Virtue (39 page)

Two minutes. Two minutes till my lovely boy is due. I’m starting to get excited. The pounding of my heart is no longer only because I’m late; in ten minutes, if I’m lucky, the dress will be on the floor and no one will care about stains any more. No time for foundation. I slick two lines of black kohl pencil inside my lower lashes, two coats of mascara, a quick finger lick and I smooth down my eyebrows. Suck in cheeks, pout into hand mirror. No cheekbones. Damnation, why didn’t you just give me cheekbones and have done with it?

I find a dark red lipstick, draw rapid stripes of colour onto my face, rub it in. Too strong. More haste less speed: they always told me that. Grab a manky old tube of face cream from the nether regions of my bag, rub some over the lippy, smear it all backwards towards the hairline. Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

The doorbell goes. I run over, clunk the open button, finish off my lips. Two lovely morello cherries slashed across a pale, wide-eyed face. Lovely. How can he resist? Right. Time for a deep breath and a fag.

No there isn’t. The jacket’s still in the bathroom, Goddamn it. I hit the front door button and belt down the stairs. Drop the jacket over my shoulders, take a last glimpse in the mirror and slow my breathing right down. Hi, love. Here already? What, this old thing? Just something I threw on.

I step out onto the landing as he comes in through the front door, go down to meet him.

He looks delicious. Delicious and tired and brown and warm, just like I remember. We meet five steps from the bottom, fold into each other’s arms. His mouth is soft like toffee. I stroke his upper arm muscle and rest my head against his shoulder. ‘Hi, love,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

He pushes me back, looks down at me, a little smear of fresh lipstick at the corner of his mouth.

‘Christ,’ he tells me. ‘You look good enough to eat.’

And I give him my foxy smile and say, ‘Whatever you want, master …’

Our Lady of the Earthquake is standing on the dust-laden, crumbled tarmac of another indistinguishable foreign street, hands in the back pockets of her cropped-ankle jeans so that her breasts thrust forward in her immaculately pressed, checked lumberjack shirt. We are looking at her in profile, for she is gazing, lost in thought, at the devastation around her. The cameraman briefly changes his focus so that, instead of each perfect hair in Godiva’s elegant but suitably unadorned chignon, we see instead a row of Soviet-grey concrete blocks of flats which have tipped sideways as their foundations gave way and are leaning one against the other like hay bales.

From their windows, or from where the windows were before the fronts of the buildings toppled into the street, hang the pathetic remains of family life: curtains, bedsheets, clothes, are draped like ghastly bunting put out to welcome triumphant death. Scuttling among the ruins, tiny people cup their ears to listen for sounds beneath the concrete, a skinny, tan-coloured dog scrabbles at rubble, an old woman veiled in black holds the sides of her head and rocks silently back and forth as though the pain inside will cause her to explode.

Godiva heaves a sigh, turns back to the camera, which swings sharply into focus in time to register that the emerald eyes are brimming with tears. She takes a hand from her pocket, gestures helplessly, as though even she realises that donating her beauty to the Third World will not in itself be enough. ‘This is the aftermath of an earthquake,’ she tells us. ‘Doesn’t look so bad, does it? No screams, no blood, no gunshots.’

She pauses, looks back down the street. Continues. ‘But that’s because, apart from a very few, the people of Kalechistan have given up their dead now. Five days after these buildings – less than a week ago home to hundreds of families, thousands of people – were destroyed by the terrible earthquake that devastated this town, they have relinquished the digging, put mourning aside, for the very business of survival threatens to overwhelm them.’

Godiva holds out her hands, sweeps them criss-crossed, says, ‘Cut. Cut.’

The cameraman switches off, the sound man rests the pole to which the boom is attached on the crumbled soil. Everyone mops their brow with their sleeve, for earthquakes do little to lower the temperature in the mountainous regions of Central Asia. ‘Is there a problem?’ asks the press officer from the Kalechi Earthquake Fund.

‘Of course there’s a fucking problem,’ snaps Godiva. ‘I haven’t had a thing to eat since we left the hotel and my concentration’s all shot to hell. Didn’t anyone bring any sandwiches, even?’

Everyone looks about them as though with enough concerted will, a sandwich will materialise in an earthquake zone at noon in the middle of Ramadan.

‘I’m afraid not,’ says the press officer.

‘Oh, right,’ says Godiva. ‘And if we had the press along, rather than just me having to do this whole thing by myself, would you have remembered to bring something to keep us from starving to death?’

‘I’m sorry,’ says the press officer.

Godiva tilts her chin so that her head turns away. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll have to get on with it.’

She sighs, says, ‘But this is so unprofessional.’

The cameraman lifts his equipment back up to his shoulder.

‘Well, excuse
me
,’ says Godiva, fists on bony hipbones. ‘D’you
mind
if I have a little make-up first?’

‘Sorry,’ they all mumble.

The make-up artist rushes forward, dabs another layer of powder on the perfect complexion, brushes the essential touch of pink onto the perfect cheekbones. Holds up a mirror for the Duchess’s scrutiny. Godiva tilts her head from side to side, wets her lips and pouts a little.

‘This actually matters, you know,’ she lectures her crew. ‘I’m not just doing this for vanity. They’ve done loads of research that proves that people are more likely to listen to people who look good. It’s a fact. The better I look, the more exposure we get, and the more exposure we get, the more money we raise. It’s important to me, this, even if it’s not to you.’

The make-up artist applies a quick layer of Frosted Teacake to the perfect lips and everyone is satisfied. ‘Children ready?’ asks Godiva.

‘Yes,’ replies the press officer.

‘Good,’ she says. ‘And can you get Abdullah to keep his finger out of his nose for five minutes?’

She resumes her former position. ‘Right, let’s take it from the last pause, shall we? Count me in, someone.’

In the absence of a clapper holder, the press officer goes, ‘Three … two … one,’ and Godiva once again pauses to look back down the street and continues. ‘But that’s because, apart from a very few, the people of Kalechistan have given up their dead now. Five days after these buildings – less than a week ago home to hundreds of families, thousands of people – were destroyed by the terrible earthquake that devastated this town, they have relinquished the digging, put mourning aside, for the very business of survival threatens to overwhelm them.’

She pauses to change gear, and somehow, her eyes seem to begin to glow. ‘Their families dead, their belongings destroyed, their very means of eking a living shut off from them, these people face starvation, disease and hypothermia. Those fortunate enough to escape from these blocks when death came thundering through in the small hours of the morning now face a struggle equally as terrible to continue to stay alive. The International Community seems to have forgotten about these people. The country’s too small, not politically powerful enough, the people haven’t emigrated and formed communities with political pull in richer nations, they’re not the right religion. You must help. Britain has donated the princely sum of $10,000 in aid, which will buy maybe twenty makeshift tents to house the homeless. America’s contribution has amounted to some $20,000, or 0.007 of a cent per capita of that country’s population, or 0.25 of a cent per capita here. We must do something – you and I must do something. This cannot be allowed to continue.’

Again she pauses, and this time brings her hand up to rub, like a small child, the area just below her left eye. You can think what you like about her, but Godiva was a professional. ‘There are signs of hope here,’ she continues, ‘but hope can only flower where it is watered by kindness.’

Godiva waits another beat for the statement to sink in; the power of cliché should never be underestimated. Then she turns, crouches down and puts her arm round the shoulders of a small girl in a baggy, blue cotton dress who stands between two slightly larger boys. Their eyes are huge and round, and gaze without expression at the camera as though all that they have seen has driven the thoughts from their heads. She is beautiful, though, this child: round and smooth of cheek, smooth strong hair rough-cut in the gamine style, lips like plums. ‘Maryam, Abdullah and Jamal lost their parents and grandparents in one terrible minute on Wednesday night.’ Godiva looks once again at the camera, then turns to Maryam and runs a Frosted Teacake fingernail down her cheek. Maryam continues to stare ahead, lower lip jutting, while Godiva bends forward, showing the viewer just that tiny hint of cleavage, presses her mouth to the child’s forehead and lowers her eyelashes in empathy. ‘They have no family, they have no home, they have no future. But fortunately, they have friends.’

Pulling Jamal – or maybe it’s Abdullah – into the benediction of her arms, she gestures with a jerk of her perfect little chin at a building behind her which has somehow come out of the earthquake almost intact. ‘The IERF has established an orphanage in this safe house. Here, children like these can find safe harbour, have some chance of rebuilding their shattered lives. Here, over one hundred lost children have found shelter. For the time being, they are safe. But Jamal and Abdullah and Maryam face an uncertain future. What is to become of them?’

A beat, two, three. Again, Godiva’s eyes fill with unshed tears. ‘I think of my own daughter,’ she bravely croaks, ‘and wonder, how would she cope? What would she do? She’s so innocent, so young, so sheltered; what would I feel if it were her? And I’m asking you today to wonder the same thing. Ask yourself: if these were my children, would I want them starving in the streets, or surrounded by love? Given a handful of rice and a cup of water and sent on their way?’

Godiva takes time to gaze lovingly at Maryam’s expressionless face. Turns back to her audience. ‘You can make a difference. I can make a difference. We can all make a difference. What I’m asking you to do today is take the first steps to make that difference. I know
I
don’t want to live in a world where people ignore those poorer, smaller and weaker than themselves. If you’re like me, and want to live in a better world than that, send your cheques to the International Earthquake Relief Fund at the address below, call the numbers below to make your pledges, or make donations to our collectors, who will be out on your local High Street this weekend. Don’t do it because I tell you to. Do it because you care. Do it for Maryam and Jamal and Abdullah. Won’t you? Please?’

Her expression, half smiling, half tearful, is directed straight to camera for a full five seconds until the press officer says, ‘Cut,’ and everyone lays down their equipment. She lets go of the children, pulls a handkerchief from her jeans pocket and wipes her hand. ‘Someone needs a bath,’ she says. ‘How was that?’

‘Marvellous,’ says the press officer. ‘Fabulous, wonderful. You are so kind to do this, and you’ve done such a fantastic job. I can’t tell you how grateful we all are. You were brilliant.’

Godiva straightens up, brushing dust from the knees of her jeans, stretches her body in the sunlight, eliciting a hiss from the old lady in black ten yards away.

‘Was I?’ she asks. ‘Was I really? Do you think they’ll like it? Will they like
me
, do you think?’

Nigel packs up his rucksack and leaves while I’m still asleep. When I wake up and realise he’s gone, I feel sort of sad, but sort of glad as well, because I hate saying goodbye, especially when I’ve got fond of someone. It’s day-off Monday, so I stay dozing and enjoying little flashback memories of beach-boy running his hands over my stomach, over my hips, over my thighs, and cuddling Henry, who submits with the good grace of someone who’s glad to have his bed back, until the direct sunlight passes off my window, which means that it’s gone seven o’clock in the evening and, even if I haven’t noticed it yet, I ought to be hungry.

On the landing just outside my door is a note scrawled on the ripped-off back page of a paperback novel. I flip it over and see that it’s come from a battered copy of
The Beach
. I’m not sure whether to be entertained or insulted. But at least he’s not the sort of anal character who can’t break the spine on a paperback in case someone might spot he’s actually been reading it. In clear, teacherly script it reads:

Hi, kiddo,

Call me an old romantic, but I like the fact that my last sight of you was a mop of black hair and an arm sticking up from under the bedcovers. We wouldn’t have known what to say to each other, so I thought it was best just to go without a load of drama. But I also want to say thanks for the best time, and I won’t forget you. It would be hard to. You’ve changed my view of the English for ever! You’re a great chick, and I wish you well with everything that goes on in your life.

And listen: ignore this bit if it makes you uncomfortable. But if you need a friend, or just need somewhere to go for a bit, you’ve got a crash-pad in WA if you need it. No strings. I’d just like to feel that you knew you could if you wanted to. Or maybe come out and see what fun you could have when it’s not so blimming cold 24–7! We could go down to Margaret River and eat crayfish. Hang with the hippies. They’ve got trees down there you wouldn’t believe.

Think about it. My number’s at the bottom of the card if you want it.

Take care, Anna. I won’t forget you.

Love always,

Nige

Sweet. Sweet guy. A lovely interlude and an invite to the sun. Not bad for one night’s work at the GeogSoc. Maybe I’ll take him up on his offer. It’s not often you find someone who’s that – well –
compatible
, if you see what I mean.