2009 - We Are All Made of Glue (45 page)

“Hey, Mum!”

I stop to sign their petition, though I’ve already signed it several times. The girl looks a bit sheepish, maybe thinking I despise her defection, but I just smile, because I understand now that everything—whales and dolphins, Palestinians and Jews, stray cats, rainforests, mansions and mining villages—they’re all interconnected, held together by some mysterious force—call it glue, if you like.

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While I’m picking up some beer for Rip, I spot Mark Diabello and Cindy Baddiel lingering hand in hand in the wine department. He’s wearing a check shirt and beige trousers, and I notice that a small bulge is developing above the waistband, and his hair has grey streaks at the temples, but as he turns towards me I feel that pleasant pelvic glow—yes, he’s still the hero of
The Splattered Heart
.

“Hello, Georgina!” He greets me with a kiss on each cheek, and Ms Baddiel hugs me in her roly-poly arms. She looks exactly the same. I check discreetly for signs of Velcro burns on her wrists—shame on you, Georgie!—but they are plump and wholesome.

“Thanks for everything you did with getting the house registered,” I say to Mark. “How’s it going?”

A couple of months ago, Wolfe & Diabello mysteriously disappeared from the high street to be replaced by Wolfe and Lee. Mark tells me he is now running a housing association for ex-offenders.

“It’s—how can I put it?—more satisfying.”

The mineral edge in his voice makes me shiver.

“I’m glad it all worked out.”

“Take care,” they say.

Here’s someone I don’t want to see. It’s Mrs Goodney pushing her trolley towards me. I’d duck out of her way and avoid her if I could, but the aisle is narrow, and there’s nowhere else to go, so I just stand still and smile.

“Hello,” she says. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“No. Nor me.” I’m still trying to decide whether to be friendly. “How are things up at the hospital?”

“Oh, I gave all that up. Too much hassle. No one thanks you for anything.” She sighs. “It was for her own good, you know. Do-gooders like you, you have this romantic idea that old people want to stay in their crumbly grotty houses until they die. But they don’t. They want somewhere small that’s easy to keep warm and clean, with all mod cons. Making the move is always a wrench. They may need a bit of help. But once they’ve done it, they never want to go back. Anyway, I’m running a little nail bar now, up Stoke Newington Church Street.” She glances down at my hands. “Drop in one day.”

At the deli counter I bump into Nathan and Raoul, gravely discussing the comparative merits of olive and avocado oils. He has his arm round Raoul’s shoulder in that casual gesture with which he once comforted me, though Raoul is several inches taller than he is, and only half as handsome. They greet me with warm hugs, and bring me news of Mr Ali, who has just installed a new
Jacuzzi
at their flat in Hoxton. Ishmail is still living with the al-Alis out Tottenham way, and is due to start his engineering course in September, but Nabeel has gone back to Palestine. His older brother was killed during an Israeli air strike on Gaza only a week after our barbecue—a bystander casualty—and now Nabeel is the head of the family. Gentle animal-loving coffee-making Arsenal-supporting Attendent Nabeel—my heart aches—it’s hard to imagine him as head of anything.

“Come and have dinner with us one day,” says Nathan.

“I’d love to. Will you make French-style egg custard with vanilla?”

“We need to get some vanilla,” says Raoul seriously. “We used it all up on that bavarois, remember?”

“Look out for Tati and Ella,” says Nathan. “They’re around here somewhere.”

Sure enough, there they are, pushing the high-sprung pram down one of the aisles, leaning together like a pair of newly-weds. I watch her lift her face up as he bends to give her a whiskery kiss and whisper something in her ear. She laughs, and rests her head against him. The way they’re
gazing
into the pram, you’d think there was a baby in there, but as I get closer all I see inside is a lot of bargains.

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