Perfect Day

never had any vocation for teaching. The most enthusiastic description he could make of his career would be that it isn’t bad, as jobs go. Now that he’s back in England , there’s no reason to be doing it except that it’s what he does. It’s poorly paid, but it’s not an unpleasant job. The prospect of continuing like this for ever is unimaginable but he’s never given much thought to changing his situation. Sometimes he feels he’s just doing it until something happens.
    The bartender puts a cappuccino in front of the woman. The chocolate powder on the top is swirled into a heart shape. As he turns away he winks at Alexander.
    ‘Bella, Katy, no?’
    The woman gives Alexander a kind of exasperated smile, indulging the old man.
    ‘Katy?’ Alexander hears himself saying.
    ‘Kate,’ she corrects him.
    ‘Alexander,’ he says, and holds out his hand.
    ‘How do you do, Alexander?’ She mocks the length of his name.
    ‘How do you do?’ he says. ‘Do you come here often?’
    He puts on an exaggerated, formal voice to show that he knows it’s a cliché.
    ‘Every morning. Couldn’t get through the day without one of Marco’s cappuccinos, could I?’
    The bartender smiles. He’s frothing up a metal jug of milk, pretending not to be listening.
    They’re sitting side by side with two barstools separating them. The knowledge of each other’s names is an intimacy they don’t know how to handle yet. They both look straight ahead, she at the brightly coloured matchstick packets of sugar in a bowl by the corner of the Gaggia machine, he at the television.
    ‘What brings you to London ?’ he asks, without taking his eyes off the screen, as if the question arises naturally from the progress of the game.
    ‘I want to see the world,’ she says quite seriously.
    ‘Whereabouts in Lancashire are you from?’ As if he knew one end of Lancashire from another. He swivels round on his barstool to face her.
    ‘ Bolton .’
    ‘Bolton Wanderers,’ says the bartender.
    She raises her straight dark eyebrows and Alexander grins at her. The conversation is theirs now, but it’s still fragile. They don’t want the old man barging in any more.
    ‘Where are you planning to go?’ Alexander asks.
    ‘Bali,’ she says as if it’s the most exotic location she can think of, ‘or Thailand . But everyone goes to Thailand now...’
    ‘Everyone goes to Bali ,’ he tells her.
    ‘Where would you go, then?’ she asks.
    ‘Where?’ he repeats.
    ‘In the whole world?’
    He likes the childlike wonder in her voice.
    ‘There are still some places in the Philippines ,’ he says.
    ‘Do you think you could write down the names for me?’ she asks.
    ‘Sure,’ he replies.
    Neither of them makes any move to produce pen or paper.
    ‘What’s the time?’ he asks her.
    ‘Half-past six,’ she says.
    ‘I left my watch at work,’ he explains.
    ‘Can anyone teach English abroad?’ she suddenly asks him.
    ‘There’s a qualification you need to get a job in a school. It doesn’t take long.’
    ‘Do you need A levels or something?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ he says quickly, not wanting to offend her. He hadn’t imagined that she might not have A levels. She sees through his attempt to be polite.
    ‘I was good at English at school,’ she says, defensively. ‘I got an A in my GCSE. And Art.’
    ‘Well done!’ he says and cringes because he sounds just like a teacher.
    ‘Well, then,’ she says, tipping up her cup and drinking the remains of her coffee.
    He knows that if he doesn’t say something now she will slip off her barstool and leave the bar and he knows that he does not want that to happen and there isn’t time to think about why.
    ‘Look, are you doing anything? I mean, if you wanted we could talk about it... maybe... dinner
    The more words he adds to the nonsensical sentence, the lamer it sounds, as if he is trying to pick her up. Which, he supposes, is what he is doing. Sort of. Maybe it’s the coincidence of her dreams of a palm-fringed beach with his, or maybe it’s the aftereffect of drinking at lunchtime that makes him feel as if he’s not quite responsible for his actions.
    ‘I see enough food all day,’ she says. ‘Have you noticed how disgusting people are when they eat? I don’t mean you,’ she adds quickly as he instinctively touches the corner of his mouth. ‘And they don’t cut up their salad and they’re trying to shove in this great bit of iceberg lettuce and talk at the same