Virtually Perfect (26 page)

Ben could already smell it.  His stomach was gurgling.  He hoped it wasn't fried chicken, again.

Aziz smiled back at him.

'I wish I had a camera.  Your face was like a picture!'

'Goodnight Aziz,' Ben grinned back at him. 

Aziz nodded, retreating through the door.

'Marsalam,' he said, closing it gently behind him.

'Marsalam,' Ben called after him.

Ben picked up the tray.  It was too big for his lap.  He carried it across to the bed.  He sat cross-legged on the Egyptian cotton, lifting up the cloches, peering underneath. 

A salad.  Ben grimaced.  It looked fine, but no. 
Peel it, cook it, wash it or forget it...
- he'd never gone far wrong with that mantra.  He lifted another one.  A couple of oranges and bananas.  It wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. 

He lifted the last one, the big one.  A plume of steam rose up from the plate, wafts of meat and spice.  A bed of golden rice, sprinkled with pinenuts, raisins and parsley.  On top of it lay what looked like a whole leg of lamb.

Ben pinched at the braised meat, it fell away in his fingers.  He ate hungrily.  He'd seen enough fried chicken those past three days to last him the rest of his life. 

Eating with your fingers is no mean feat to the untrained, Western hand.  He was soon in a mess, greasy up to his wrists. 

Ben didn't care.  He was starving.

After dinner he cleaned himself up, again.  Put on a t-shirt and jeans.  He could hear music thudding away in the background, the shrieking, the shouting, the singing.  A guy appeared to take the dishes away. 

He frowned down at the unfinished mountain of food on the bed, caught Ben's eye, smiled and disappeared with the tray.  Ben had given it his all but there was enough there to feed a family of six. 

He poured himself a virgin cocktail.  It was actually rather nice.  He lay back on the plump pillows. 11.49pm - 8.49pm, Greenwich Mean Time.  He had to ring her soon - it was Wednesday already.  She was bound to be pissed off.  He just didn't quite feel ready yet.  He wasn't sure what he was going to say.

Ben switched on the flatscreen.  He'd struggled to find anything that wasn't in Arabic.  BBC News 24 was the best he could do.  The same stories on a loop, over and over.  Fighting in Syria, Libya wobbling in the post-Gaddafi era, journalists arrested in Iran.  The aviation authority had declared that flying had become safer than ever (some good news, at least).  Sarkozy had decided there were too many foreigners in France (tosser), the Greeks were defaulting on their EU loan (again).  There was a furore over some supermodel being sacked for being too fat...

Ben turned off the TV, flipped open his laptop; double-clicked the Internet Explorer icon.

EVELYN BLAKE BOX JELLYFISH HAWAII

Woman Rescued at Waimea Bay

A 32 year old woman was rescued by lifeguards yesterday suffering from breathing difficulties arising from a box jellyfish sting.  Paramedics were quick to the scene and the woman was transferred to hospital.  Her condition is described as serious but stable.

Evelyn Blake was surfing with her partner, professional surfer and Eddie Aikau contender Dan Wheatman, when she was struck on the right hand.  In an exclusive statement to Surfline, Wheatman said:

'I think it's just one of those things, you know?  There's always a risk when you go in the water, every surfer knows that.  If they don't, they're going to find out the hard way.  Evie'll be right [sic], she's a tough cookie.  She'll be back on her board in no time.'

'Bastard.'

Ben barely knew her from the photo.  She had a copper tan, but she didn't look healthy.  Her hair was scraped back, face drawn, arms skinny.  She had no curves at all.  She was trussed up on a stretcher.  It was a crap picture, probably a cameraphone, but there was no mistaking those eyes.  Ben had seen a glimpse of that look before.  Whoever it was on the other side, she looked like she wanted to kill them.

DAN WHEATMAN SURFER WAIMEA BAY

Ben clicked on Google Images. 

'Wanker.'

There were pages of pictures of the bronzed buffoon; hundreds of smug, blinding white grins.  He looked short, but he had the thickest head of fluffy brown hair Ben had ever seen.  He had a touch of the gorilla about him - a sloping forehead and beady dark eyes.  Ben always thought surfers were meant to be svelte?  Bit of a chunky monkey, but a muscly one. 

Ben peered down at his own biceps as he rested his hands on the keyboard, tilting his arms inward to get a good look.  He looked back at the screen.  Dan's looked twice the size. 

...Does he wax? 
That lack of body hair surely couldn't be natural.  Ben squinted at the screen, scrolling through the pictures. 
Hang on a minute...  He hasn't got a neck...

12.03am.  9.03pm GMT.  He was pushing his luck and he knew it.  Five more minutes. 

Were they all like that?

Ben sat and thought for a moment, trying to remember the name. 
Ryan something...  Reynolds? 
No. 
It was like that though...

'RYAN JACOBS ARTIST ESHER'

Ben winced.  No, they weren't all like that.  At all.  In between all the paintings and chalks were some pictures of a pretty ropey dude.  He couldn't have been less like 'Dan'.  He was a tofu-eating, hemp-wearing, tree-hugging beardie weirdie, without an inch of body fat.  He looked like Mackenzie Crook on acid, with the hair of Tim Minchin, and the beard of David Bellamy.

Ben found himself on Jacobs' website, trawling through his work.  He hated to admit it, but the guy was actually pretty good.  Ben clicked on one of the images, an early piece.  His eyes flickered, his brow knitted tightly.

A girl, a nude, sitting on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around herself defensively.  Her pre-Raphaelite curls were drawn back from her face.  She was ghostly pale, white, gangly.  She was young; way too young.  You could see she barely had breasts.  It was chalk on black canvass, impressionist whites and blue - all very artsy and moody.  Her face was tilted down - you couldn't see much.  What Ben could see made him sick to his stomach.

'14.  I was 14.' 

Study of Eve, Ryan Jacobs 1992, Tate Modern, London.

'...He drew me one last time, then he never spoke to me again.'

Ben wanted to rip the screen from his laptop, smash it in a thousand pieces, throw it against the wall.  No wonder she'd been shifty when he suggesting going there - he knew there was something wrong. 

Ben ran his hands through his hair, down his cheeks.  He'd buy it.  He didn't care what it cost, he had the money.  He'd buy it and watch it burn.

'Eve?  ...Hello, are you there?  It's me...'

Ben's face dropped.  He heard her sniffle.

'...Eve?  Eve!  What's happened?'

He clenched his fist in his hair.

'Blease don't shout.  I'b sick.'

'Sorry, sorry,' he said, lowering his voice.  'What's the matter?' 

He paused. 

'...Are you pregnant?'

'No I'b dot!' 

She sounded angry. 

'...You could tell me, you know.  If you were.'

'I'b dot bloody pregnant! ...But I amb annoyed with you.'

Oh shit...

She must have seen the phone. 

'I can explain, Eve!' Ben gushed.  He wasn't sure how.  '...It was an accident!'  Well, that part was true.  Sort of.

'How cad you accidentally dot call someone?  ...I'b been worried about you.'

Oh...

'...I'm so sorry,' he told her.  'Don't be upset, honey...  Please don't cry.' 

It hurt him to hear her like this.  He had no excuse for not ringing.  How could he have been so selfish?

'I'b dot bloody crying!  I'b got the bloody flu!'

'Oh...'

Now he felt like a dick.

'...Have you been to the doctors?'

'Yes,' she said impatiently.

'...I miss you.  I really wish you were here.'

She went quiet for a minute.  Ben's pulse quickened.

'...I biss you too.' 

Her voice was softening.

'How's Bo?'

'He's find.'

'You sound terrible.  Go and get yourself into bed.'

'I am ib bed,' she said quietly.

'...Me too,' he said with a cheeky smile.

She stopped talking.  Ben's eyes slowly widened.  He thought he heard panting...  He did!  He definitely did! 

Am I meant to talk dirty? 
He'd never had phone sex before.  ...
What am I supposed to say? 

'Hang on...  I'b going to sneeze.'

Oh...

If she sneezed once, she must have sneezed twenty times.

'Are you going to be OK for Saturday?' he asked.

'I'll be find.'

'Do you still want me to come with you?'

'...Yes,' she said timidly. 

There was a long silence. 

'...Why?  ...Don't you want to?' 

He could hear her shrinking inside herself.

'Yeah, 'course...  Look, there's something I've been meaning to ask you.  Seems a bit academic now, but I just want to make sure.'

'...What?'

Ben suddenly felt rather anxious.

'Are you...  Are you seeing anyone else?'

The pause seemed like forever.

'No.  ...Why?  Are you?'

'Of course not!'

'Why of course?' she said suspiciously.  'I know you kebt your dating brofile oben.'

'...Spying on me?' he teased.  'I haven't been on there in weeks!'

'I know.'

Wow.  She really is...

'Do you want me to take it down?'

'...Dot if you don't want to.' 

She tried to sound nonchalant, but he could tell it was a big deal. 

Ben smiled to himself.

'I'll get rid of it.  I just forgot about it, that's all.'

'...OK,' said Eve timidly.

'OK?' said Ben.

'OK.'

She sounded better.

'So we're like... official now,' Ben said chirpily, trying to hide his nerves.

'...Is that what you want?' she asked.

'Yes!'

'...I'd like that too.'

He could tell she did.  Her tone had changed completely.  She'd gone from a lioness poised to rip out his jugular to a docile kitten in seconds.

'...So it's definitely all over with your ex then?' 

Ben chewed his bottom lip.

'Definitely.  Bore than over...  What bakes you ask?'

'Nothing.' 
Coward. 
'I just wanted to make sure.' 
Just tell her... 

'...I can't wait to see you,' she said.  'Are you comebing back on Friday?'

'It's a night flight, worst luck.  Take off's about 2am on Saturday.'

'...You'll dever get back in timeb!'

'I will!' Ben chirruped.  'It's only a six hour flight.  We're three hours ahead...  You said the ceremony was at midday, didn't you?'

'Yes.'

'Bags of time...  Seems a bit daft hanging around really.  I'd try and bring it forward, but I've been invited out tomorrow.'

'...Where to?' 

'The Prince wants to show me the desert.'

He wasn't above showing off.

'What?  ...Why?' 

He could hear the alarm in her voice.

'It's OK hun, don't panic.  He's a really nice guy.'

'Be careful.'

'It's fine, I promise.  ...Look, I'll let you go.  Get some rest.  I am sorry for keeping you up.'

'It's OK.  Thank you for ringing.'

'I miss your voice.  I can't wait to see you.  Night-night, honey.  Hope you feel better soon.'

'Thank you.  Sweet dreams, Ben.'

There followed the 'you hang up' pause customary to the early days of courtship.

'...Ben?' 

'Yes?'

'...Ana bahabik ketir,' she said quietly.

He didn't get chance to say pardon.  Before he could open his mouth, she was gone.

Ben sat with Aziz in the back of the armoured Range Rover, travelling with The Prince's cavalcade of gleaming black 4x4s.  The noise and congestion of Jeddah was hours behind them now, ahead a pristine highway winding around the mountains, streaking off into the desert.  Squinting past the driver, Ben saw the heat haze shimmying the horizon, floating above the black tarmac.  It was only ten o'clock.  There wasn't a cloud in the sky.  It was comfortable in the car though, the aircon blasting away, an Arabian beat pumping from the stereo.  Ben pushed his Raybans up his nose, straightening his baseball cap, staring through the window at the martianesque  landscape.