Perfect Day

for a moment.
    ‘You’re right,’ he says.
    ‘You have to close your eyes,’ she says, urging him to join in, ‘and empty your mind and concentrate on what you can hear and smell.’
    She watches his beautiful face relax to her command. He says nothing.
    She lies back with her head next to his on the pillow.
    ‘Two pounds of bananas for a pound,’ she says, repeating a distant market trader’s call.
    ‘Banana,’ he corrects. ‘ London fruiterers always use the singular.’
    ‘Lovely bit of grape,’ she says, with her best impersonation of a cockney accent.
    They lie, side by side, flat on their backs, listening to the street below.
    ‘Charcuterie,’ Alexander says finally.
    ‘That kind of cold, smoky salami smell ? It’s the Italian deli at the corner.’
    ‘Have you had breakfast?’ he asks.
    ‘I’ve got to go to work,’ she says.
    She sits up and takes the lid off her cappuccino. She knows it’s gone ten o’clock because that’s when the peep-show two doors up the alleyway opens and the girl on the door likes to listen to Liberty Radio. She can hear the unmistakable tinkling of ‘ Chiquitita ’ filtering up.
    ‘Take the day off,’ Alexander says.
    ‘I can’t.’
    Already she’s trying to think of a good excuse to tell Tony.
    Does he mean it?
    ‘I did,’ Alexander says.
    ‘You just took the day off?’
    ‘Yes,’ he says.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because it’s spring. The sky is blue... I wanted to see you again.’
    Her body is filling up with pleasure, as if pleasure’s liquid.
    ‘What if I hadn’t been in?’ she can’t stop herself asking, trying to contain her excitement. Why can’t she just keep quiet like he does? Surround herself with a bit of mystery?
    ‘I suppose I’d have tried the restaurant,’ he admits.
    ‘Were you thinking about me all night?’ she blurts out.
    ‘No,’ he says, smiling at her, putting his forefinger under her chin and tilting her disappointed face towards him, ‘just this morning.’
    She feels silly now.
    ‘Where would you most like to have breakfast?’ he asks.
    He’s used to getting what he wants, she thinks.
    She doesn’t know if he means now, or in an ideal world.
    ‘Selfridges,’ she says, which covers both options.
    ‘Selfridges?’
    His head drops back and he gives her this look, as if he’s amazed and a bit amused.
    ‘I could live in Selfridges,’ Kate explains. ‘Sometimes I think I’ll just hide behind a sofa or something when the shop closes and stay there all night.’
    He’s clearly not keen on the idea.
    ‘There’s loads of free food in the Food Hall,’ she encourages.
    ‘Free food?’
    ‘I go there on my days off, when I don’t get a meal at work.’
    ‘Let me take you somewhere nice,’ he says, sitting up.
    ‘What’s wrong with Selfridges?’
    ‘I haven’t been there since I went to see Father Christmas,’ he protests.
    ‘You’ll love it. On the fourth floor there’s this—’
    She stops herself.
    ‘What?’ he asks.
    ‘Surprise!’ she says.
    ‘What?’
    ‘You’ll have to come and see.’
    She can be good at getting what she wants too.

Eight

    ‘Rough night?’ Frances asks.
    Nell hugs her, then stands back and they look at each other.
    ‘I like the hair,’ Nell says.
    ‘You must be Lucy,’ says Frances .
    ‘Yes, I am.’
    Lucy makes her way cautiously down the steep steps to Frances’s door then clatters past them down the passageway, into the kitchen and out through the open french windows and into the little well of garden at the back.
    It’s like the courtyard of a Roman house glimpsed from a hot dark street, with pots and baskets of flowers and the slightly echoey drip of water. Lizzy Angel inspects each terracotta pot.
    ‘These aren’t very pretty,’ she says in her doll’s voice, which is curiously reprimanding and refined.
    ‘They’re herbs,’ says Frances , following her outside.
    ‘What a lovely garden,’ Nell says. ‘It’s like having another room.’
    ‘Small, you mean.’
    ‘But perfectly formed,’ Nell says, sitting down at the kitchen table.
    The flat has the mustiness of basements. It feels and smells like a student rental. The kitchen floor is covered in battered old carpet, spotted with indeterminate spillages round the cooker. These are things that Nell notices since she has had Lucy.
    ‘You look as if you haven’t slept,’ Frances says.
    ‘I didn’t, much. It was so muggy.’
    ‘Coffee?’
    ‘Could I have tea? Or a long drink? Perhaps a long