Don't Marry Thomas Clark (6 page)

Unfortunately, I haven't managed to worm my way out of this. I've tried to escape four times already. The first time was when I saw him outside the restaurant, the second when I pretended to go to the bathroom, the third just before I came back to the table and the fourth when I pretended somebody was calling me. Rufus foiled all attempts, so I resigned myself to it and am now agonizing discreetly behind my menu, unable to make a decision about which is going to have less devastating effects on my already compromised digestive system – the leg of duck, the grasshopper or the pork tongue. The way I'm feeling, I'll probably throw up before I finish the first course.

Angus, Melanie's cousin, seems quite at ease, and trots out technical terms, recipes, origins and interesting information about this or that dish at an impressive speed, leaving me aghast. He's an expert in oriental cultures? Unfortunately, the truth is a long way from my optimistic predictions, and my stupid curiosity is soon rewarded with some chilling news. After ordering, I ask him to tell me about his job, and he explains, in the following order, that:

1. He doesn't teach literature, he teaches the history of comics.
   
2. The only sport he's ever practised is live action role-playing.
   
3. His hobby is cosplay.
   

‘Coswhat?'

‘Cosplay. You've never heard of it?' he asks, staring at me as though I come from another planet.

‘I'm afraid not,' I admit.

‘You must be kidding? That's insane!' he says, shaking his head and probably wondering how I've managed to live without it all these years. ‘A cosplayer, or Costume Player,' he explains, ‘is a fan of comics, manga and anime films who goes to conventions and events dressed up as his or her favourite characters. We design our own costumes and make-up.'

‘Pardon?'

‘We dress up. That's it, really,' he admits candidly trying to summarize the information as succinctly as possible.

‘You dress up. I see…' I answer laconically. ‘And why?'

I swear, I honestly thought it was a reasonably intelligent question.

‘What do you mean?' he exclaims. ‘It's a way of sharing our interests. Why else would we do it?'

‘I've no idea. I just find it hard to get my head around the idea of a group of thirty-somethings dressed up as Superman,' I say, attempting to voice my misgivings.

He doesn't take that well at
all
.

Obviously offended, he starts off on a wearying monologue in defence of his fellow cosplayers, of which I absorb only a few random pieces, while inside my mind the final certainties I'd been safeguarding regarding my hypothetical marriage are gradually replaced by the image of me dressed as Catwoman walking down the aisle of a country church towards Popeye, with Spiderman as the best man and Smurfette as my bridesmaid. My uncle Bernard is playing the organ dressed as Dracula and my mother sways provocatively in the red catsuit of Elektra Assassin.

The horror! The horror! I'm going to kill Rufus tomorrow, I swear!

Anyway, after this bit of news, I decide to drastically reduce my participation in this increasingly off-putting conversation until the agony ends twenty minutes later. I give Angus the number of a pizzeria, passing it off as my own, wish them all a warm farewell and off I go, categorically refusing a lift.

I arrive home dispirited, with a splitting headache and a broken heel after surviving a confrontation with a wild manhole cover. I quickly get undressed and take refuge under the covers, embracing Rex, my cuddly dog. I usually leave him on the shelf, but when I have an evening as awful as this one, I get him down and try to find some solace from life in his odour of wool and softener.

‘What's the matter?' I ask him, as I plump up my pillow. ‘Can't sleep? Me neither,' I admit, rubbing my temples. ‘Shall we try a fairy tale? OK… The one about the frog fisherman? No? Wait, I've got a perfect one: Rapunzel. Right…'

And I start.

‘Once upon a time there were a man and a woman who wanted more than anything else to have a child. After consulting the most renowned gynaecologists of the kingdom, they decided to adopt an old-fashioned approach, and so it was that, thanks to a bottle of wine and a pair of leopard-print undies, this modest maiden finally fell pregnant. Having found a good excuse for not doing any more cleaning, she hung up her hoover on a nail by the door and went off to bed, leaving her husband to take care of everything. But when the child was born she somehow found herself mixed up in a nasty business involving theft and rampion flowers. Before she got caught she decided to leave her baby in the hands of a professional, who locked her daughter up in a tower along with the loot and bolted the door behind her, awaiting the fugitive's return. The little girl grew up thus, in total isolation from the world, and from an early age was already manifesting strange glandular reactions, probably caused by the radiation from a nearby industrial landfill site. Her hair, above all, began to grow, and grow, and grow. Apart from that, though, time passed without anything interesting happening. Or at least, it did until the day the Prince, a promising soccer player with good ball control, walked past her window.

‘Their brief encounter was enough to open her eyes to many previously obscure issues linked to the relationship between birds and bees. The prince explained to her immediately, for example, that cabbages are just a useless remedy for bags under the eyes, and the best you can hope for from storks is a blocked chimney and a couple of eggs in the guttering. Once she'd thanked the Prince for the many unexpected discoveries of that evening, Rapunzel gave up crochet and opened a little backroom gambling den. Its cabaret shows sold out every night, while holidays and weekends were split between poker, blackjack and baccarat tournaments. Things went on quite happily until somebody tipped off the police, who arrived with sirens blaring and a horde of disgruntled wives in tow.

‘Rapunzel was sent down, the Prince got five years probation and the witch was nabbed red-handed while she was trying to filch back the rampions. The only survivor was the mother, who had left the country. Moral of the story? Always have a small but select clientele.'

After I've finished telling the story, we both collapse into a deep sleep, which is disturbed shortly after by my phone beeping to tell me I've got a message.

Cursing the phone company under my breath for sending me another useless ad, I open it and find:

What are you doing? Are you awake?

Oh God, it's Mike! This can't be happening…

Yeah, I'm watching a movie on TV.

Sandy, really sorry, messaged you by mistake

A wave of disappointment washes over me.

No problem.

I sit there waiting for Mike to answer, but nothing happens so I give up and go back to sleep even more miserable than before.

Before even a couple of minutes have passed, the phone beeps again, and the Rio carnival explodes inside me.

Do not miss this month's great offer: this week only, two hundred free messages to all networks. Check our website for more details!

‘Oh, for f…!'

‘Mr. Clark will be with you in a few minutes. In the meantime, please follow me to his office,' she says, gesturing to the corridor and smiling like a pin-up. I observe her carefully and come to the conclusion she must be Sir Roger's secretary. She looks like something out of a fashion magazine and she's at least ten centimetres taller than me. I doubt she was employed for her professional skills, I think, as I nod to her and let her lead me to an office fitted out with ultra-modern furniture. I walk past the metal shelving and a bookcase and dissolve into a comfortable black leather armchair like a spoonful of sugar in a cup of tea.

‘Would you like something to drink?' she asks from the doorway.

‘No, thanks,' I answer looking around me.

‘As you wish. I'll be next door – if you need me don't hesitate to call me,' and she disappears, leaving a vapour trail of Chanel N°5 behind her.

Once alone, I decide to kill some time by enjoying the view of the park from the windows that illuminate the room. Lost in memories of my teenage years, I start wondering how that nice old man will look nowadays and running through various versions of him, some less complimentary than others, and not long after, I realize that my curiosity is about to be satisfied when I hear the door opening behind me. Happy to have the chance to embrace him once more, I turn towards him, a dazzling smile on my face, only to find myself looking at a thirty-year-old version of Thomas, that embalmed artichoke he has as a grandson. All the enthusiasm I'd been feeling about the idea of seeing him again evaporates and my expression turns into a tense scowl, as though I'd just received some terrible news.

‘Sandy!' he exclaims immediately, stretching his hand out to me. I must admit, his genteel manners make me feel guilty for my cold, apathetic greeting.

‘Thomas…' I stutter, trying to be as well-mannered as possible. I didn't remember he was quite so tall. I have to lift my head just to be able to look him in the eye. I also didn't remember he was so good-looking. No, wait, I did remember that. He's so hatefully, shamelessly lucky! Not even a hint of baldness. Whatever happened to ‘just desserts'?

So we end up face to face after more than five years and I feel like I've been catapulted back into the past. As though I'm once again that insecure little girl with those horrible pigtails, a nasty old pair of jeans and a mud-spattered T-shirt. I was a bit of a tomboy – while my classmates used to spend hours putting on make-up and nattering about boys, I used to spend all my time wrestling with my cousin Robert, playing basketball and hanging out in the park with my brother's friends. I didn't have my first kiss until I was fourteen. It was a disaster, and you'd never believe who the unlucky boy was.

Oh, all right, I'll tell you who it was, then. It was him. The same hateful creature who is staring at me right now as though I were some dear old friend of his. The only person who can make me feel like someone with a wheat intolerance who's just eaten their way through a whole packet of Weetabix: stomach spasms, migraines and dizziness. And right now it feels like I'm in the final stage. I'm not sure what's happening to me, but I can't think straight. There's a whistling in my ears, so I quickly shake his hand and take a few steps backwards to distance myself.

As I do, I can't help taking a better look. Time hasn't changed him much: still neat, athletic, elegant. He's got a bit of stubble now, which softens the lines of his face, and his hair is longer than I remembered, but the eyes are the same. With that vaguely oriental shape and the colour of a stormy sea, I'd recognize them anywhere. If it hadn't been for those eyes, I think, Thomas Clark would have just been an annoying summer mishap that I could have forgotten about straightaway. And instead…

‘You look really well. Please, take a seat,' he says, indicating the armchair and walking around the desk. He doesn't seem to notice my hesitation, nor does my obvious diffidence make his mask of kindness slip. ‘This is Frank Wright, he's a pretty well-known lawyer here in town. He's also one of my consultants, not to mention an old friend.'

Only now do I notice that there's someone else in the room. He must have been standing there with his hand stretched out for me to shake for God knows how long. He's vaguely Nordic-looking, with a hooked nose and a faint smile, and he's holding a very self-conscious pose. The same one many of Thomas' friends always seem to adopt.

‘Pleased to meet you.'

‘The pleasure's all mine,' he says, and out of nowhere kisses my hand.

‘So, Sandy,' Thomas resumes, placing his interlocked fingers on the desk. ‘How are you doing? I didn't expect to find you in London. I thought you'd moved to the US.'

I don't understand why he's so interested in my private life – it's not like him at all.

‘I have been away for a while, actually, but I'm working in town at the moment,' I reply vaguely. ‘Anyway, what a coincidence meeting you here… Have you stopped by to say hello to your grandfather?' I ask, hoping he's only here for a quick visit.

‘Unfortunately my grandfather passed away a few days ago,' he answers, looking embarrassed.

Oh God – foot straight in mouth!

‘I'm… I'm sorry…' I stammer.

‘Didn't your father tell you anything about it?' he asks, and I have the impression he's relieved when I shake my head in a sorrowful ‘no'. ‘Well, he was quite old. It wasn't really a surprise,' he says quietly.

‘I'm absolutely mortified,' I mumble, wishing I could sink into the carpet and forget my awful blunder of a few seconds ago.

‘No, don't worry. You couldn't have known.'

I nod slightly, but I don't feel any better. Poor Roger. He was such a kind, cheerful person. One of those old-fashioned grandfathers, with his Brylcreem and that kindly expression of his.

‘Can I offer you something?' asks Thomas.

‘No, thanks,' I reply with a shrug.

‘Are you sure?' he asks attentively.

Overwhelmed by such gentle manners, I just whisper an embarrassed, ‘Whatever you're having will be fine.'

‘I'll have a tea,' a voice behind me says.

‘Fine – three teas then.' He puts his phone to his ear and pushes a button. ‘Ally?' he says, never taking his eyes off me.

I don't like being the centre of attention. I instinctively turn towards Frank, who smiles at me and seizes the opportunity for a bit of unsolicited small talk.

‘So you work in London. What's your job?'

‘I'm involved in various projects, to tell you the truth.'

‘What sector?'

‘At the moment I'm concentrating on real estate.'

‘I see. Buying and selling or developing?'

‘Neither, actually,' I say, trying desperately to end the interrogation. I can't admit that I'm unemployed, not to someone like him. I know how he'd look at me if he knew: like a flea sitting on an armchair that's probably worth more than my entire flat, furniture included. And the sad thing is that he'd be right.