White Bodies(21)

“For a start, the pay’s rubbish. And there aren’t any garden centers near here anyway. Anyhow, the estate agent suits me for now—I’m on commission, and I’m saving my money.”

“Don’t you miss gardens?”

“Oh, I have a couple of projects on the go. I do them on my days off and at weekends. I’m pretty professional about it. I studied landscape gardening at college. How about you?”

“Oh, I didn’t go to college. I messed up my A-levels and I worked in a supermarket for a year or more, and then the bookshop while I figured out what to do next. Whether to re-sit my exams, or not. But I’ve been working for Daphne for six years now. Six years! I don’t know how that happened.”

After making such an effort, I retreat into profound embarrassment about myself, and my featureless life. I’ve never had a boyfriend who has lasted more than a few weeks. Boyfriends find me too intense, I think, and I’m sure my lack of a past must be obvious to Wilf, like a bad smell.

“Do you have a dream?” he says. “Something that you secretly want to do, as a career?”

“No.” I look away at the builder guy, at the noisy girls, and I mumble, “I mean, sometimes I think I’m better at observing things than doing them. I like watching. You’re lucky. You have something you really care about.”

“It’s one of the many things I like about you,” he says. “You notice small things that other people miss.”

“I think it would be good for me to notice less and do more.”

“There’s plenty of time. Most people are doing stuff and giving it no thought at all. You’re different, when you decide to start doing something, it will be special.”

We both grin and drink our drinks, totally self-conscious but maybe a little more confident.

? ? ?

When we leave the pub, I walk beside Wilf and point at trees and plants: “What’s that?”

“London plane.”

“What’s that?”

“Beech hedge.”

“And that?”

“Have a guess.”

“Grass.”

He nudges me and grins. And when we part we kiss each other on the cheek.

At the shop Daphne says, “How was your date?” and I tell her I’d appreciate it if she didn’t refer to Wilf in that way. But inside I feel surprised. I start thinking about him stomping about in gardens in Wellington boots, sleeves rolled up, dirt in his fingernails. I want Daphne’s comments about him to stop, and I hope Wilf asks me to lunch again, but I’m confused. The lunch had been wonderful, but I worry that when he gets back to Willesden Estates he’ll remember my lack of social grace, my verbal clumsiness, my vacant life.

? ? ?

At home in the evening, I see I’ve missed a call from Tilda. She hasn’t phoned since our awful meeting at the Albany—or answered my calls for that matter. Feeling suddenly optimistic, I allow myself to imagine that she wants to mend things between us and maybe will suggest the sisterly gathering that I described to Wilf, offering to come to my flat to watch movies, like we used to do.

I listen to her message, which is short and unrevealing, just “Tilda here. Don’t call me back; I’ll phone again.”

Hearing her voice and its severe tone changes my mood, making me worry that I was stupid when talking to Wilf at lunchtime. Tilda always warns me against gossiping, because of the way private information ends up on the internet, twisted and exaggerated. It’s happened to her several times, rumors that she was anorexic or was in a relationship with some famous actor, and I hope I haven’t said anything too revealing. I need to distract myself, so I microwave my supper, a chicken korma and rice, and I sit at my table eating it, looking out at the bindweed in the jungle of a garden (in need of Wilf Baker to sort it out) and thinking that I’ll log on to controllingmen.com. But then my mobile rings, and it’s Tilda. She sounds whispery, like she doesn’t want Felix to hear:

“I thought I’d let you know Felix and I are going away, and I wanted to check that you’re okay. You were so bloody paranoid when we met up for lunch. Neurotic and aggressive—it worries me.”

“I’m fine. There’s no need to worry about me. Where are you going?”

“Martinique. Remember, I told you? It looks divine there, all turquoise seas and white beaches.”

I think, And sharks and snakes and mosquitoes, but I don’t say so. Instead I’m suddenly inspired to tell her that there’s a problem with the water supply in our building. We’ll be without water while the plumbers are in, I say, and it would be great if I could stay a night at the flat in Curzon Street while she’s away.

She comes back quickly, in a harsh voice: “No, Callie, that’s out of the question. Felix has confidential business papers everywhere. Not possible.”

“I’ve nowhere else to go. . . . I’m desperate.”

There’s a pause and I feel dreadful inside because I’m lying. And if Tilda thinks about it, she’ll realize that I could always get a bucket of water in, rather than move out. My argument is so obviously flawed that I find myself hanging on the line, waiting for her to tell me that I’m being an idiot. But she surprises me, saying that if I really am desperate and it’s an emergency, I can collect a key from the cleaning lady, Eva, and she gives me a phone number.