Perfect Day

the clothes. Clearly, she has a destination in mind.
    The Armani section is situated at the far end of the shop. It’s all plain dark suits, impeccably tailored, the working clothes of the successful career woman, as uniform as Marks and Spencer but three times the price.
    ‘How many am I allowed to try?’ Kate asks the assistant, taking a black jacket in one hand and a short skirt in the other.
    The assistant gives Kate’s footwear an almost imperceptible glance. ‘As many as you want,’ she says.
    ‘Could you carry some?’ Kate asks Alexander as if he’s a tame bodyguard she’s known for a long time.
    He collects up size 8 jackets in every style and muted shade and follows her. These cubicles are at the edge of the shop and natural light floods into them from tall windows. All the doors are open.
    The strangely prosaic thought occurs to him that he has yet to see any other shoppers on this floor. How on earth does it make a profit?
    Inside the cubicle, Kate is already stripped down to her chocolate silk lingerie.
    He hands her a black skirt and a short black jacket.
    ‘Put these on,’ he says.
    She steps into the skirt and he holds up the jacket for her to slip her arms into. When she turns round, she looks like a French film star at a funeral, all buttoned up and serious, with sex smouldering just below the charcoal surface.
    She takes a step back to show him the outfit. Her lips are pouting into the look she thinks is sophisticated, one hip thrust forward.
    He drops to his knees in front of her, pushes up her skirt, and with his nose in the damp crotch of her underwear, he begins to lick. Her spine arches back, and she lets out the tiniest sigh, not as loud as a breath.
    He enters her soft tight vagina from behind, one hand clamped over the soft tight bush of pubic hair, his index finger on her clitoris that’s slippery as satin.
    In the mirror, he watches her sinuous neck stretch as her head tips back.
    He turns his face away, closing his eyes as he climaxes, unable to bear to witness himself so powerless.

    He finds a tissue in his pocket and wraps the condom in it. She hangs the skirt back up on the hanger, inspecting it for stains, then puts her boots back on, pulling hard on the laces and tying them in a double bow.
    ‘I didn’t know what it meant,’ she says, slipping the velvety soft mules lovingly back in the bright yellow carrier bag.
    ‘What?’ Alexander says.
    ‘Fuck me shoes,’ she says, with a little smile.
    Her accent swings between wonder and dour bluntness and makes every sentence finish differently from the way he expects it to.

    They hand the clothes back to the assistant, and walk away with their arms around each other.
    Kate says, ‘I’ve never done anything like this before, you know.’
    ‘Nor have I, you know.’ He mimicks the long vowels that make know sound like nor.
    ‘It must be the oysters,’ she says, with a giggle.
    ‘Definitely the oysters.’

    He knows nothing about her except that her name is Kate. She is a waitress. Her back arches like a gymnast when she comes, and her energy has got into his bloodstream. She makes him feel as if he’s standing tantalizingly on the edge of happiness and one leap will get him there.

    Beside the escalator, next to the Nicole Farhi section, there’s a mannequin wearing an ice blue cotton jumper he recognizes.
    Nell has that jumper.
    Nell.
    He has been unfaithful to Nell.
    It’s such an old-fashioned word, it doesn’t seem to appropriately describe what he has done. He repeats it in his head, bracing himself for the flood of guilt. Instead, there’s a curious feeling of elation, as if he’s been waiting for this to happen, dreading it like an exam, and now it’s done, it’s not nearly as bad as he thought it would be.
    He understands for the first time how little effort it takes to betray someone you love, how curiously unintentional it is.
    He steps onto the escalator, feeling oddly relaxed.

Fourteen

    The promenade is almost deserted.
    A couple of truanting teenage boys weave slaloms around an old age pensioner out for an afternoon walk.
    ‘Hardly Quadrophenia , is it?’ says Frances , disparagingly.
    ‘You can’t look very mean on a micro-scooter,’ says Nell.
    Lucy’s playing a kind of hopscotch on the paving stones a little way ahead. An elderly couple walk slowly past her, amused by the innocent concentration she’s putting into the game.
    ‘Why do old men at the seaside always wear beige caps and