Perfect Day

the road. Nell wriggles her back straighter in her seat. Concentrate.
    ‘Yes, darling.’
    ‘I’m dying for a wee,’ Lucy announces.
    ‘We’ll stop at the next place we see,’ she says.
    Is Alexander a hero? Does he help other people or push them out of the way?
    She remembers crossing the road with him in Rome , somewhere near the Colosseum , dodging in and out of traffic with the buggy and being really frightened of getting run down. Then, when they finally reached the pavement, Alexander turning round and braving the mad erratic charge of traffic twice again. He’d spotted an old lady in black, bent almost horizontal from the waist, whom Nell hadn’t even noticed. She remembers him holding up his hand like a traffic policeman challenging a lorry to stop, and half of her feeling tremendous fondness for him, and half of her being exasperated that he should risk his life in this kind of chicken run just to help an ancient crone whom he did not even know.
    ‘Mummy!’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Aren’t you going to stop?’
    The green and yellow sign of a BP garage is fast approaching on the left. Nell swerves the car onto the slip road without indicating, and slams hard on the brake pedal. There’s a scream of horn behind her.
    ‘Sorry about that,’ she says.
    ‘That’s OK,’ says Lucy, unaware of her dangerous driving.
    There’s a cold, dirty reality about the toilets. Nell takes a wodge of tissues from her pocket and drapes them all round the seat for her daughter to sit on. It occurs to her that it’s crazy to be so concerned about a few germs touching Lucy’s skin when she’s almost killed them both with her lack of concentration. They wash their hands under a dribble of warm water, taking care not to touch the bowl and then Nell takes her into the shop and buys crisps, fruit pastilles and drinks.
    Lucy sits in the back happily sucking apple juice from a box with a straw and crunching crisps . From time to time her hand slips to the side where Lizzy Angel is guarding her packet of fruit pastilles. Salt and sugar. It doesn’t matter, Nell tells herself, just this once. This is a special occasion. She knows that the crisps and fruit pastilles are what Lucy will remember most about the day. She imagines her telling her mother: ‘Grandma, do you know what I had for my tea? Crisps and sweets!’ And Lavinia’s face, smiling indulgently at Lucy, then shooting a frown at Nell.
    Perhaps in the future Lucy will have a Proustian memory of sitting in the unnatural light of a petrol station eating noisily. Maybe the smell of petrol, or feel of the hard sugary surface of the pastille against her tongue and the flow of sweet fruity flavour will bring back a memory of this night and she will say to her friends, ‘This reminds me of the night my father...’
    No!
    Nell sips from a can of Coke.
    She eats a crisp. It tastes of holidays in Cornwall when she was a child. Standing on the beach with her own packet of Smith’s. Her hand searching for the little blue twist of salt at the bottom. Sometimes finding two, or even more. Then pouring it in and shaking the packet. And then the first wonderful greasy salty crunch.
    ‘Mummy?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Mummy, I’ve got a pain.’
    ‘Oh darling, where does it hurt?’
    Lucy’s hand is on her chest.
    ‘Right in my heart,’ she says.
    ‘Oh darling,’ Nell says, fighting back the urge to dissolve into emotion, ‘it’s probably just indigestion, in your tummy,’ she explains. ‘Let’s get you home.’

Twenty-five

    ‘The man on table twelve’s complaining there’s not enough anchovies,’ Kate tells her boss, Tony.
    ‘I gave him extra.’
    ‘He says there’s only five and a little bit.’
    ‘How many anchovies can anyone eat?’
    ‘I can’t stand anchovies,’ says Kate, ‘but he’s the world’s biggest anchovy fan and he’s getting stroppy.’
    ‘There’s something fishy about this,’ says Tony.
    He tells the world’s worst jokes.
    ‘What shall I tell him?’
    ‘Ah, tell him to fuck off.’
    ‘You tell him to fuck off,’ says Kate.
    She hates this sort of thing. She wouldn’t mind so much if it were a real complaint, like a snail in the side salad, like she had on her very first day. (Don’t shout about it, sir, or everyone will want one, Tony said, and then wrote ‘Escargots’ above Today’s Specials on the blackboard.) But she half thinks the bloke on table twelve is complaining just to wind her up. He’s been fussy right from the