Chapter Ten
I try my best, I really do. I hang out in the production office, quiet as a mouse, avoiding the set. I sketch and sew and scheme, trying my very hardest to bat away any thoughts of Charles. Why one kiss should have an aftershock as intense and extended as this is beyond me, and yet it feels as though I’ve ended a full-blown relationship.
Alice, meanwhile, is bouncing around like the Duracel bunny. All her good intentions about playing hard to get have gone south and she’s instead regaling me with gruesome tales of her hot loving with the rage-filled Richard. She’s even threatening to invite him to the dinner we’re hosting for Dad and Julia later in the week. I’m feeling the nervy agitation I often experience when I know Dad’s coming to town, while Alice is doggedly focused on making the evening as perfect as possible. Neither of us are the greatest of cooks, so she’s scouring the Internet for a recipe that’s both impressive and idiot proof. The fact that Julia’s a nutritionist makes it even more of a challenge. She’ll think nothing of offering us handy hints about our bowel movements if the meal’s low on roughage.
Luckily there are a few days to go before that particular ordeal. Tonight’s challenge is my date with Ali. I want to want to go, but it feels like I’m going through the motions. I keep reminding myself how twinkly he is: if it wasn’t for the scourge of Charles, I’m sure I’d be beyond excited. He’s picking me up at eight, and I’m half-heartedly slapping on eyeliner while Alice piles my bed with potential outfits.
‘Seriously, Lulu, do you think I should hide?’ she says, picking out a green velour jumpsuit that I felt inexplicably brave enough to wear five years ago. ‘Or are you going to just admit you’ve got a twin and hope he finds the whole thing hilarious?’
‘Dunno, it’s a high-risk strategy. Remember Dave?’
Dave was the morbidly obese porter in Alice’s accommodation block at university. Alice’s boundless interest in other people’s problems meant that he felt they had a special connection, giving him the courage to ask her out on a date. Moved by the various trials and tribulations he’d endured, she decided it was kinder to accept and then let him down gently. Big mistake. Before long her room began to fill with a strange, pervasive odour, seriously blighting her chances with any other man she chose to bring back. Eventually she discovered a kipper, cunningly stuffed under the carpet, a revenge crime one would otherwise dismiss as an urban myth. Hell hath no fury like a fat man scorned.
‘I mean, a policeman could do way worse than that,’ I say.
‘If he carts you off to Guantanamo Bay, I promise I’ll come and visit,’ laughs Alice.
‘Will you though? Or will you just stay in bed with Richard, feeding each other Maltesers between shags?’
‘I might you know. He is s-o-o-o-o good at sex.’
‘Really? You hadn’t mentioned,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
Before long Ali’s ringing the doorbell. I’ve gone for skinny jeans and a shirt, hoping it’s vaguely sexy but not too try-hard. Alice hides out upstairs; I’ve decided I’ll tell him I’ve got a sister but nothing more. If this is a one-date pony, there’s no point feeding it oats.
‘Madam, your carriage awaits,’ he says as I open the door. Oh my God, he’s holding a motorbike helmet. This is the first time I’ve seen him in his civvies too, although I’m not sure his outfit counts as civvies. I can’t help casting a professional eye, breaking it down. My job’s all about conveying character via clothes, so I’m a super sleuth when it comes to sartorial clues. He’s wearing a shirt and tie combo with pale, belted chinos. It’s all very straight, very proper, and tells me loud and clear that he’s taking this date seriously. Oh dear, maybe jeans were a bad call. Or maybe I’ve clad myself in the truth, unwittingly externalizing my locked-up heart.
‘I’m really, really bad at balancing,’ I say nervously.
‘If you just grip me tightly, you’ll be fine,’ he says.
I can see Alice peeking out from behind the banisters, giving me a thumbs up. God knows it’s entirely justified – Ali is definitely cute. Open-faced, clean-cut: the kind of effortless good looks that the boys in those Jackie photo stories possessed in spades. If I’d known when I was thirteen that someone who looked like him would ever have asked me out I’d have died of joy, but life’s moved on a bit since.
Soon I’m straddling his roaring machine, setting off for who knows where. Our destination turns out to be an Italian restaurant near the river (but on the right side, thank God). Although it’s slightly starched and formal, there’s something appealing about the fact that he hasn’t gone for the predictable gastro pub option. We won’t be troughing hunks of dry meat surrounded by drunkards; instead I’ll be waited on and called ‘Signorina’. Not to mention being called Alice: am I really going to be able to keep this up?
‘So this is random,’ I say, immediately realizing how ungrateful I must sound.
‘Jesus, have I left you feeling stalked?’ he asks. ‘I wouldn’t have arrested you if you’d turned me down. Might’ve fixed a few speeding fines, but nothing too serious.’
He’s fun. At least he’s fun.
‘I don’t, I promise. It’s flattering.’
‘I’ll issue me with a restraining order if you like.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ I laugh, picking up my menu.
‘Sorry, Alice, let me get you a drink. What would you like?’
Alice, Alice. When we were little I used to think I’d drawn the short straw name-wise. When Mum read Alice in Wonderland I was utterly beguiled by the idea of a girl finding a magical dimension hidden somewhere beneath this one. There aren’t many Lulus in the literary canon; it’s such a silly, diminutive sort of a name. But Alice christened me Lulu when she was too small to say Louise, and the rest is history.
‘Um, something white? Dryish?’
I look around the room, taking it in. This is not the type of restaurant liable to serve the kind of paint stripper that Rufus foists on us. The waiters are smart, the cutlery’s heavy: it’s a proper old-fashioned Italian. It’s definitely not one of those gruesome destination restaurants, which endlessly pipe ‘emulsion’ over tiny squares of endangered fish and then fleece you mercilessly. I bet that’s the kind of place Tarquin would take someone on a date. And then insist they paid half.
Ali orders a couple of glasses and apologizes for not getting a bottle. ‘I wanted to collect you, but it meant I had to bring the bike.’
‘Don’t apologize, it’s lovely to be collected,’ I tell him. Which God knows it is; if only I could throw off this pervasive sense of flatness.
‘Where I’m from, the girls expected nothing less. You’d get a slap if you told them to get the bus.’
And he fills me in on where he grew up, a remote community in the West of Scotland. He moved down to London a couple of years ago to work for the Met.
‘So what on earth lured you away?’ I ask. ‘Being a copper in London must be so scary. I’d just hide out in my panda car, willing the robbers to change their minds and go home.’
He laughs. ‘Are you saying I’m a bumpkin, Alice?’
‘No, I’m just wondering what would make you want to engage with it all. All that evil, I suppose. You must come up against some pretty nasty characters.’
‘What, like gorgeous girls who don’t know how to get their foot off the accelerator?’
Ooh, good riposte. I so wish it was hitting the sides. We break off to order and I realize that I’ve managed to chuck back my glass of wine in a heartbeat. The waiter asks me if I want another.
‘I’m not sure. If you’re driving, I don’t want to turn into some drunken old fishwife.’
‘Go on – I promise I’ll go slowly round the bends.’
I smile a yes at the waiter, who also pauses to take our food order.
‘So, is this a regular haunt?’ I ask Ali.
‘Is that a posh girl way of saying “Do you come here often”?’
Does he think I’m posh? I don’t feel posh. I’m way less posh than Charles.
‘Can I be straight with you?’
I smile an assent.
‘I hardly ever manage to get out. My job takes up all my time, which is maybe why I’m reduced to picking up reckless drivers.’
‘Thanks!’ I tell him.
‘I’m teasing you, Alice,’ he says, suddenly sounding very Scottish. ‘No, it really does swallow up my life. I had to hunt for somewhere date-worthy on the Internet. I only know my way round London from the inside of a patrol car.’
I wonder what it would be like to get to know London from scratch, to feel your way round its sharp edges. This city is like a part of my DNA; I don’t remember a time when it felt unfamiliar to me. Much as I love it, if it wasn’t my place I’m not sure I’d want to try and penetrate its hard carapace.
‘So you never told me why,’ I say. ‘Why did you wanna come down here and go through getting to know somewhere so monolithic and scary?’
‘That’s a toughie.’
‘I’m interested,’ I press him.
‘You’re gonna think I’m some kind of boy scout if I tell you, but basically it’s because this is where the help’s needed. All this knife crime and gun crime and… I was chasing after junkies and car thieves back home, knowing they’d most likely go straight back out and do it again. Here I feel like maybe I can make a difference. I’m probably kidding myself, but I’d rather believe it. And obviously career-wise it’s much better than being Greyfriars Bobby up in the Highlands,’ he adds.
Oh, to have his certainty about life, that clarity about which is the right fork in the road. I’m such a blunderer.
‘Jesus,’ he continues, ‘what kind of selfish numpty am I? I haven’t even asked what you do.’
And I lamely blather on about my job, convinced he’ll think it’s the world’s most frivolous waste of time. Luckily my monologue’s cut short by the arrival of our starters.
‘Sounds exciting,’ he says politely. ‘Must be cool having your name in lights.’
‘Not so much in lights, normally in tiny writing scrunched up on the right-hand side of the screen.’
‘What kind of shows have you worked on?’
I’m on safe ground, aren’t I? He spends his life veering round London in a patrol car, not tucked up with a cup of cocoa watching TV drama. Besides, lovely though he is, I’m not feeling it. I suspect he needs the kind of homely hausfrau-in-waiting that I’m never going to be.
‘Can’t you remember?’ he laughs, registering the long pause.
‘Um, yes. I did that drama “Showstopper” last year, and I did “Tell Me Lies”.’ Wish I hadn’t mentioned that particularly trashy thriller: its name is so pertinent that I’m blushing scarlet. ‘You won’t have seen any of them, I’m sure,’ I add hurriedly.
‘You’ve got me sussed, haven’t you? “Top Gear” is about my limit.’
‘I bet that’s not true. What’s your favourite film?’
‘Not sure I’ve got one,’ says Ali. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Surely everyone’s got one? Even if it’s Watership Down and they haven’t seen it since they were five?’
‘Oh no, it’s definitely not that. Can’t be dealing with cute, furry creatures dying on me.’
‘But you can cope with fully grown men dying on you? Do you see many dead bodies?’
‘Stop changing the subject,’ he says. ‘I asked you what yours was.’
‘That’s easy: Annie Hall.’
‘That’s Woody Allen, right? Self-obsessed New Yorkers whinging on about their therapy?’
‘That’s a very crude analysis.’
He makes a little ‘get you’ face.
‘No, it is. It’s much more sophisticated than that. It’s a relationship told out of sequence. You know right from the outset that it doesn’t work out, so you’re reading all the clues as to why they fuck it up even in the scenes where they’re happy.’
‘Sounds very uplifting.’
‘It is though. You sort of know they could never have made it work with the kind of people they both are. You don’t have to have any false hope about them seizing romantic happiness from the jaws of defeat. You can just watch a whole relationship play out truthfully: beginning, middle, end.’
‘And why exactly do you find that satisfying, rather than hopelessly depressing?’ asks Ali, a wry smile playing around his lips.
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to know?’ I demand. ‘To know what it is that’s going to make it impossible rather than kidding yourself you can overcome things which are insurmountable?’ I’m a case in point. If I’d been able to see that Steve and I were a match made in Slough, not heaven, I’d have saved myself two precious years.
‘But how can you know?’ counters Ali. ‘Some of the kids I pull in, they think they know. They believe achieving things in life is impossible for them, that it’s just for rich kids. It’s about getting them to believe otherwise. Maybe your whining New Yorkers would’ve had a house full of kids and a happy old age if they’d looked at it differently.’
I wish I could be as gloriously simplistic as him. It’s like he’s fallen down the Magic Faraway Tree and landed in London.
‘Or maybe they were realistic,’ I snap. ‘They accepted that their differences were too great and made an adult decision.’
‘But you can’t know at the beginning,’ he counters. ‘Last girl I dated was perfect for me at first, but stuff happens. Stuff that might not be there first off, even if you were looking for it. She went from my dream girl to my worst nightmare before I could catch my breath.’ He pauses for a moment, suddenly still. ‘Whereas someone else,’ he continues, smiling, ‘might seem like a bit of a nightmare, but turn out to be well worth the hassle.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Dunno, just some hypothetical person I may’ve met.’
‘Is that right?’ I say, landing us in a flirty stand-off. Not sure how I feel about that, I rattle on: ‘So what was wrong with this ex of yours? Did she turn out to be a bank robber?’
‘Shagging my best friend after we’d got engaged seemed pretty criminal to me,’ he says. ‘If I’m honest, it wasn’t just the skanky smack heads that drove me down South.’
‘Poor you, that’s horrible. You must have been devastated.’
He shrugs, face shutting down. ‘I survived,’ he says, voice flat. ‘Better to know what a liar she was before we had a couple of screaming babies and an Alsatian to fight over.’
I want to ask him more, or even reach a hand over the table, but it’s as though the drawbridge has gone up. I try to make eye contact, but his jaw’s set, eyes cold. Why did he bring it up when he clearly can’t bear to talk about it?
‘Do you actually like Alsatians?’ I ask, clutching at conversational straws. ‘I could never imagine having one of those. Sorry, I do realize the dog wasn’t the point of your story.’
‘It’s fine,’ he says, warming up a bit. ‘Yeah, I’ve got quite keen on them since I’ve been in the Force. You end up being pretty grateful to them when you’re on a drugs raid. What’d you go for? Bet you’d have some namby-pamby dog with a velvet collar you’d made yourself.’
I’m about to vigorously dispute his assessment, before realizing that what I’d really like is a black pug. Maybe Alice and I could have twin pugs and dress them in tartan overcoats in winter. Dear me, I clearly need to move out of Hysteria Lane sharpish.
‘A pug?’ he says. ‘Yeah, I can see that.’
‘Can you?’
‘Definitely.’
Deciding the dog chat’s gone far enough, I launch in with more questions about his job. As he talks, I find myself increasingly fascinated by his decision to tunnel into the underbelly of urban life. I know for a fact I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning if I knew what really lurked beneath the surface. He talks a little more before holding his hand up.
‘Enough grimness, Alice. We need dessert and you need to give me the inside scoop on you. I’m in the dark here. Is that posh wee house all yours or is that smooth young man your flatmate?’
‘Gareth? Christ, no.’ I imagine for one awful moment what life would be like if Gareth and I lived together. Meticulously tidy and endlessly nosey, he would be the flatmate from hell. But then, living with anyone but Alice is almost unimaginable. Why am I wasting valuable seconds on this pointless mental cul-de-sac? I need a decent answer pronto. Isn’t the most convincing lie the one that’s closest to the truth?
‘Um, I live with my sister. She was upstairs at the party, so you wouldn’t have seen her.’
I feel myself starting to blush and look down at the tablecloth. Christ, he must winkle confessions out of sculdugerous criminals on a daily basis: there’s no way I’m going to get away with this. I wish I’d just come clean at the outset. I’m going to seem like a total freak if he calls my bluff.
‘Is she older or younger?’
‘Older,’ I say, which is true of course. By a whole eight minutes.
‘How much older?’
‘Eight years.’ Bollocks, I should’ve said two or something. Now I sound weird. Which I’m not, of course. It’s perfectly normal to go out on a date and lie compulsively to a virtual stranger.
‘That’s quite a gap. You can’t have been close growing up. My brother’s three years older than me and he thought I was nothing but a whining brat till I was about twenty-five.’
‘Er, yeah, no, we were actually. She used to take me shopping and… ice skating and rollerblading.’ What am I talking about? Alice and I hate sport more than poison. If I manage a yoga class once a month I act like I’m God’s gift to exercise.
‘Can’t imagine a sibling like that. Me and Alan still don’t have much to say to each other. He just rings me up and gives me advice about cars and power tools.’
‘It’s probably his weird way of telling you he loves you.’ It’s not my business, I know, but I can feel it’s the truth from the way he says it. I tell Alice I love her once a day at least, it’s a bedtime minimum – for all their unfair fertility advantages, I’d hate to be a man.
‘Do you think?’ says Ali, sounding genuinely surprised.
‘Of course it is! When’d you last tell him you loved him? You do love him, don’t you?’
‘He’s my brother,’ he says in a tone that indicates it’s obvious. ‘Dunno, probably never.’
‘Would you like to?’
He pauses.
‘Maybe. Can’t imagine it though.’
I leave him pondering for a few seconds.
‘Alan, by the way, is not a great name. No wonder he was mean to you growing up. He so drew the short straw at the christening.’
‘Very popular name in Scotland, I’ll have you know. What beautiful, perfect name is your sister blessed with then?’
Oh no. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the almost truth.
‘Lulu. Her name’s Lulu. Well, Louise really.’
‘Lulu? Have to say, that’s a cute name.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask him, curiosity getting the better of me.
‘Dunno, just sounds like she’d be pretty. Which I’m sure she is, if you’re anything to go by.’ He laughs. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t have said that. Now I sound like I’m hitting on your sister and perving on you, all in one go.’
‘Perverting the course of justice!’ I add, all high-pitched and screechy. Think first, speak later: I can see it right now on the charge sheet. Even though I’m having an unexpectedly good time, I’ve got to make a speedy exit before I make this any worse. ‘Um, I’ve got a really early start and my thighs are ballooning with all the bacon sandwiches. I should probably skip dessert and head home.’
Ali looks unbearably crestfallen. ‘Oh, are you sure you won’t have a coffee at least?’
‘I guess I could go a peppermint tea if you twist my arm,’ I tell him.
‘Do you mind if I have something? I’m a sucker for anything sweet.’
I wonder if he sits in his car compulsively chomping on HobNobs between arrests. I guess he probably needs some kind of prop, something to sweeten the darkest of days.
‘Who am I to deprive you?’ I ask him, pleased to be here, but dreading more questions. I need a speedy handbrake turn, something to switch the spotlight back on him. I’ve got to turn myself into the romantic equivalent of the Gestapo (if it’s possible for it to have a romantic equivalent).
‘What star sign are you?’ I ask before my brain’s had time to tell my mouth that I’m no longer twelve years old.
‘Do you believe in that stuff?’ he asks, eyebrows raised.
No. But I can hardly tell him that now.
‘Er, yes,’ I say hesitantly. ‘I love the stars.’
Jesus. If he ever had any remote interest in me, it must’ve withered on the vine by now.
‘I’m surprised,’ he says. ‘You seem like you’re all about the logic. I’m a Leo. So go on then, Mystic Meg, what am I like?’
‘You’re bold and fearless, like a lion,’ I tell him. Surely Leo’s are meant to have leonine qualities? ‘You’re not afraid of conflict and you look good in fur.’
‘You’re right,’ he laughs, ‘I do look good in fur. Perhaps I’ll emigrate and join the Stasi so I can have one of those bearskin hats. Seriously though, what are Leo’s meant to be like? You obviously believe in this stuff, you don’t have to humour me just because I think it’s nonsense. You might be right.’
I so agree with him. Every time I see some bovine commuter digesting the words of wisdom of one of those shaggy-haired charlatans on the Tube I want to rip the paper from their hands and force them to see sense. But that’s not what my character thinks. I wish I’d got some thespian hints from Charles before I embarked on this car crash of a date. Stop thinking about Charles!
‘What are you like? Um, you’re honest and brave. You’re focused on what it is that you want. You’re a truth seeker.’
Where did all that come from?
‘Well, that’s very nice of you, Alice,’ he says, smiling. ‘I still think it’s total crap, but at least you’ve given me an ego boost.’
I smile back and decide to stop trying to throw out conversational gambits. It only ends in disaster. Instead I let him lead the dance and we finally find a happy medium, talking about the things we like best about London. We’re through pudding before I know it and Ali’s signalling for the bill. I get out my maxed-out credit card, but he refuses to take it.
‘Please let me pay half,’ I beg, mortified by the idea of lying to him and then accepting his offer to stand me dinner.
‘Not a chance, Alice. Step away from the purse,’ he says.
‘Should I put my hands on my head?’ I ask him. Am I flirting, and if so, what’s my motivation? God, I really am turning into a thesp.
‘That won’t be necessary and you can’t do it on the bike.’
‘Oh no, Ali, you don’t have to take me home. I can get a cab.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he says. ‘I insist. If it takes me arresting you, I’m going to ensure I get you home.’
Don’t joke, it’s a definite possibility. We zoom through the cold winter night, surely travelling way too fast. I love it by the river, as long as I’m the right side. There’s something so glamorous about the jagged skyline of the embankment, all lit up and extravagant.
We arrive at the house and I disembark awkwardly, despite my supposed prowess at ice skating. Now what? Is it rude if I don’t suggest a cup of tea? Is he going to try and kiss me? I fumble in my handbag for my keys as he hovers close by.
‘So…’ I say, turning towards the house.
‘So…’ says he, slightly mocking, turning too.
Oh no. The lights are ablaze and the living-room curtains are open. Julia always said it was as though Alice lived in a barn, the way she’d throw open the doors and windows. She hates to feel constricted. As a result, she’s illuminated perfectly, perched on the sofa watching the ‘Sex and the City’ double bill on Paramount. She always tunes in, despite us owning the entire series, because she says it’s like a jukebox: you never know which one’s coming up. But that’s hardly the point right now. If Ali takes a proper look, he’ll instantaneously know I’m a twin. There’s only one thing for it. I lean in, grabbing him round the waist and plant a kiss on his lips. He’s momentarily taken aback, then pulls me into him and turns it into a snog. He slips his hand under my top, pulling me closer. My head’s elsewhere, but my mouth’s an amnesiac. And who can blame it: he kisses like a world champion. I wasn’t expecting any kind of kiss, let alone one as passionate and sexy as this. Enough! I pull away, subtly twisting him back towards the road.
‘Thanks for a really fun evening,’ I tell him. ‘I’m afraid that asking you in is too risky.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he says, pulling me into another clinch. I kiss him straight back until I’m hit by an irrational wave of guilt. If Charles could see me he’d think our frisson meant nothing to me, when in fact it’s ongoing agony. I pull away more forcefully and then kiss him on the cheek, hoping it’ll read like a full stop. He shrugs his shoulders, all little boy lost, then swings a leg over the bike.
‘I’ll call you,’ he says. ‘I had a really great time tonight.’
I keep my eyes focused on him, keen to stop him swivelling back towards the window. Seconds later he’s roared off into the night, leaving me to straighten my rumpled clothes and pray that my dignity and criminal record remain intact.