Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

“She fancies girls, does she?”
He smiled at the kid. “Most of the time. She’s pretty much of a loner, though. She doesn’t trust people. She thinks life is a shit sandwich.”
“She’s right,” said Wilfred.
“She doesn’t take any guff from people. She’s like you in that respect.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that, mate.”
“I know. I could learn that talent myself. I’ve never known a Southerner who wasn’t too polite for his own good.”
“You’re from the South?”
Michael nodded.
“The Deep South?”
“Not exactly. Orlando. And stop looking at me like that. I’ve never lynched a soul.”
Wilfred smiled and butted Michael’s calf with the side of his fool. “What are you gonna do about her?”
“Well … I guess I could mail a letter to this address. Fat chance that’ll do any good, since she ran away from me on the heath.”
“Are you sure she knew it was you?”
“Positive. And I know why she ran away.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the closest thing she’s got to a conscience.”
“And she’s doing something wrong?”
“Well … something she’s ashamed of. She’s even got a disguise for it. She doesn’t usually look like that. Her real hair is red and frizzy and she’s never worn a string of pearls in her life. Not to mention pink. ”
“You’ve known her long?”
Michael thought for a moment. “At least eight years. My landlady in San Francisco is her …” He couldn’t help chuckling, though it seemed faintly disrespectful to Mrs. Madrigal. “My landlady is her father.”
Wilfred blinked at him.
“She’s a transsexual. She used to be a man.”
“A sex change?”
Michael nodded. “You hardly ever think about that. She’s just a nice person … the kindest person I’ve ever known.” He missed her, he realized, far more than he missed his real parents.
He was tired of fretting over Mona, so they returned to Harrods and resumed shopping. Two hours later they dragged wearily into 44 Colville Crescent, laden with royal-family souvenirs. While Michael examined his treasures, Wilfred pranced about the kitchen making sandwiches.
“This tastes wonderful,” Michael mumbled, biting into a chicken-and-chutney on rye.
“Good.”
“How’s the noggin, by the way?”
“Aw … can’t even feel it.”
“Is it safe for you to go home?”
Wilfred looked up from his sandwich. “Sick o’ me, mate?”
“C’mon. I was just worried about your old man. Does he stay mad for long?”
The kid shook his head. “He doesn’t stay anything for long.”
The door buzzer sounded, causing Michael to flinch. He rose and peered through the front curtains. The caller was a woman of thirty or so, looking soberly aristocratic in a burgundy blazer and Hermès scarf. Her box-pleated navy blue skirt appeared to conceal a lower torso so formidable that it might have done justice to a centaur. Her hair, dirty-blond and center-parted, curved inward beneath her jaw, like a pair of parentheses containing a superfluous concept.
“Oh,” she said flatly, when he opened the front door. “You’re not Simon.”
“Not today.” He grinned. “May I give him a message?”
“He’s still gone, is he?”
He nodded. “He’ll be back just after Easter. We swapped apartments.”
“I see. You’re from California?”
“Right. Uh … would you like to come in or anything?”
She considered his lame offer, frowning slightly, then said: “Yes, thank you.” She cast a flinty glance at two black children playing in the sand next to the cement mixer. “If nothing else, it’s safer inside.”
He had no intention of agreeing with her. “I’m Michael Tolliver,” he said, extending his hand.
She held hers out limply, as if to be kissed. “Fabia Dane.” As she followed him into the corridor, her face knotted like a fist. “My God. That smell! Did someone park another custard in here?”
She meant puke, he decided, and he suddenly found himself feeling uncharacteristically defensive about the place. He loathed this woman already. “It’s an old building,” he said evenly. “I guess the smells are unavoidable.”
She dismissed that thesis with a little grunt. “Dear Simon’s problem is that he’s never been able to tell the difference between Bohemian and just plain naff. One could certainly understand a grotty little flat in Camden Town, say … or even Wapping, for God’s sake … but this. It must be awful for you. And those horrid abos with their drums going night and …”
Her diatribe