Sushi for Beginners
Page 52
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‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’ The waiter flat-eyed Jasper and his cleared plate. He used to work for him, the mad bastard. ‘Would you care to order dessert?’
‘No, we would not care!’ Jasper said hotly – to Lisa’s chagrin, because this week she was on a pudding diet. The lighter end of the scale, of course: fresh fruit, sorbets, fruit mousses. It had been well over a decade since the dizzying punch of Death by Chocolate had passed her lips.
Oh well, no matter. She paid the bill, and they both got up to leave, one of them less steadily than the other. By the door they shook hands, then Jasper attempted a drunken lunge at Lisa, which she tactfully deflected. Just as well she’d already got the contract signed.
Jasper tottered balefully up the street and the moment Lisa was by herself, the bleakness rushed in again. Why? Why was everything so much harder here? She’d been OK in London. Even after Oliver had walked out, she’d kept going. Pressing on, fulfilling her vision, making things happen, always certain there would be a prize of sorts for her. But the prize went to someone else and she was in Ireland and her coping mechanisms didn’t seem to work so well here.
She hadn’t rung her mum yesterday, even though it was Sunday. She’d been too depressed. She had only got dressed to go to the foul corner-shop for a tub of ice-cream and five newspapers, and as soon as she returned to the house, she got back into her wrap and spent the day moping in a fug of cigarette smoke. Her only contact with humanity had been the local eight-year-olds kicking their football repeatedly up against her front door.
Before she flagged a taxi she popped into a newsagent’s to buy cigarettes and her heart lifted when she saw that the new Irish Tatler was out. Irish Tatler was one of Colleen’s competitors and deconstructing it would give her something to do for the rest of the evening. All at once home didn’t seem so repellent.
‘Hiya Leeesa.’ A gaggle of little girls playing on the road yelled at her when she got out of her cab. ‘Your dress is sexy.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What size are your shoes?’
‘Six.’
A huddled conference followed that. How big was a six? Too big for them, they reluctantly decided.
Letting herself in, she flung her bag on the floor, flicked on the kettle and checked her answering machine. No messages, which wasn’t really surprising because almost no one knew her number. It didn’t stop her feeling like a failure, though.
She kicked off her lovely shoes, flung her dress on a chair and was changing into drawstring pants and a shortie T-shirt when the doorbell rang. Probably one of the little girls to ask if they could have her handbag when she didn’t want it any more.
With a sigh she flung open the door, and there, standing on her step, bending his tall bulk to fit the doorway, was Jack.
‘Oh,’ she said, stupid with surprise.
It was the first time she’d seen him out of his suit. His long, collarless shirt was open to mid-chest. Not by design, but because the buttons were missing. His khakis looked as if they’d done service in two world wars, and had a flap torn across the right knee, exposing a smooth kneecap and a three-inch square area of hairy shin. His hair looked even messier than usual, as did his face – Jack was a man who needed to shave twice a day.
Leaning against the doorframe, he displayed a device in the palm of his hand, like a policeman flashing ID. ‘I have a timer for your boiler.’
It sounded vaguely suggestive.
‘Sorry it wasn’t sooner.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Is now a good time?’
‘Come in,’ Lisa invited. ‘Come in.’
She was taken aback because in London, no one ever just called around to her flat. She’d never made an arrangement to see anyone without first opening her Psion or Filofax and playing the I’m-busier-and-more-important-than-you game. It was an elaborate ritual, governed by strict rules. At least five different dates must be offered and rejected before an actual one can be agreed on.
‘Next Tuesday? Can’t, I’ll be in Milan.’
Which is the cue for the other party to respond, ‘And I can never do Wednesdays because that’s my reiki night.’
An acceptable reply to that is, ‘And Thursdays are out for me because my Alexander Technique tutor comes.’
The ante is upped by the second party coming back with, ‘The weekend after that is out of the question. Cottage in the Lake District with friends.’
To which the smart money responds, ‘The whole of the following week is gone for me. LA, on business.’
Once a date has been finally fixed, it is still acceptable – indeed expected – for you to cancel on the day, pleading jet-lag, a client dinner or having to go to Geneva to make seventy people redundant.
Like Gucci sunglasses and Prada handbags, Time Poverty was a status symbol. The less time you had the more important you were. Jack obviously didn’t know.
He looked around in admiration. ‘You’ve been here – how many? – three, four days and already the place looks nicer. Look at that –’ He pointed to a glass bowl overloaded with white tulips. ‘And that.’ A vase of dried flowers had caught his attention.
Good job he couldn’t see the cups under her bed that were in the early stages of growing mould, Lisa thought. Her homes were always a triumph of style over hygiene. She must try and sort out a cleaner…
‘Can I get you a drink?’ she offered.
‘Any beer?’
‘Um, no, but I’ve some white wine.’
She experienced ridiculous pleasure when he accepted a glass.
‘I’ll just get my stuff from the car,’ he said, ducking out and returning shortly afterwards carrying a blue metallic container.
Oh God, he had a toolbox! She had to sit on her hands to keep herself from touching him, from ripping off the last few buttons on his shirt, exposing his broad chest, which was just the correct degree of hairiness, sweeping her hands up the smooth skin of his back…
‘D’you mind if I open the back door?’ He interrupted the clinch that was taking place in her head.
‘Um, no, go ahead.’ She watched him cross the room and shoot the bolt that hadn’t been touched since the last time he’d been here. A fragrant breeze crept into the kitchen, bringing the dense, evening-time scent of foliage and the whistles and cheeps of birds winding down after the day. Nice. If you liked that kind of thing.
‘No, we would not care!’ Jasper said hotly – to Lisa’s chagrin, because this week she was on a pudding diet. The lighter end of the scale, of course: fresh fruit, sorbets, fruit mousses. It had been well over a decade since the dizzying punch of Death by Chocolate had passed her lips.
Oh well, no matter. She paid the bill, and they both got up to leave, one of them less steadily than the other. By the door they shook hands, then Jasper attempted a drunken lunge at Lisa, which she tactfully deflected. Just as well she’d already got the contract signed.
Jasper tottered balefully up the street and the moment Lisa was by herself, the bleakness rushed in again. Why? Why was everything so much harder here? She’d been OK in London. Even after Oliver had walked out, she’d kept going. Pressing on, fulfilling her vision, making things happen, always certain there would be a prize of sorts for her. But the prize went to someone else and she was in Ireland and her coping mechanisms didn’t seem to work so well here.
She hadn’t rung her mum yesterday, even though it was Sunday. She’d been too depressed. She had only got dressed to go to the foul corner-shop for a tub of ice-cream and five newspapers, and as soon as she returned to the house, she got back into her wrap and spent the day moping in a fug of cigarette smoke. Her only contact with humanity had been the local eight-year-olds kicking their football repeatedly up against her front door.
Before she flagged a taxi she popped into a newsagent’s to buy cigarettes and her heart lifted when she saw that the new Irish Tatler was out. Irish Tatler was one of Colleen’s competitors and deconstructing it would give her something to do for the rest of the evening. All at once home didn’t seem so repellent.
‘Hiya Leeesa.’ A gaggle of little girls playing on the road yelled at her when she got out of her cab. ‘Your dress is sexy.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What size are your shoes?’
‘Six.’
A huddled conference followed that. How big was a six? Too big for them, they reluctantly decided.
Letting herself in, she flung her bag on the floor, flicked on the kettle and checked her answering machine. No messages, which wasn’t really surprising because almost no one knew her number. It didn’t stop her feeling like a failure, though.
She kicked off her lovely shoes, flung her dress on a chair and was changing into drawstring pants and a shortie T-shirt when the doorbell rang. Probably one of the little girls to ask if they could have her handbag when she didn’t want it any more.
With a sigh she flung open the door, and there, standing on her step, bending his tall bulk to fit the doorway, was Jack.
‘Oh,’ she said, stupid with surprise.
It was the first time she’d seen him out of his suit. His long, collarless shirt was open to mid-chest. Not by design, but because the buttons were missing. His khakis looked as if they’d done service in two world wars, and had a flap torn across the right knee, exposing a smooth kneecap and a three-inch square area of hairy shin. His hair looked even messier than usual, as did his face – Jack was a man who needed to shave twice a day.
Leaning against the doorframe, he displayed a device in the palm of his hand, like a policeman flashing ID. ‘I have a timer for your boiler.’
It sounded vaguely suggestive.
‘Sorry it wasn’t sooner.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Is now a good time?’
‘Come in,’ Lisa invited. ‘Come in.’
She was taken aback because in London, no one ever just called around to her flat. She’d never made an arrangement to see anyone without first opening her Psion or Filofax and playing the I’m-busier-and-more-important-than-you game. It was an elaborate ritual, governed by strict rules. At least five different dates must be offered and rejected before an actual one can be agreed on.
‘Next Tuesday? Can’t, I’ll be in Milan.’
Which is the cue for the other party to respond, ‘And I can never do Wednesdays because that’s my reiki night.’
An acceptable reply to that is, ‘And Thursdays are out for me because my Alexander Technique tutor comes.’
The ante is upped by the second party coming back with, ‘The weekend after that is out of the question. Cottage in the Lake District with friends.’
To which the smart money responds, ‘The whole of the following week is gone for me. LA, on business.’
Once a date has been finally fixed, it is still acceptable – indeed expected – for you to cancel on the day, pleading jet-lag, a client dinner or having to go to Geneva to make seventy people redundant.
Like Gucci sunglasses and Prada handbags, Time Poverty was a status symbol. The less time you had the more important you were. Jack obviously didn’t know.
He looked around in admiration. ‘You’ve been here – how many? – three, four days and already the place looks nicer. Look at that –’ He pointed to a glass bowl overloaded with white tulips. ‘And that.’ A vase of dried flowers had caught his attention.
Good job he couldn’t see the cups under her bed that were in the early stages of growing mould, Lisa thought. Her homes were always a triumph of style over hygiene. She must try and sort out a cleaner…
‘Can I get you a drink?’ she offered.
‘Any beer?’
‘Um, no, but I’ve some white wine.’
She experienced ridiculous pleasure when he accepted a glass.
‘I’ll just get my stuff from the car,’ he said, ducking out and returning shortly afterwards carrying a blue metallic container.
Oh God, he had a toolbox! She had to sit on her hands to keep herself from touching him, from ripping off the last few buttons on his shirt, exposing his broad chest, which was just the correct degree of hairiness, sweeping her hands up the smooth skin of his back…
‘D’you mind if I open the back door?’ He interrupted the clinch that was taking place in her head.
‘Um, no, go ahead.’ She watched him cross the room and shoot the bolt that hadn’t been touched since the last time he’d been here. A fragrant breeze crept into the kitchen, bringing the dense, evening-time scent of foliage and the whistles and cheeps of birds winding down after the day. Nice. If you liked that kind of thing.
