Imperfect Strangers (19 page)

“What would?”

“If you lost your house. I mean it’s very nice, isn’t it?”

“Yeh!”
I sigh. “Especially my bedroom.”

I almost say
:
you should see my bedroom
... But I don’t want him anywhere near my bedroom. That would be just too weird. “Everything in there is from Coles,” I tell him, glad that I didn’t voice the former thought. Keith would probably have misread it as:
I would like you to see my bedroom
. “The curtains cost a fortune. Indian silk. That’s what angers me most. He knows I’ll have to sell the house to pay him off. And he knows how much I love that bedroom. All the other rooms we chose together, but the bedroom’s all me. Do you know what I mean? I think I could live almost anywhere if I could keep my bedroom.”

CHAPTER
26

I might just have the answer to Sally’s predicament.
The idea came from nowhere. Inspiration so pure that it caught me off guard. It may also be the answer to my dream of having Sally all to myself. The best ideas often enter the mind when it’s at its most relaxed, and reclined here, in a hot bath, up to my neck in suds, I am certainly at my most relaxed. It’s like when Newton discovered gravity – sitting under an apple tree, just relaxing, not actually searching for any scientific revelations, and then plop; the theory of all gravitational force falls right into his lap. No climbing. No struggling. It just lands there. Just like that. A gift. Some things are just meant to be.

A perfect solution.

I like the scent of Sally’s bath foam and made certain to buy the same one. Fragrances linger in a room and a different brand, a different flavour, would certainly be noticeable. The same goes for shower-gel, again I bought the same brand and flavour that Sally uses. I squeeze a generous dollop of it onto the natural sponge; the same kind of sponge that Sally uses. A quick massage forms a rich lather, which I apply first to my under-arms, ensuring that they get the strongest of its scent.

Now that I have reason to care, I take a bath every day. I keep my hair clean,
shave regularly and keep my toenails trimmed. After washing deep into every crevice, I take some time to relax in the soapy water. My favourite music drifts into the bathroom from the portable player out on the landing. Soaking, listening, relaxing, for at least fifteen minutes after a good cleansing is most enjoyable, and the cleaner I am, the more silenced mother becomes.

L
ying here with my eyes closed, I imagine Sally’s footsteps on the stairs. I keep my eyes shut when she enters the room. Let me scrub your back, she says. One day, I dare to hope, this fantasy might come true. If I can pull off the idea I’ve had, it almost certainly should come to fruition.

Regretfully I pull the plug
, and rising from the shrinking water I grab a warm towel from the radiator. With it wrapped around my middle I take a clean cloth, and with the use of the shower-spray I clean down the tub, carefully inspecting for any trace of scum or hair. After drying off, I use the towel to wipe the tub, making certain every drop is taken care of. I then wipe moisture from the mirror and window, which I make certain to open a crack, letting in fresh air, just as I found it.

Finally, backing out of the room, I wipe damp footprints from the floor, before laying down the towel, stepping back in, and standing on it to wipe my feet before rolling on a pair of new socks. Stepping off now, certain I won’t leave damp prints on the tiles, I place the sponge, shampoo, shower-gel and bath-foam into the middle and roll the towel into a tight bundle.

A glance at my watch proves my timing to be perfect. I stuff the rolled towel into my workbag and open the bathroom door. Sukie is sitting on the landing, looking up at me, her tail wagging. Good job she can’t talk. Sally will be crossing the park in fifty minutes, which would normally give me just enough time for a cup of tea before setting out and bumping into her on my way to work.

Today
, though, I’ve decided to forgo the cup of tea. Inspired by the idea, I make for Sally’s bedroom. The room is only partially lit by the fading light of day, but darkness holds no worry for me in this place. Naked, apart from the socks, I sit on the bed. I look around, wanting to get a feel for the room. How far should I go? Just the paper and curtains, or everything? Yes. Why not everything? New. The lot of it. She deserves it.

I pull back the quilt and slip underneath. Lying here I consider the matter of logistics. I can smell Sally on the pillow, and closing my eyes I imagine she is here,
right beside me, snuggling up.

Should I tell Sally about my idea?

No.

The surprise will be much better.

She’s going to be so pleased.

CHAPTER
27

I look around the store, pleased to be
back in Sally’s favourite shop. With eager anticipation, I wait, knowing this could be the answer to all my dreams, the jigsaw puzzle of my life and all the missing pieces finally coming together into one pleasing picture. A drop of sweat beads under the pit of my right arm; breaking free, it trickles down to the crease in my elbow, cooling as it rolls. In my mind, to lessen the possibility of stammering, I rehearse how I am going to make the request, what opening words to use, anticipate what possible replies might come back at me. The assistant behind the customer service desk shuffles pieces of paper, occasionally pausing to tap information into a computer. She has too much make-up on, which makes her look kind of artificial – plastic almost, like the manikins on the third floor. Finally she looks up and fabricates a plastic-smile.

“Yes sir, how may I help you?” The pleasant tone in her voice sounds as false as the smile on her painted face.

I now know all about such smiles. I have read about them in depth, studying various books and cross-referencing theories. The analysis of smiles is an easy task when you know what to look for. True smiles show in the eyes. A false smile presents itself on the lips alone. A genuine smile lights up the eyes. Genuine smiles sparkle and form creases. Sally smiles in that way. I know she is genuine.

“I’m wanting to surprise a f-friend,” I begin,
still uncertain how best to phrase the request, my rehearsed script abandoning me at the very last moment. “Well not surprise exactly. W-W W-Well, sort of. Replace, I m-mean. But as a surprise. It was... d-d... d-d... destroyed in a f-fire.”

“I’m sorry sir. I’m not really following you.” The woman tips her head to the side and smiles
, forcibly, in a non-genuine even more plastic-moulded kind of way. “What was destroyed exactly?”

I place my bag on the floor – the old
-lady-bag as Poppy called it – I never did take to the man-satchel Poppy chose for me. From the inside pocket of my jacket I draw out the digital camera I bought only two days ago, in this very shop, for this particular purpose.

“Her bedroom,” I say switching on the camera, presenting the viewing-screen to the assistant. “I want to replace it, as a surprise. All of it. I want it to be exactly the same as it was before, and she recently b-bought it all from this store. She b-bought it all on the same day, at the same time, so I thought–”

“So you thought I could help you source it all?”

Suddenly I feel more confident. The assistant is going to be helpful after all. It’s going better than expected, but then most things do, if you allow them to. Throw a twig in a river and
it will naturally float downstream. Grip it tightly in your hand and it’ll go nowhere.

“See the trouble is,” the assistant begins, at the same time handing the camera back to me. “This picture isn’t awfully clear. It would be very difficult. The colour-range of our silk curtains for example, is vast, and going on this picture we might easily select the wrong tone, or even the wrong pattern. And, should we make them up, which for silk especially is rather expensive, should they prove to be incorrect, they would still have to be paid for. Now if you could get hold of the lady’s delivery-note everything would be itemised and it wouldn’t be a problem.”

She smiles then and turns to face the next person in the queue, implying that her time with me has come to an end.

“But–
”

Her face returns to me. The false smile
forms, albeit now slightly down-turned at the corners. Her head tips to the side. Impatience? “Really, I can’t help you from the photograph, sir. Best you can do, as I say, is to get hold of the itemised delivery-note.”

“B-But it’s meant to be a surprise.”

I catch a glance of the papers she was shuffling, mere moments before I first spoke. They look to contain a customer’s details and an associated order. While I had been waiting for her to serve me, she had been entering them into the computer.

“Can’t you g
et the list from the computer?”

The person behind blows with exasperation. The memory of a burn sears my wrist
, and I rub each one in turn. No word-snakes, not now, not in here.

“I can’t really give you another customer’s details sir. It would be unethical.”

I can feel the onset of tightness – a sense of there not being room in my chest for my lungs to fully expand.

“I DON’T WANT HER,” I draw a deep breath, realising, when the assistant draws her sel
f back from the counter, that I’d shouted. “I don’t want her details,” I calmly repeat. “I just want to buy the same things she bought. I want you to deliver them. Then I want to decorate the room for her as a surprise.”

“It’s a most unusual request, sir
. You see, we don’t normally...”

Again the person behind blows with exasperation. I feel the burn on my wrists, the memory of it almost as intense as the actual event. My hands ball into fists. My lungs feel tight with the memory of bleach fume.

“Just let him buy the stuff can’t you? Isn’t it obvious that he’s trying to do someone an act of kindness? I wish some young man would buy me an entire bedroom as a surprise. Good for you son.” The old woman places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a gentle shake of encouragement.

“Yes madam,” the assistant says to my unexpected supporter, “I’m certain it is a nice gesture. But all the same, it
is
confidential information.”

“Listen,” says the old woman, heavily proportioned and dressed in a manner
that suggests an air of wealth. She eases me to the side and leans her heavy bosom onto the counter, “I don’t blame this young man, but I am in rather a hurry. He wants to buy something for his female friend, not steal something from her. Now where could the harm be? If he tells you her address, he obviously knows where she lives. If he pays on account– Do you have an account here?” I nod that I have. “Good. Then if he pays on account you know the items are paid for, and you know his address. Quite frankly, my dear, I fail to see the problem.”

The assistant’s smile appears to be getting too heavy to hold and now looks to be more of a grimace. Despair? Her eyes fix on me as she manoeuvres the mouse on her desk. Her eyes flick to the monitor then back. “What’s the lady’s name, sir?”

“S-Sally. Sally Bradwell.”

“Girlfriend is she
?” the heavy-bosomed woman enquires, leaning into my ear. Her breathy words tickle with uncomfortable hot dampness. Her perfume, thickly floral, catches in the back of my throat like a gasp of scented-talc. I can taste it, over-powering and choking. It has the smell of tightness. Still, despite my discomfort at her close proximity, I smile as pleasantly as I can manage and nod. At a guess, the smile doesn’t sparkle in my eyes, but the woman doesn’t seem to notice. Most people don’t look for the little things. They glide through life as if on ice skates, oblivious to most of what’s going on right under their very noses.

“Lucky girl.”

“The address, sir?”

“Ten Sycamore rise, near the park on the other side of town.”

“Postcode?”

“Er, I don’t know the postcode.” I should have found out, there’s always post on the mat. “But, deliver it to my house. Like I said, it’s a surprise.
She didn’t have insurance you see.”

I turn to face the old woman when the assistant casts me a look of suspicion, her sculptured brows forming a questioning scowl. “So
, I’m, you know, paying for it. Going to send her to her mum’s for a week. She lives in London. And then I’m going to decorate it while she’s away.”

“That’s very nice dear.” The well-to-do-lady pats my arm and smiles at me – genuinely – before throwing a frown of impatience at the assistant. “Like sixty-minute-make-over
?”

I haven’t a clue what that means, but her smile seems to beg a yes, so I simply nod.

“Well it’s all here, all itemised sir, but I’m still not entirely happy about this.”

“Just process the order woman. Didn’t you hear the young man? She’s his girlfriend.”

“He
says
she is.”

I hand over my store card, the one that Poppy persuaded me to open –
only geeks use cash,
apparently
.
The assistant studies it and begins to look as if she will change her mind at any moment.

“I think I’d maybe best put this by my manager,” she says
, with a note of t
here’s-something-about-you-I-don’t-quite-trust
in her voice. “You say you know this Miss Bradwell, but–”

So close to closing the deal
, and the stick turns around and starts to swim against the current so fast you’d think it had been fitted with an outboard motor.

I have a sudden flash of inspiration.

“You know that I know her,” I blurt, sounding very much like a man on a murder charge, a man who just realised he has an alibi. “Or rather, your computer does.”

“Sorry, sir?”

“She signed for it.”

I turn to the well-to-do-lady, as if she were my barrister, who, armed with this extra information, will be able to get all the charges against me dropped. “Sally signed as a guarantor for my card because I had no credit history of my own.”

The assistant takes my card, types the account number into the terminal and waits, finger tapping, as the details scroll onto the screen. “Well, yes, her details do appear to be linked to your account Mr Pursehouse.” She scrunches her lips into a lemon-flavoured pout, an expression that reminds me of Kerry, and then throws me a lingering look of scrutiny.

“Very well then,” she says, with a
tone of…
resignation
? “I’ll put the order through.”