Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

home right now. It’s a lot safer to have sex with a magazine. Does that sling?”
“Like bloody hell,” said Wilfred.
“Good. It’s working. My friend Ned calls it periodical sex. I always thought that was kind of cute.” He pressed the “flesh-colored” Band-Aid into place, noting the careless injustice of that expression. “There. Almost good as new.”
Wilfred sniffed the air. “Is that coffee?”
“Sure. Want a cup?”
“Super,” said Wilfred.
Bringing him the coffee, Michael asked: “Got plans for the day?”
The kid shrugged.
“Great. Then take me to Harrods.”
“Are you serious?”
“Sure. I need to buy some things for my friends back home.”
So Wilfred obliged and led him to the princely department store, where Michael stocked up on treasures from the royal kitsch section: Prince William egg cups. Princess Diana dish-rags. Queen Mum appointment books. He searched in vain for something with Princess Anne’s face on it, but that visage seemed of little value to the British—camp or otherwise.
As they passed through the men’s wear department, Wilfred tugged on his sleeve. “Look, mate. Princess Diana.”
“That’s O.K.,” said Michael. “I’ve already got the dish-rag.”
“No, mate. Herself. ” He jerked his head toward a svelte blonde who stood at the counter examining a pair of men’s pajamas. She was wearing a pale gray cashmere sweater above a pink floral Laura Ashley skirt. There were discreet little pearls at her ears and throat, and her feet were encased in black patent pumps.
Michael ducked behind a pillar and signaled Wilfred to join him.
The kid giggled. “Hey, mate, it isn’t really …”
“Shhh. Don’t let her see you.”
Hugely amused, Wilfred whispered: “Its just a Sloane Ranger.”
“A what?”
“A twitzy-twee bitch. They shop in Sloane Square. They all try to look like …”
“Wilfred, gel back here!”
“Have you gone …?”
“I know her,” Michael whispered. “At least, I think I do. She looks a lot like an old friend of mine.”
Wilfred rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you ask her, then?”
“I tried that once and she ran away.”
“When?”
“About a week ago. On Hampstead Heath. Oh, God … has she left yet?”
“Not yet. The shop assistant is showing her some more pajamas.”
Michael strained to hear her voice, but it was obliterated by the stately din of the department store. “This is insane,” he murmured. “She must be in deep trouble.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Why wouldn’t she speak to me? Something is horribly wrong,”
Wilfred shrugged. “She looks all right to me.”
“I know,” said Michael. “That’s what’s wrong.”
The kid peered around the pillar again. “She’s leaving now. What are you gonna do?”
“Jesus. If she sees me, we may lose her for good.”
“What if I follow her? She won’t recognize me.”
“I don’t know….”
“A wog would scare her off, eh?”
Michael frowned at him. “She’s not like that. All right … go ahead. See what you can find out. Wait! Where should we meet?”
The kid screwed up his face in thought. “Well … the Markham Arms in Kings Road … No, it’s not Saturday.”
“Huh?”
“It’s only gay on Saturday.”
“Screw that. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
“Right. Markham Arms, Kings Road.”
“Got it,” said Michael. “Don’t let her see you, Wilfred. Just watch what she does, O.K.?”
The kid brought his fingertips to his Band-Aid and gave a jaunty salute, already moving toward his quarry. Michael waited fifteen minutes, then left Harrods and caught a cab to the Markham Arms. The pub was full of noisy shoppers, bordering on trendy, many of whom seemed to be in flight from the first major downpour of the day. He bought a cider and wedged himself in a comer as the jukebox began to play Sting’s “Spread a Little Happiness” from Brimstone and Treacle.
Wilfred didn’t appear at the appointed time, so Michael bought another cider and a package of vinegar crisps. He chatted briefly with a handsome businessman at the bar, who looked as if he belonged there on Saturday. They were discussing Cals when Wilfred pushed his way through the crowd and shook the rain off his golden-brown locks.
“In the first place,” he announced, “she’s an American.” I knew it. What else?”
Wilfred grinned. “A stout would loosen me tongue.”
“You got it.” He signaled the bartender and ordered a Guinness and another package of crisps. “She didn’t see