Broken Places (10 page)

Already, he was biting into feather-light sponge and tooth-tinglingly sweet icing; a whoosh of jam and butter-cream ravishing his tongue. All those birthdays when no one had made him a cake were being gloriously rectified at this very moment, as she baked cake after cake after cake – yes, right there in the porch.

‘Look, we’d better make a move, Eric. It’s freezing out here and you don’t seem to have a coat. Be an angel, could you, and see if you can find a shovel or a broom or something, and maybe a bucket of water. We don’t want someone coming in and slipping on all this cream. And, while you’re doing that, I’ll put Sydney in the picture, and then we’ll get off, OK?’

‘OK,’ he said – except he was singing it, declaiming it, with all the ardour and romantic fire of every impassioned tenor in Bayreuth, Covent Garden, La Scala and the Met.

‘Right, Kath, we’ll start here in Biography. What we need to do is weed out any stock that’s tatty, dirty, or falling apart. For instance …’ Eric checked through a few volumes, then withdrew a book from the shelf. ‘This life of Mary Wollstonecraft.’ He tensed at the author’s first name: Amanda. Five whole days and still Mandy hadn’t rung. Perhaps she was
dead
, he thought, with horror; mangled in a car-crash, once she’d dropped him off at Kingston and continued down the motorway.

‘But that’s not tatty or dirty.’ Kath’s voice was all but drowned by the shrilling siren of the ambulance as it sped towards the wreckage.

‘It’s not in prime condition, though.’

‘Still, seems a shame to throw it out.’

He had felt the same at her age, reluctant to dispose of any book
whatever
. In his childhood, books had been precious passports to all the things he craved: happy, cosy families, seaside holidays, pet dogs and cats, visits to doting relatives. And, later, as an adult who avoided danger and had never been abroad, he valued books for their power to whisk him to every country in the world, or let him live vicariously as deep-sea diver, Arctic explorer, parachutist, mountaineer.

‘Don’t worry, Kath, many of the books we discard end up in good homes. Some are sent to other libraries and some to the prison book club. And the prisoners often pass them on to other men on their wing, or to visiting friends and family, who, in their turn, may give them to someone else, so they keep having a new lease of life.’ He liked to think of all those readers bringing their own perspective to each book; gaining something unique from it; interpreting it in different ways. ‘And we’re planning a big book-sale in February or March, with all the other branches in the borough, which will take care of some of the weeded stock. Now, I’d like you to go along this shelf, Kath, examine the condition of each book and tell me whether you think it should go or stay.’

He was grateful that the library was uncharacteristically quiet, since he couldn’t really concentrate – well, only on Mandy and why she hadn’t phoned. Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve: the day she was meant to be
delivering
his made-to-order cake. Yet he hadn’t even given her the details: what sort of cake he wanted, its size and style and type of decoration. Had she
known
that he was lying; that the big bash at his flat was a total
fabrication
; the cake a mere device to ensure he stayed in touch with her?

‘This one’s slightly grubby, but the dirt’s only on the cover, so should it go or stay?’

Reluctantly, he took the book from Kath, longing to be alone, at home, so that he could fix his entire attention on the only thing that mattered in his life. Except he’d been doing that the whole of yesterday; spent an exhausting Sunday veering from dizzy hope, every time the phone rang, to deep despair when it was some odd friend and not the woman he adored.

Was he raving mad? How could he adore a woman he’d met for precisely fifty-seven minutes? For all he knew, she might be gay or married. She hadn’t worn a ring, though, nor made mention of a partner. But suppose she was a schemer or a cheat, or even a boozer or a druggie. ‘No!’ some voice inside him screamed. ‘She’s flawless, perfect, exemplary in every way.’

He forced himself to examine the book, although the picture on the jacket began changing before his very eyes to that of a gorgeous female with Titian hair and heavenly blue eyes. ‘We’ll keep it, Kath,’ he stated, clinging on to it protectively.

If only he’d taken her phone-number, but he’d been so incredibly nervous in the car, they were fast approaching Kingston before he’d plucked up courage to trot out his string of lies: how New Year’s Eve just happened to be the fortieth birthday of one of his close friends, so he’d decided to surprise him with a party and a cake. And, although she’d expressed
immediate
interest, she was in a tearing rush by then, and had simply jotted down his number, promised to phone him to discuss it, and accelerated off with barely a goodbye.

Kath was studying another tome, frowning in indecision. ‘What about this Life of Wordsworth? I decided it should go, but I feel distinctly nervous chucking things that maybe ought to stay.’

‘Don’t worry, this is just a trial run. We won’t rely on your judgement until you’ve had a bit more practice. Your first instinct was correct, though. It
is
distinctly tatty, so clearly you’re getting the hang of it.’

He’d had to lie to Ted and Annabel, as well; forced to throw himself on 
the mercy of a pair of aged neighbours he hadn’t seen for almost a year, and somehow explain the peculiarity of turning up on Christmas Day
unannounced
and uninvited. And, because no trains were running until December 27, he’d remained captive there, with them and their in-laws, enduring what seemed an eternity of tedium. And all for the sake of a woman who had broken her promise, or forgotten him entirely.

He made a supreme effort to return to his professional role, fearing Kath would notice his extraordinary state of mind. The way he felt at present, all books seemed dispensable. Indeed, he would gladly sacrifice the rarest
writings
in the world: the few existing (priceless) copies of Herodotus and Aristotle, Tacitus and Pliny, along with all the precious manuscripts in every leading library in the world – burn them to a cinder, without the slightest qualm, in return for one brief phone-call from his love.

‘Right,’ he said, trying to adopt an authoritative tone, ‘let’s start putting all the weeded books in a big pile on the floor here, and we’ll pack them into boxes, once we’ve removed the labels and the bar-codes. I’ll show you how to do that later on.’

Maybe she had
lost
his number. A small scrap of paper could easily be mislaid, or might have even blown away as she opened the car door at Guildford and dashed in to see her family.

‘And another thing we need to check is how often the book’s been taken out. If there are hardly any date-stamps on the label in the front, we get rid of it, OK?’

Perhaps she
had
rung – in just the last half-hour. The very thought filled him with such joy, he wanted to go down on his knees and worship her, adore her. Well, he’d wanted that from the first second they had met and, throughout the too-brief car journey, his mind had woven erotic fantasies: they were on honeymoon in a secluded little love-nest and he was slipping off her clothes; running a slow hand from her delicately white throat to her deliciously pink toes. Or making love on some exotic beach; the December sleet changed magically to tropical sun; her limbs enticingly warm as they threshed against his own. In point of fact, his spoilsport voice had been droning on in stilted fashion about the weather and the cost of housing; too shy to express the sentiments brimming in his heart.

‘This one’s been borrowed only twice since last December, so does that mean—?’

He was almost surprised to see Kath still standing there. Since Christmas Day, only Mandy existed. ‘I’d suggest, as a rough rule of thumb, that if it’s
not been taken out for a year or more, then no point keeping it. So we’ll give this one a reprieve for now and reassess it later. But can you carry on alone, Kath? There’s something I need to check.’

His mobile, actually. Again he gave thanks that the library was
near-empty
, due partly to the appalling weather and partly to the date – many people still away for Christmas or New Year. It meant he could find a secluded corner and switch his mobile on, without being summoned by a customer, or sought out by some member of staff. However, his brief moment of elation gave way to deepest gloom when he discovered not a single text or message. Perhaps she’d picked up bad vibes from him – felt
he
was an alcoholic, a schemer and a cheat. Dead right. He would have had booze on his breath, after that bibulous Christmas lunch, and he
had
been lying through his teeth. He’d even told her his car had been stolen, when he’d never possessed a car in his life, and – worse – was too scared to drive. If she ever got to know that he’d gone to the church by bike (a bike he’d retrieved unscathed, thank God, after its long sojourn outside All Hallows), she would assume he was a pathological liar. She’d probably written him off already as seriously neurotic; detecting from his mere tone of voice that he was someone best avoided. But then why would she have agreed to make the cake at all – and agreed enthusiastically? ‘I’d love to do it, Eric. And I’ll really go to town and make something extra-special for your friend.’

He wandered over to the window and stared at his reflection in the pane. Today he was reasonably well dressed, but the day they met he must have looked a wreck, in his old cycling clothes and with his hair sticking up on end. Perhaps Mandy didn’t quite believe that a scruff like him could afford a made-to-order cake. He’d had no idea what they cost, but quite a tidy sum, he’d guess. In fact, the more he reflected on their meeting, the more he realized that he’d obviously come over as a tongue-tied, clumsy oaf – the way he’d cannoned into her, destroying Freda’s cake; then bored her rigid all the way to Kingston because he didn’t dare reveal his genuine feelings. Could he really blame her if she decided she didn’t want his custom? She was bound to have dozens of cake-orders from existing (reputable) clients, without taking on another from some bloke who seemed suspicious in the extreme? He wasn’t a practised liar – that was the whole problem – so he’d tied himself in knots trying to invent a story that had clearly sounded bogus. She must have seen through him from the start, but, being kind, had simply played along, rather than call his bluff.

Angrily, he switched his mobile off again. She
wasn’t
going to ring, so he
might at least save the day by doing something positive. Today he had the chance, for once, to give Kath some extra training, so he would spend another hour with her, until it was time to relieve Helen at the desk. Then, at half-past five, he would lock up and go home; kill the evening watching something senseless on the box, which at least would keep his mind off Mandy. Because it was patently ridiculous to waste another second dreaming of a woman so far beyond his reach.

‘Kath, I hope I’m not overloading you?’

‘Not at all,’ Kath replied. ‘It’s been very helpful, actually.’

‘Well, I think that’s it for now, unless there’s anything you’d like to ask.’

‘Yes – about the Dewey Decimal system. Harriet explained it quite some time ago, but I still haven’t got it straight, and I wondered if I could have a list of all the different numbers and exactly what they relate to.’

‘No problem. I’ll sort that out immediately.’

He was reminded of his own delight, as a greenhorn library assistant, in discovering the Dewey system, in which every piece of information, from almanacs and astrophysics to zoology and Zoroastrianism could be slotted into its own specific category; the whole classification process securely based on step-by-step logic, and infinitely expandable. Even as far back as then, he was aware it had its critics – it was too Christian-centric, rigid and male-oriented – but he still found its regularity appealing, especially contrasted with his own chaotic childhood, where everything was random and haphazard. At a stroke, order had been established in at least one section of the world, and a consoling sense of harmony now surrounded him at work.

As he strode to the computer, to print out the list of categories, he stopped dead in his tracks. There, standing at the enquiry desk, was – no, he must be fantasizing, even hallucinating, for Christ’s sake. She
couldn’t
be here. She had dismissed him as a liar and no-hoper; vowed to keep her distance. Besides, he hadn’t even told her where he worked.

‘Eric!’ she exclaimed, suddenly catching sight of him and racing over; her face wreathed in a gigantic smile. ‘Thank heavens I’ve found you – and in the nick of time.’

Emerging into the murky night, Eric ran through the directions in his head: turn right out of the tube, walk on past the Gallery pub and a little Internet café, until you reach the church on the corner, then turn left into St George’s Square. The church spire was already looming into view, a dark silhouette against the naked trees, and he fought a sudden longing to clamber to the very top and shout his news to the whole astounded world: ‘She
did
phone – a dozen times – hadn’t forgotten me at all; just jotted down my number wrong. And she even went to enormous trouble discovering where I worked.’

In fact, perhaps he ought to pop in to the church and pour out thanks to God – the God he didn’t believe in. Yet, wasn’t it little short of miraculous that he should actually be spending New Year’s Eve with Mandy, and was now only minutes from her flat? Another minor miracle was the fact she lived so close: just one stop on the tube from him – although even if he’d had to travel to John O’Groats or Land’s End, he would have gone there willingly; indeed, on his knees, or barefoot, like ardent pilgrims in the past, enduring any hardship for the sake of the beloved.

The wooden doors of the church stood open, as if urging him to enter. However, the inner glass door proved difficult to manoeuvre, encumbered as he was by a bottle of champagne, a bouquet of flowers and a huge box of Belgian chocolates. Had he gone overboard, he wondered, with sudden fierce anxiety? He didn’t want to seem too keen, as if he were buying his way to her heart. Besides, she might be a teetotaller, or allergic to pollen, or on a slimming diet – or all three at once, if his recent run of good luck should give out.

He was suddenly aware of an officious looking woman, just inside the church, eying him suspiciously through the glass panel of the door.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked curtly, opening the door a crack. ‘We’re just about to close.’

On impulse, he stepped towards her and pushed the elaborate bouquet into her arms. It was definitely over-the-top – roses and Madonna lilies, set off with silvery foliage and clouds of white blossomy stuff, and tied with scarlet ribbon – and thus surely inappropriate when he and Mandy barely knew each other. ‘Could you give these to the vicar?’ he asked, blushing at his eccentric behaviour.

‘With pleasure,’ the woman purred – chastened now, even smarmy. ‘What beautiful flowers! Who shall I say they’re from?’

‘Er, just … a grateful parishioner.’

Why did he keep lying? Far from being a parishioner, he had never seen this church in his life. Despite his lofty principles about not distorting the truth (except regarding his origins, of course), he now seemed mired in
deception
.

He had even lied to Mandy again, spinning her a story about the birthday-boy having gone down with a stomach-bug, which meant cancelling the party and, unfortunately, the cake. Although lies, he’d found, could reap a precious harvest. She had seemed so genuinely sorry that his plans had been disrupted and that he’d been forced to put off all the guests at embarrassingly short notice, she’d invited him to spend New Year’s Eve at
her
place.

‘I’m at a loose end, too,’ she’d said; a phrase which made him tingle with elation. A loose end, for heaven’s sake! And he’d imagined swarms of lovers fighting for the privilege of being in her company.

‘Well, many thanks, my dear. Father John will be delighted.’

Quickly he backed away from the church, feeling a total impostor, then stood in the light of a lamp-post, checking his watch for at least the
twentieth
time. Mandy had said eight o’clock and it was still only quarter to – although it would be wonderfully exciting to turn up early and find her stepping naked from the shower.

However, hardly had he proceeded fifty yards, when he began worrying about having ditched the flowers. A bouquet fit for a prima donna (which had all but cleaned him out) was now in the hands of some undeserving priest. Besides, looking mean was surely worse than seeming over-eager. Could he retrieve the flowers, by some means, fair or foul – maybe pretend he had dementia and had delivered them to the wrong location? Except if he were suffering memory-loss, how would he
know
it was wrong? No – best to simply regard the loss as spiritual insurance. The vicar was bound to pray for the ‘grateful parishioner’ and, since a successful outcome to his Mandy-mission was desperately important, he must be grateful for any source of help, celestial or otherwise.

Wandering on at a snail’s pace, he was hit by a new anxiety as he peered across the railings at elegant St George’s Square; a milieu distinctly more salubrious than his own shabby Vauxhall street. If she was used to such gentility, how could he invite her back, to slum it in his flat? Except there might never
be
a second date. Perhaps she had simply taken pity on him, or was alone on New Year’s Eve only because her partner had to work. The wretched bloke was bound be an airline pilot, or celebrity chef, or
distinguished
surgeon – someone far more glamorous than him.

It was all he could do not to race back to the church and give the vicar the chocolates and champagne, as well, to ensure he prayed all night, all week. Or should he fall to his knees himself – here in the puddled street – and call on every Power Above to make Mandy fall in love with him – even better, to lure him to her bed?

No, he couldn’t kneel. His new trousers were too pricey to spoil, as well as far too tight. He’d expended huge amounts of time trying to decide on his image: world-class athlete, City Banker, high fashion, arty Bohemian? Since the first three were impossible, he’d finally opted for smart casual, with just a hint of sexpot; spent a fortune on the trousers and even lashed out on some aftershave, purely on the strength of its name: ‘Dark Temptation’. Which was patently ridiculous. How could a carrot-top be sexy, however tight his trews? He should have bought a wig, but, knowing his luck, it was bound to slip off at the crucial moment, maybe just as he was bending over to kiss her glorious pussy.

He shivered in the sharp December wind. It was crazy being out without a coat, but both his shabby mac and nerdy anorak would have ruined the stylish effect that had demanded so much effort. And style was on his mind at present, as he gazed up at the white-stuccoed façades, with their grandly columned porticos and elaborately carved balconies, and at the gracious plane trees preening in the square. The only vegetation in
his
street was the odd dandelion skulking by a fence, or blade of grass poking up between cracked paving stones. He would have to move – immediately! Although no pad within his price-range would be worthy of this woman. Even Buckingham Palace would fail to make the grade.

He took in a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. If he continued in this vein, he’d be exhausted by 9.30 and never make it through the midnight celebrations. In truth, he was bushed already, having got up a 4 a.m., too overwrought to sleep. And he’d been rushing out all day on one errand or another – to suss out the best chocolates in South London, or track down
hothouse flowers, or buy underpants and Durex. The latter two had caused further storms of indecision: did Mandy prefer boxer shorts or Y-fronts, and should he settle for plain condoms, or go for something flavoured, coloured or ribbed?

‘Look, mate,’ he told himself, ‘she invited you for a friendly drink, not to run through the Karma Sutra and back, so lower your expectations, OK?’

However, as he approached number 102 and stood, finger poised to ring the bell of the top flat, his agitation crescendoed to an unbearable degree. This was the woman he had dreamed of all his life – an almost exact replica of the mother/mistress/goddess he had created in his fantasies since the age of nine or ten. Even Christine hadn’t succeeding in matching that ideal. However thrilled he’d been to find a wife, discover love, establish a real family and so become a normal member of the human race, she hadn’t possessed those mind-blowing qualities, which he’d presumed, till just this Christmas, lay only in the realm of fantasy.

Shifting from foot to foot, he ran through his opening lines. Since yesterday, he’d been practising what to say; determined not to sound a dullard, this time, but someone sparky, lively, deep. And perhaps he should lower his voice to a sexy growl; establish a seductive mood from the start. ‘Mandy’ – he tried it out, but merely sounded as if he were going down with a cold. ‘
Mandy
!’ Worse still: angry now, rather than erotic.

Two minutes to eight. Perhaps he was still too early. Wouldn’t a cool sort of bloke turn up casually late? Drifting away from the porch, he forced himself to walk up and down for what seemed like several aeons, becoming still more nervous, not to mention numb. If only there were more people about, to make him feel less isolated. Surely, on New Year’s Eve, the streets should be packed with revellers – party-goers on their way to night-spots – yet the square seemed near-deserted. The only living thing in sight was a small black cat, slinking between the railings, but it brought back such sad memories of Charlie, he felt a lump rise to his throat. Charlie had always hated fireworks, so how would she manage without him there to calm her, and without the half a Valium he always used to slip her if the racket got too deafening?

He felt sorry for
all
creatures petrified by noises that must sound close to gunfire – pigeons, foxes, rabbits, rats, cowering in abject terror as their safe, dark world burst apart in bomb-blasts. Erica even used to worry about slugs and snails and worms, and had asked him once if they, too, should have Valium sprinkled on the soil. Imagining his beloved daughter so far away – and with her loathsome stepfather – caused him even more distress,
but he made a valiant effort to fix his attention on his watch, rather than sail across the tempest-tossed Atlantic and murder Dwight again.

He peered closely at the second-hand until, at exactly quarter-past, he returned to number 102, and moved a chilblained finger towards the bell.

The hand faltered. He was
too
late now; might well seem rude,
disorganized
. Wouldn’t it be better simply to go home? He could always rent a DVD and watch it with a takeaway – less stressful altogether than trying to play Casanova. In fact, the safety of his flat seemed increasingly appealing as he stood in the lonely street; his hair mussed by the bad-tempered wind, and his cheeks probably flushed (unflatteringly) from cold and terror mixed. ‘Dark Temptation’. How pathetic! Orange Crush would be nearer the mark.

He turned on his heel and began walking back the way he’d come, having lost his nerve entirely. The whole thing meant so much that even partial failure would cast him into utter desolation. Suppose he fell down on the job: became all fingers and thumbs when he tried to unhook her bra, or failed to whip on a condom at precisely the right moment, or shot his bolt in five seconds flat, rather than holding on for seven hours, as Tantric Masters did. He’d just have to invent more lies: he’d caught his friend’s bug; a colleague had broken her leg and he had to take her to hospital;
he
had broken his leg.

Half-convinced by his own falsehood, he hobbled along the shadowy street, with a pronounced and painful limp, although experiencing profound relief at being able to skulk at home, instead of having to dazzle and perform. However, he wouldn’t scoff the chocolates or guzzle the
champagne
, but give them to the poor young fellow he’d seen huddled in a doorway near the tube. That would be his good deed for the day; his way of expressing gratitude for being spared humiliation in the sack. Then he’d watch his DVD, eat his Kentucky Fried, be in bed by midnight and let the whole razzmatazz of New Year’s Eve rampage on without him.

‘Eric! Eric! I’m so
sorry
.’

He stopped dead in his tracks, staring in disbelief. A woman was tearing towards him – a gorgeous creature, with auburn hair, a perfect figure and dressed in a cuddly coat. Mandy! In the flesh.

‘You’d given me up. I don’t blame you – I’m terribly late. I really do
apologize
.

And you’re limping, I saw. Have you hurt your leg?’

Wordlessly, he shook his head, unable to do anything but gaze at her in wonder.

‘You should have come in the car if you’re hurt. Oh, no, it was stolen, wasn’t it? Gosh, poor you!’

His non-existent car – he’d forgotten it entirely. Guilt was now added to incredulity and joy.

‘What
is
the time? I’ve lost my watch, though that’s no excuse at all. You see, they needed me to help out in the café, but I’d no idea how long I’d have to be there. Still, never mind all that. I’m just so sorry you’ve been hanging around. I presume you tried my bell and got no answer, and so came to find shelter in the church?’

If he said ‘yes’, it would be another lie. In any case, he was experiencing such a turmoil of emotions, speech had temporarily deserted him.

‘Except, of course, the church is shut, which means you’re probably frozen stiff.’

Again, he shook his head; all the romantic, brilliant phrases he’d been practising for hours now reduced to silent gestures. And, far from being frozen stiff, he was boiling hot from sheer excitement. Coats were quite superfluous when Mandy was around. ‘Th … These are for you,’ he managed to stammer out, at last, handing over the chocolates and the wine.

‘Oh, Eric, you
shouldn’t
! Real champagne – how fab! And what’s this?’ she asked, fumbling in the gold and scarlet carrier. ‘Wow! These are my absolute top favourite choccies. How on earth did you know?’

He gave a deprecating shrug, cursing his timidity. If only he were Shakespeare or John Donne; instant sonnets tripping off his tongue.

‘Anyway, let’s get out of the wind and open this champagne in my nice, warm, cosy flat. Here, you carry it for now, then I can take your arm.’

Oh, yes, he implored her soundlessly, take my arm, my heart, my love, my life, take everything I have.