The Perfect 10 (7 page)

A week later Mrs Browning died. Mrs Browning lived three houses along from me. But whereas I lived on the top floor of a converted house, Mrs Browning lived in a four-bedroom house alone in the heart of wealthy Kew. Her husband had died eight years ago, and she had been on her own ever since. She had nieces and nephews who she was close to, because she and Rudolph had never had children of their own. They were German Jews, who had been fortunate enough to make it out of Germany in 1934, as teenagers. Rudolph had found a job as an apprentice on Savile Row, working his way up until finally he was running the business for the last twenty years of his life. Elsa dedicated a bench in Kew Gardens to her husband after his stroke. The plaque read, ‘He loved this place, and its peace.’ It made me cry every time I saw it, when I would sit with Mrs Browning after a walk around the Gardens on alternate Thursday mornings. Rudolph’s bench was on top of a small hill, overlooking the Thames at the bottom of the gardens, and shaded by an oak tree.

Mrs Browning was the first person I spoke to when I moved to Kew three years ago. She watched me from her window for fifteen minutes, before walking slowly but precisely to my front wall, leaning on it patiently as I unpacked a large box full of books from my car, then introduced herself, and asked why my husband was letting me lift all the heavy boxes.

I liked her from the start. She had some mischief in her.
For the past two years she had received a gentleman caller every Tuesday afternoon for tea. I called him her boyfriend, and she would laugh and shake her head and say that boyfriends were for beautiful young women like me, and she was merely the only person left in Kew as ancient as Wilbur Hardy, who was ninety-two and walked with a cane, but walked none the less. She would smile and refer to him as a harmless rogue. And I don’t know if it was because of those words, but I always thought that he grinned like an old-time crook. His suits were either mustard yellow, or apple green, or plum purple, and all had matching waistcoats. If I happened to be there when Wilbur rapped on the door on a Tuesday afternoon, Elsa would wink and say, ‘Don’t trust them, Sunny. Only one in one thousand will be worth the wait.’ Wilbur would always kiss my hand as I squeezed past him on the doorstep, and I would get embarrassed, even by such a mannerly show of affection from a ninety-two-year-old man. Elsa would wink again and mouth, ‘Don’t trust them,’ one more time, before she let him in.

Wilbur Hardy had died on New Year’s Day. His son had paid Elsa a visit to tell her and she had smiled sadly and said merely, ‘He was ancient. It was bound to happen sooner or later.’ His son had then informed her that Mr Hardy had managed many businesses and bought many licences, working from his study, right up until that New Year’s Day. Some of these businesses were highly profitable, and had been for many years, and were administered by his sons, and nephews, and nieces. Some of these businesses were dormant, however, acquired often just for fun and what Wilbur Hardy regarded as pocket change. Wilbur had left Elsa a number of these dormant concerns in his will. He had not left her property or money, but merely things that might make her smile. He had left her the exclusive UK licence to distribute Female Belly-Dancing Garden Gnomes
for the next twelve years. He had left her the exclusive licence to distribute fingerless gloves in Ethiopia for the next seven months. And he left her a newly acquired licence, bought only two months previously, to distribute two new sex toys for women, known as ‘Three-Fingered and Two-Fingered Fondlers’. They had just started to be distributed in the US, and Wilbur had read about them as a funny fanciful ‘and finally’ story in the
Sunday Telegraph
, and enquired about the licence. Finding that it was up for sale, and this time predicting a healthy profit margin, he had snapped it up for a little more than eight years, and a little more than fifty thousand dollars. He had changed his will yearly, his son told Elsa, on the thirty-first of December. And so Elsa got the licence for the Two-Fingered Fondler and, following Wilbur’s lead, had changed her will the following week.

Mrs Browning simply fell asleep on a Sunday night, and didn’t wake up on Monday morning. When her nephew paid her a visit on the Monday lunchtime as arranged and received no answer from repeated rings of the doorbell, he let himself in and found her comfortably in bed, peacefully passed away. Her nephew, having met me on a couple of occasions, kindly let me know that evening.

I cried for an hour, and then remembered what Elsa had said about Wilbur. She was ancient, it was bound to happen sooner or later. And with that I resolved to stop crying but make sure I put a bench next to Rudolph’s in Kew Gardens, and think of something suitably appropriate to say on its plaque that wouldn’t be too sentimental for her. A week later her nephew called me again, one evening as I sat with macaroni cheese and a jacket potato for dinner, watching
Dirty Dancing
on video. Elsa had left me fifteen thousand pounds and the licence to distribute something called a ‘Two-Fingered Fondler’ in the UK for the next eight years …

‘Do you think, given the nature of your business, that people around you might assume that you have a healthy attitude towards sex, and that you just aren’t telling them about your sex life?’

‘No. There were definitely raised eyebrows when I started the business, because it was sex-related and because it was me. But I suppose nobody actually said anything disparaging. My Uncle Humphrey laughed a little too long for my liking.’

‘How did that make you feel?’

‘It bothered me at the time, but I have never liked him anyway. He’s an aggressive man, and his skin flakes so badly that my Aunt Lucy makes jokes about the snowstorm that is changing their bedding. It makes me retch.’

My therapist turns in his chair and writes something down on his pad. I know what it will be. Something to do with physical imperfections. He tries to steer me on to that a lot. We’ve discussed it. I roll my eyes, but he isn’t looking. There are no photos in this room, hanging on the walls. The wallpaper is a cappuccino colour, with a brown flower swirl pattern, quite modern in comparison to everything else. Maybe they had to redecorate the walls recently. Maybe some nut job slashed an artery and graffitied the walls with his blood. The windows are big, and the curtains are well made but a depressing rust colour like dried ketchup on a cracked plate. He turns back to face me.

‘Do you think you might think about love and sex a disproportionate amount, given the nature of your business? And the fact that you work alone and from home? Did you dwell on these things when you worked at the office, for instance?’

‘Not as much, no. But working from home is a positive thing, I am sure of that. It has changed my life dramatically, for the better. Office work didn’t suit me; I was too sensitive to the politics. I’m much happier now. I can’t bitch at
myself – not consciously, anyway – and I can’t stab myself in the back. I don’t berate myself for being ten minutes late to my computer in the morning and then ignore the extra hour and a half I put in every night. The office environment almost made me lose my faith in mankind. The petty bitterness at the core of so many people, men and women, depressed me to the point of tears, daily. My business is – ironically – much more wholesome than that.’

‘Tell me again, how long have you been working from home?’

‘I resigned a year and three months ago today.’

‘You told me that was because of Adrian.’

‘Yes. About that – I feel like I may have painted him in a harsh light, to you. I was thinking about it yesterday. He is perfectly nice, you know. He just subscribed to a female aesthetic that wasn’t me. All he really did was show a complete disinterest in me, sexually. He wasn’t cruel or unusual, in finding me unattractive. I just wasn’t his kind of eye candy … then.’

‘And you resent him for that?’

‘Not at all. It’s the way of the world.’

‘Did you ever think that he might change his mind, that he might fall in love with you anyway?’

‘When I was still fat? I imagined it, a couple of times. But when does that ever happen? The preference for personality only exists in the movies, or soap operas, where ugly ducklings manage to bewitch the heart of some local stud, but then suddenly transform, courtesy of some decent hair straighteners and daily contact lenses, into models. Personality is only important when differentiating among the beautiful women. Beautiful and boring is so less appealing than beautiful and interesting. But interesting on its own, without the arse to go with it, wasn’t ringing Adrian’s bells.’

My therapist turns to write something down, but then changes his mind.

‘Do you think you might be harbouring a subconscious grudge against him for this? Do you think you might subconsciously believe that men are only interested in sex?’

‘There is nothing subconscious about it. I do believe it. Men
are
only interested in sex.’

‘And yet your business, which is based on sex, is mostly funded by women?’

‘It’s true, ninety per cent of my sales are to women. Where are you going with this?’

‘So do you think everybody is obsessed with sex?’

‘No, not everybody. Maybe most people. Most people are obsessed with sex, yes. But not all. Most.’

‘Where does the belief come from? Because your business is doing well?’

‘Maybe, but I think my business is doing well because women in particular find it easier to buy sex-related items over the internet, because it reduces their embarrassment. It means they can avoid the humiliation of eye contact with an Ann Summers sales assistant in a too-tight T-shirt knotted under her breasts and a mouth full of sexually liberated attitude and chewing gum. You can’t walk into a sex shop, peruse the vibrator wall, pretend not to look shocked at the gimp masks, pick the least intimidating-looking vibrator – to prove you aren’t taking it too seriously – carry it to the counter, pay for it, walk out of the shop without making eye contact with any passers-by, and get all the way home on the District line with a “discreet” bag that everybody knows came from a sex shop, without confronting certain truths. That is a torturous amount of time to be carrying a mechanical penis in public. And do you know that the traditional vibrator – penis shaped, I mean – isn’t even my biggest seller, in any shape or size? A vibrating hand is
my biggest seller – the two-fingered version with a pulsing thumb. There is a three-fingered version, but the words “vulvic bruising” are used twice in the small print, and it puts people off. The Two-Fingered Fondler has a “hot breath” function as well: if you hit a certain button a puff of air emits from the knuckle of the second finger, which should be positioned as per diagram G on the box for maximum impact on the necessary biology.’

‘Am I missing a point?’

‘My point being that women don’t even want a penis. They just want a hand and a puff of air. I think that means something.’

‘What do you think it means?’

‘I don’t know. But it means something. Do you know what I always wonder? I always wonder who draws those diagrams on the boxes, the Fondler boxes, and whether somebody had to “sit” for them? But I suppose it wasn’t an easel and beret moment, some old French artist, holding his thumb up in front of him. Plus the diagrams aren’t in oil or watercolour or even charcoal – it’s a 2B pencil at best. Some expense was obviously spared. Did you know that the knuckles can rotate? If the fingers are in rotate position themselves, and not “thrust” or “tickle”? But it’s the puff of air that does it, apparently. I get a lot of positive feedback about it, via the website, as if I am in some way responsible. Apparently it’s inspired.’

‘Is it?’

‘Is it what?’

‘Is it inspired? The puff of air … ?’

‘I don’t know. The customers seem to think so.’

‘Haven’t you tried it yourself?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say a little too defensively. ‘There was
this one time, I did get one out of its box, and not just, you know, “inspecting it for delivery damage”.’

‘And?’

‘And I got distracted …’

‘Distracted?’

‘I tried to make it play chopsticks on my keyboard.’

My therapist gives me a strange look. He doesn’t usually register any kind of emotion, or surprise, or anything. But that was definitely a ‘look’.

‘Sunny.’ He says my name as if he has reached some kind of conclusion, and my back straightens for a life-changing insight that has so far, in eight months of therapy, eluded me. ‘Do you think you might put too much emphasis on sex?’

I’ve heard that one before. This is nothing new.

‘You feel relatively sexually inexperienced and instead of seeing sex as merely just one of any number of natural human instincts, you are building it up into something that it is not? You are putting it, and in fact your lack of it, at the core of your life, when it deserves no more importance than say talking, or laughing, or eating?’

‘Eating?’

‘Not just eating. Talking, or laughing, or any number of human instincts.’

‘But you said eating last. With emphasis.’

‘There was no emphasis, Sunny.’

‘Are you suggesting that I’ve replaced one obsession with another? I still eat, you know.’

‘Of course you eat.’

‘I’ve had a coffee, and a yoghurt drink, and a Skinny Blueberry Muffin already today. I’m not starving myself. I was in Starbucks for an hour before I came here.’