she and Zelma would just about cope.

It helped that when they walked in they would find the place sparkling and immaculate. On Saturday and Sunday, the café was run by two catering students, Otto and Fidel. The leather-trousered, nipple-pierced duo ran the place with such flair, panache, and efficiency that even Brian was in awe. On top of that they were both hygiene freaks. Every Monday morning Brian, Amy, and Zelma arrived to find the floors scrubbed, the loos smelling of jasmine, and the kitchen without a speck of grease. Brian thought his standards were pretty high, but these guys were in a different league. Heaven only knew what time they left on Sunday night.

The plan was that when Brian left to set up his cutting-edge coffeehouse in Soho or the East End, Otto and Fidel would manage Café Mozart full-time.

Today there were fresh flowers on the counter and all the tables.

Amy took charge of the espresso machine—a task she never relished because she was always scared her coffee wouldn’t meet Brian’s standards—and Zelma served food. Whenever the queue died down, one of them would dash around with a cloth, wiping tables and clearing crocks.

Brian arrived just after ten, relief etched on his face. “The doctor examined my moobs and says they’re just fat deposits. He said if I lose a few pounds, they’ll disappear.”

“Told you so,” Amy and Zelma chorused.

“So, now you’re not turning into a woman,” Zelma said, “you could maybe do a little work around here.” She grinned and thrust a cloth into his hand. “You can start with wiping the counter. I’ve got a dishwasher to load.”

Amy watched him as he started wiping down the counter. He was actually smiling.

“Tell you what,” Brian said, using the cloth to steer cake crumbs into his hand, “I’m feeling generous. For the next few days, why don’t we sell Crema Crema Crema at the same price as our normal coffee?”

“Blimey,” Zelma said, “hark at John Paul Getty here.”

“No, I think it’s a good idea,” Amy said. “With Bean Machine about to open, we’ve got to do everything we can to keep people loyal.”

Brian decided to put up a pavement placard. This, combined with
The Guardian
running another piece on Crema Crema Crema in its food and drink section, meant that by midweek the queue of commuters reached into the street. Everybody wanted to know more about the coffee: Where did it come from? What gave it that amazing taste? Where could they buy it? How much was it? That much? Was there any way they could get it cheaper? In the end Brian printed out some information leaflets, which he left on the counter and all the tables.

He calculated that coffee sales had almost doubled in three days. He and Amy were allowing themselves to think that when Bean Machine opened, they might hang on to some customers, after all. On Wednesday things were so busy that they started to run out of milk. Amy said she would nip to the supermarket and pick up three or four liters, which would tide them over until the milkman came the next day.

She was walking past the pet shop, thinking that she might win Charlie over with a pet rabbit, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Startled, she swung around.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump.” It took her a moment or two to register that the apologetic face in front of her belonged to Sam Draper. “I’ve been trying to catch up with you.” He sounded breathless.

“That’s okay,” she said, offering him a reassuring smile. “Not your fault. I was miles away.” She paused, not quite sure what to say next. She couldn’t work out if she should launch straight into her apology for having been so rude to him the other day or wait until they’d exchanged some small talk. “So how are you?” she heard herself say.

“I’m good … Actually, I was coming to see you. I reached the café, then I caught sight of you down the street.”

“I’m off to pick up some milk. We’ve run out.” He was wearing an expensive-looking, slim-fitting gray suit with a narrow pinkish-purple tie. Very
Mad Men
, she thought.

“Oh, right.” He was clearly feeling the awkwardness, too.

“Customers have been going crazy for this posh coffee we’re selling.”

“Oh, what, Crema Crema Crema? I’ve been reading about it.”

For a moment his eyes met hers.

“Actually,” she said, “I’m glad I ran into you. You left the other day before I could apologize for being so rude. I was completely out of order. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I understand. You were just sticking up for your boss.”

“I know, but when I realized you weren’t part of Bean Machine, I should have stopped behaving like an ass, but I didn’t. Instead, I just carried on attacking you.”

“Oh, come on. I was just as bad. I seem to remember accusing you of being a hypocrite.”

“But you’re right. People like me do bang on about fair trade while buying cheap products from countries with terrible human rights.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t have to push it home quite so hard. I’m sorry.”

She offered him another smile. “Apology accepted.”

“But what you said about me working for Bean Machine hit home. It’s just that I only set up my company a few years ago. It’s still pretty small, and particularly with the recession, we’re in no position to turn down work. All I’d say in our defense is that we do a fair amount of pro bono work.”

“Really?” She was impressed.

“Actually, for the last few days, I’ve been in Africa—in Rwanda, to be precise—checking on the building of a school that we designed.”

“Oh, God, now I’m even more embarrassed. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. You couldn’t know.”

“So you’re still working on the Bean Machine project?”

“Yes, I’ve just come from the site.”

“Any more news on when it’s due to open?”

“A few weeks, a month, maybe. I know that isn’t good news for you …”

His sentence trailed off.

“Oh, I’m sure something will work out. Actually, our coffee sales are up over a hundred percent since we started selling Crema Crema Crema, so you never know. Customers who appreciate really good coffee might stay loyal.”

“That would be fantastic.”

She got a sense that he was working up to saying something. She let a few seconds pass before she jumped in to fill the silence. “Nice laptop,” she said, nodding toward the ultrathin Apple Mac he was carrying.

“Thanks. It’s new. I have to admit that I wasn’t sure. I usually plump for titanium, but I thought this time I’d go for the black. Except they don’t make the black anymore, so I bought a black rubbery cover thing, which also means I can drop it from time to time.”

“Good choice,” she said. “Black goes with everything.”

“Doesn’t show the dirt.”

“It’s slimming.”

He looked down at his stomach.

“God, no … not that I’m suggesting you need to slim. Far from it. You’re very slim. Well, not too slim. I mean just right. All I meant was that in principle black can be very slimming.” She felt her cheeks redden.

“Amy, I was wondering. Are you seeing anybody at the moment?”

“Me? No. Why?”

“I just thought you might like to go out for a drink sometime.”

“A drink?”

“Yes.”

“With you?”

He was giving her an awkward grin. “Yes.”

“Oh, right … I’d like that.”

“You would? Great.”

They decided on Saturday night at the Carpenter’s Arms in Chiswick.

WHEN AMY
got back to Café Mozart, she went straight into the kitchen to put the milk away. Zelma was standing at the stove, frying bacon.

“I have news,” Amy announced, heaving two Tesco carrier bags onto the counter. “Remember that guy Sam who came in last week—you know, the one I had that bit of a set-to with?”

“Of course. Lovely-looking chap. I sold him a slice of ginger cake.”

“Well, he just asked me out.”

“And naturally you said yes.”

“Actually, I did.”

“Good for you, darling. Mazel tov.”

At this point Brian appeared. “Hey, Zelma, could you make that two bacon sarnies instead of one?”

“Will do.” She turned down the light under the frying pan and went to the fridge to get more bacon. Zelma never objected to frying bacon. She adored the smell. Jewish porn, she called it. Her neighbors cooked it all the time. One of her few regrets in life was that her extractor fan couldn’t be turned to “suck.”

“By the way, Amy,” Brian said, eyeing a box of custard tarts, “did I just hear you say you had a fight with a customer?”

By now, Amy was loading the fridge with milk. “Yes, but only because I thought he worked for Bean Machine and was out to destroy the business. I was thinking of you, that’s all. Anyway, turns out he doesn’t work for the enemy, after all.”

Brian picked up a custard tart and bit into it.

Zelma waved her spatula at him. “I thought you were supposed to be on a diet. All that fat and sugar is bad for your heart. Don’t you come crying to me in a few years when you drop dead from clogged arteries.”

“Deal,” Brian said, shoving the second half of the tart into his mouth. He turned back to Amy. “So who is this bloke?”

Amy explained that he was the same chap she had approached outside Bean Machine to ask when it was opening and how, when he came into the café a few days later, they’d ended up clashing. “Turns out he’s the architect Bean Machine took on to do the renovation work. He doesn’t work for them at all. God, I felt like such an idiot.”

“Stop beating yourself up,” Zelma said. “You were only thinking of Brian.”

“But he does work for Bean Machine,” Brian piped up. “He’s got a contract with them.”

“Come on, Bri, there’s a recession on. None of us can afford to be too fussy who we work for. And his firm does a lot of pro bono work. He’s building a school in a village in Rwanda.”

He shrugged. “Bully for him. It still pisses me off.”

“Brian, darling,” Zelma said, “tell me, what car do you drive?”

“You know what I drive—a VW.”

“Aha, and do you know who designed it? Adolf Hitler, that’s who.”

“Zelma, Hitler did not design the Golf GTI.”

“Maybe not, but that company still has a lot to answer for.”

“I’m not sure it does anymore,” Brian said. “The war has been over for almost seventy years. The human exploitation I’m talking about is happening all over the world, and it’s happening now.”

“Huh, you think Hitler didn’t leave a legacy of misery that goes on to this day?”

“I know. I know,” Brian said. “Of course he did. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. This is a different debate, that’s all.”

“You know what? My Sidney, God rest his soul, would never have a German product in the house. And if we happened to be traveling through Germany in the camper, he always insisted we stop”—she lowered her voice—“but only to do a number two.”

Brian, who was smiling and shaking his head, could see he wasn’t going to get anywhere. He picked up another custard tart and went back into the café.

By then Zelma was arranging bacon slices on buttered bread. “This Sam, who’s just asked you out,” she said. “I remember now what struck me most about him—his lovely brown eyes.”

“Actually, they’re gray.”

“You sure?”

Amy started laughing. “Zelma, we’ve been through this.”

ON THURSDAY,
when Brian decided his Crema Crema Crema experiment had cost him enough, he decided to put it back to its old price of £5 a cup. Interest immediately dwindled, and trade at Café Mozart went back to normal. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me,” he said to Amy and Zelma. “It was a daft idea. People enjoy quality, but they don’t enjoy paying for it.” It was clear that when Bean Machine opened, the only customers who would remain loyal to Brian would be a handful of coffee enthusiasts. By Friday, he was full of the miseries again and there was nothing Amy or Zelma could say to cheer him up.