Perfect Day

which always failed.
    As he and his mother walked home together, across the railway bridge and down the Chalk Farm Road, Alexander would amuse her with the Dismals’ latest exploit. First, it was poisoned bones left on the communal staircase, and mistakenly eaten by a visiting poodle. Over the years, the plots became more and more bizarre.
    His mother’s favourite was when Mr Dismal suspended a giant rumpsteak out of his window on a fishing line in the hope that the dogs would take a flying jump from the third floor window to claim it and land with a suicidal squelch in the basement courtyard below. Unfortunately, on the day in question, Miss Lo, the pretty Chinese woman Alexander imagined living in the garden flat, dragged her mattress out onto the paving to sunbathe, and was just inside mixing herself a cocktail when the beasts took their giant leap. When she returned she found them bouncing up and down, barking wildly at the empty well above.
    His mother had laughed so much she started coughing.
    They always used to stop at the window of Marine Ices to buy him a double cornet. Melon and chocolate was his favourite combination at the time, the delicate fragrance of frozen cantaloupe swirling in his mouth with the deep thick taste of chocolate. It would last him all the way home.
    ‘We’ve been to Helge and back,’ Joan would say, as she put her key in the door.

    The pavement outside the school on Princess Road is blocked with parents. As the doors of the school burst open, the air is suddenly full of the random joyous shrieking of children let out at the end of the day.
    Alexander and Kate cross the road and walk up the broad incline of Chalcot Road and up to the square.
    ‘What’s this area called?’ Kate wants to know. ‘It’s so pretty.’
    ‘Primrose Hill,’ he tells her.
    ‘Where Cruella De Vil lived?’ Kate says.
    ‘I don’t know. Did she?’
    ‘ Pongo and Missis called all the other dogs from the top of Primrose Hill,’ Kate remembers. ‘The Twilight Barking.’
    He’s startled by the odd way that her mind seems to be synching with his, but he assures himself it’s not surprising that they’ve both been thinking about dogs. Every other person who passes has one on a lead and is hurrying towards the park.
    He’s not sure why he lied to Kate about forgetting Helge’s name. Perhaps testing how much she’s prepared to forgive him. Perhaps pushing her to condemn him and bring this whole crazy thing between them to a halt.
    Men find it impossible to make moral decisions, so they manipulate women into doing it for them. It was one of his mother and Helge’s constant themes.

    ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ he asks, as they turn into Regent’s Park Road . Next to the bookshop whose owner his mother knew, there’s a Polish café which was one of the first places in London you could get a reliable cappuccino. Now every other shop in the street has turned into a coffee bar with tables and chairs outside.
    ‘Ooh, yes please.’
    ‘Outside or inside?’
    ‘Outside,’ Kate says, sitting down at the last table left.
    ‘In Italy they would think it completely crazy to sit outside in winter.’
    ‘It’s pretty crazy to have spaghetti as your staple food, though, isn’t it?’ says Kate. ‘All that winding!’
    ‘What would you like?’ Alexander asks. ‘I can recommend the apple crumble.’
    ‘Yes, please. And a cappuccino. But I want to pay this time,’ Kate says.
    ‘No, let me.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because you’re on a budget.’
    ‘I haven’t used any of it today,’ she protests.
    He watches her through the window. She’s a bit cold and she pulls her jacket around her, but she’s too proud to change her mind and come inside the steamy warm café. Aware now that she’s being observed, she waves at him. She’s only three feet away but it seems further separated by plate glass, a passion cake, and a basket full of croissants.
    What is he doing?

    Alexander puts a mug down in front of Kate and draws up a chair. She skims the dappled froth from the top of her coffee, and puts the teaspoon in her mouth as if it’s a most delicious dessert.
    ‘Cappuccino’s still a rarity where I come from,’ she tells him.
    ‘It’s almost unavoidable here,’ he says.
    ‘The trouble with the middle classes is that they’re bored by nice things like Costa Coffee and Pizza Express because it’s all the same, but if you’re poor it’s a treat.’
    ‘So what are you saying? That poverty’s