Babycakes (15 page)

It was dark when he awoke. He stumbled about in search of a light switch, then went into the kitchen to take stock of the stuff he would need. There was no food, of course—except for some moldy noodles and a can of herring—and eating utensils were in sparse supply.

For starters, he would buy some cereal and milk, some bread and peanut butter. But that would be tomorrow. Tonight, he would find a neighborhood pub that served Scotch eggs and Cornish pasties and get just as shit-faced as the situation required.

Returning to the bedroom, he decided to make things official by unpacking his suitcase. He was almost done when he remembered the note from Simon stashed in the side pocket. He sat down on the bed and read it:

Michael—

I thought you might be able to use a few words of advice about the many enigmas of 44 Colville Crescent: The hot water (or lack thereof) is a bit of a nuisance, I’m afraid. You’ll find the tank in the nook between the lav and the kitchen, should you have any serious problems with it. (Truly serious problems should be referred to Mr. Nigel Pearl, a plumber in Shepherd’s Bush. His number is posted on the door of the fridge.)

The automatic turn-off whatsit on the stereo does not turn off automatically. The central heating has been shut off for the season; I doubt you’ll need it. There’s an extra duvet in the bottom drawer of the cupboard in the bedroom. The bed, as you must have noticed by now, is propped up at one corner by my vast collection of
Tatlers,
which is quite the best place for them to be.

Foe basic, foodstuffs, I recommend Europa foods in Notting Hill Gate. For toiletries, try Boots the Chemist (a “drug store” in your quaint colonial parlance). For real drugs, try one of the black gentlemen in All Saints Road, but do not, under any circumstances, go there at night. Their grass is no match for Humboldt County’s finest, but it does the job nicely if you lace it with hashish.

The gas cooker in the kitchen shouldn’t present any problems. Trash is kept under the sink-basin, as is furniture polish, buckets, dustpan, etc. There is also a stopcock for the water. If there is ever any kind of flood, just turn that off (clockwise) and the water supply is blocked.

The launderette (service-wash) and dry cleaners are round the corner at the junction of Westbourne Grove and Ledbury Road. The Electric Cinema in Portobello Road has good old movies, if you like things like
Glen or Glenda (my
personal favorite) and Jessie Matthews retrospectives.

A certain Miss Treves (Nanny Treves to me) will be popping in from time to time to keep an eye on things. Please introduce yourself and tell her you are a friend of mine. When she asks you about my ship-jumping caper (and she will, I assure you), feel free to tell her what you know and say I’ll be home just after Easter. I’ll give her the gory details in a letter. Miss Treves is a manicurist now, but she was my nanny for many years. She’s fretted over me ever since I got away from her in the British Museum II was six), so she’s likely to be a bit distraught. That’s all you need to know about her except the obvious, which I’m sure you’ll handle with your usual grace and gallantry. London is yours.

S
IMON

The note, rendered on flimsy blue paper in a spidery handwriting, gave Michael the soothing sensation of another human presence in the apartment with him. He could almost hear Simon’s voice as he read it. When you came right down to it, the place wasn’t t
hat
awful, he decided. All he really needed was a base camp from which to explore the city.

But what was the “obvious” thing he was soon to discover about Simon’s former nanny?

And what the hell was a duvet?

To answer the simpler question, he checked the contents of the bottom drawer of the bedroom cupboard. There he found a threadbare quilt, faded from many washings. He held it against his cheek for a moment, like a housewife in a fabric softener commercial, feeling a rush of inexplicable tenderness toward this common household item. So what if the heat didn’t work? He had his duvet to keep him warm.

He finished his unpacking, took inventory of his strange new money, and headed out into the night. It was roughly nine o’clock. The rain had stopped, but the fruit stalls in Portobello Road—empty and skeletal—were still beaded with moisture. As he left Colville Crescent and entered Colville Terrace, a corner pub beckoned him with yellow lights and the voice of Boy George.

Inside, he ordered a cider, the alcoholic English variety that had served him so well as a teenager in Hampstead. The other patrons were decidedly working-class. Two pudding-faced men in tweed caps argued jovially at the bar, while a stately Rastafarian in dreadlocks nursed a dark ale at a table near the video games.

His cider was gone in a flash, so he ordered a second one to wash down a couple of Scotch eggs. By the time he had quaffed his third, he was winking playfully at a plump woman who sat across from him under a gilt-lettered mirror. She was well past forty and her makeup had been applied with a trowel, but there was something almost valiant about her cheerfulness as she drank alone, jiggling her large calves to the beat of “Abracadabra.” She reminded him of one of those jolly barflies from
Andy
Capp.

He paid up at the bar and ordered an ale to be sent to the lady’s table. Then, brimming with goodwill, he gave one last wink to his brave sister and stumbled out into the street to make his peace with London.

Time on His Hands

T
HE LUNCHTIME MOB AT PERRY’S HAD BEEN EVEN ROWDIER
than usual, but Brian managed to cope with it by reminding himself that his weekend getaway to Oakland was less than four hours away. He was returning an order for a picky diner (“Surely you don’t call that rare?”) when Jerry of the Jordache Look sidled up to him with a greasy smirk on his face.

“Your wife is at my station, Hawkins.”

“Make sure the goddamn thing is bleeding,” Brian told the cook.

“You hear me, Hawkins?”

“I heard you. Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.” He checked two plates to see if they matched his orders, then shouted over his shoulder at the departing Jerry. “Tell her I’m up to my ass in customers.”

“Don’t worry,” Jerry yelled back. “She’s up to her ass in Englishmen.”

He was still fuming over the remark when he stopped by Mary Ann’s table ten minutes later. As reported, Simon was with her. She was autographing a menu for a fat woman at the next table, so she didn’t notice him until Simon signaled her by clearing his throat.

“Oh, hi. Is this a bad time?”

“Busy.” he replied. “I really can’t talk.”

“No problem.” She gave him her secret Be Cool smile. “I just wanted Simon to see the place.”

He addressed the lieutenant. “So what do you think?”

“It’s … very jolly.”

He nodded. “Like a Japanese subway.”

Mary Ann and the lieutenant both laughed, but not much. She looked strangely ill-at-ease, and he was beginning to think she had every reason to be. What the fuck was she doing, anyway, bringing this guy here?

He turned to her. “Are we still on for tonight?”

“Of course.”

“My wife breaks dates,” he told Simon.

“Now wait just a damn minute!” she piped.

“There’s always a good reason, of course. Earthquakes, queens, polar bears …”

“Excuse me …” The fat woman was back, this time tugging on Simon’s arm. “I got so excited I completely forgot to get your autograph too.”

Simon looked grossly uncomfortable. “Really, madam, that’s awfully kind of you, but I don’t see what possible …”

“Oh,
please….
My daughter will be livid if I don’t bring her some proof that I met you!”

The lieutenant cast an apologetic glance at Mary Ann, then scrawled his name hastily across the menu. His face was bright red.

“Oh, thank you.” The woman’s upper lip was sweating as she added in a stage whisper: “My daughter is just gaga over men with hairy chests.” Giggling to herself, she waddled back to her seat.

Simon shook his head slowly.

“The price of exposure,” said Mary Ann.

“What does she have?” Brian couldn’t help asking. “X-ray vision?”

Mary Ann laughed uneasily. “I did a little profile on Simon that aired this morning.”

“Ghastly,” mugged the lieutenant.

“With your shirt off?” asked Brian.

“Well …”

“Just for a jogging segment,” Mary Ann explained. “We needed footage for a voice-over.”

Brian became her echo. “Footage for a voice-over. That makes sense. Well …” He backed away from the table. “I think they need me in the Back Forty.”

Moments later, as he’d expected, she cornered him in the kitchen. “O.K. Why are you bent out of shape?”

He stepped out of the way of another waiter. “It’ll have to wait. This is our busiest time.”

“I did a little profile on the guy,” she whispered. “Why should that freak you out?”

“It didn’t freak me out. It … surprised me, that’s all. You said he didn’t want to be on TV.”

She shrugged. “So I talked him into it.”

“Right. And made him a beefcake star in the bargain.”

“Oh,
c’mon,
Brian.” She ducked as jerry sped by with a tray. “What if I did? Hey … I did that story on the Tom Selleck look-alike contest and you didn’t say a word.”

He leaned forward and answered in an angry whisper. “The goddamn Tom Selleck look-alike wasn’t living in our fucking house!”

She shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re threatened by this.”

Her sanctimoniously modern tone annoyed the hell out of him. “I’d just like to know why you came
here
to celebrate your big media coup.”

“Brian …”

“just … go. It’s no big deal.”

“Brian, listen to me. I brought him here because I want you guys to be friends. I want the three of us to be friends. I just thought it would be fun if …”

“O.K., O.K.”

She gave him a cautious smile, sensing the passage of his anger. “My timing was rotten, I guess, I’m sorry about that. Want me to pick up your laundry?”

He shook his head.

“I’ll be home packing, if you need me.” She kissed him on the cheek and walked out of the kitchen. When he returned to the front room three minutes later, she and Simon had already gone.

Back in the kitchen, Jerry was waiting for him. “Your wife’s friend is a big tipper,”

“He’s my friend too,” he answered.

“Really?” Jerry’s lip curled.

“Yes,
really,
asshole.”

Jerry nodded slowly. “Well … it’s convenient, at least.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

A surly shrug. “Look, man … I only know what I saw.”

“Meaning?”

“Well … the guy bears a certain resemblance to you, that’s all.”

“So?”

“So … nothing.” He walked away muttering the rest of it. “If the lady wants a matched set, it’s none of my …”

He was cut short when Brian grabbed him by his collar, spun him around and rammed him against the wall.

“Watch it,” said Jerry. “You know what Perry said. Do that in here and you’re out on your ass.”

Brian hesitated. “A very good point.”

He secured a firmer hold on Jerry’s collar, dragged him into the restaurant, and let fly with a right hook that sent his tormentor hurtling backward into a table full of empty plastic hamburger baskets. The table overturned, dumping Jerry on the floor. Customers scattered. A woman screamed. The fat lady with the autographed menu stood slack-mouthed at the cash register. Brian strode up to her, took the menu from her hands, signed his name with the ballpoint in his pocket, returned the menu, and walked out the door without looking back.

He didn’t break stride until he had reached the top of Russian Hill, six or seven blocks away. His heart was pounding like crazy as he stopped for a moment outside Swensen’s Ice Cream and considered his next move. He decided to maintain a normal pace for the last block or so. If his boss had already called, it would only increase his humiliation to arrive home out of breath.

When he got there, ten minutes later, Mary Ann was preoccupied with their escape to the Claremont. She was on her hands and knees in the bathroom, combing the cabinet under the sink for last year’s Coppertone.

“I’m sure we can buy some there,” he said.

“I know, but this was my number and everything.”

“They’ll have your number.”

She stood up, brushing off her hands. “Aren’t you off work early?”

He faked her with a smile. “They took mercy on me. I told them we needed to beat the Friday traffic.”