Dreams Before the Start of Time

by Anne Charnock

  “Does she want you and the boy to keep in contact?”

  “She didn’t say. Should I? He seems a nice enough lad.”

  “Don’t get me involved in—”

  “Of course not. But, one day, I think Louis should meet his half-brother. It might expand his understanding. You know?”

  His wife frowns and raises one eyebrow in warning: Let’s be realistic. She says, “I’ll make some tea.”

  Louis is playing on the floor with his litter of virtual kittens. He likes to tint his kittens in rainbow colours. They clamber on top of him, lick his face, fall off, clamber up again, lick the downy hair on his arms. And all the while, Louis strokes and snuggles each kitten in turn. Compared to Skye, he looks such a baby. He’s a quiet kid; it’s easy to forget he’s in the house. And he’s so self-contained, with his kittens and his games.

  Gerard gets down on the floor with his son and says, “Hey, I’ve got an idea, Louis. Let’s go to the park tomorrow, have some running races. I’ll give you a head start. We could build a den under that monkey tree.”

  Louis looks up momentarily. His face is a blank, as though his mind is still in an imaginary world with his kittens. Gerard tries again. “I’ll put you on my shoulders. You can climb onto the branch of a big tree.” Gerard smiles and nods his head. “Well?”

  Louis focuses at last and says, “No thanks, Dad.”

  ALWAYS MIMMY

  April

  My first ever bequest, and I’m dizzy with indecision. Whatever I buy, it ought to be something rarefied, with heirloom credentials. Among the many possibilities, I’m considering a pendant with an inscription: In memory of Millie Dack. Or, less formally: In my thoughts. Mimmy. Yesterday, I scanned through all my wish lists in desperation, but every item seemed utterly inconsequential. For the sake of my children—if I ever have any, which is looking increasingly unlikely—I’m searching for a memento that will fit my own narrative of my adorable grandmother.

  I tug open the door to my flat and make my way to the elevator. Funny how names stick. As a child, I guess I became confused over the two omnipresent women in my life. Obviously, I’d no confusion over my mummy, even though my daddy called her Simone. But the woman my daddy called Mum and my mummy called Millie . . . I don’t think I grasped the concept of a grandmother. Millie became Mimmy in my little head. So I grew up with a mummy and a Mimmy. Later on, and unlike my school friends, I didn’t ever say nana or granny or grandma. Always Mimmy.

  Waiting for the elevator. The safe choice is definitely a designer necklace or brooch. But jewellery is so easily lost. Better to buy an item that never leaves the flat. A rare print—the same artist, or same era, as the print Mimmy gave me for my twenty-first birthday. Not a bad idea. The pairing would be a talking point, an embellishment of the original gift and possibly the start of an even longer narrative.

  Mimmy’s birthday present was a print by Alfred Wallis, an unschooled artist who turned out naive seascapes, harbour scenes and the like in Cornwall. Mimmy held a fascination with the sea, and not in a soppy, I-love-watching-the-waves kind of way. She worked for many years in the Department of World Trade, shepherding ministerial delegations and such like. Not surprisingly, she became interested in the history of sea trade, trading routes and pirates. So at odds with Mimmy’s character, it seemed to me growing up, because Mimmy never travelled beyond British shores once she retired.

  I tut at my side-on reflection in the hallway mirrors. Awful posture. I stretch myself upright, adding a couple of inches to my height. But it’s an effort to maintain. I feel jaded, as though I slept for only five minutes last night. My brain no doubt was processing the heirloom possibilities from the moment I closed my eyes.

  My first thought when I woke: Be sensible, pay down your debts. However, that resolution faded during my shower. I returned to the bedroom and set out the clothes suggested by my virtual assistant, Polly, based on the day’s schedule of appointments and social engagements. I dressed at speed—I was heading out for my early meeting with the breakfast club—twirled around and grabbed an arm clasp from the glass jewellery tray on my chest of drawers. And I froze. Inspiration at last. I stared at the glittering crystal Victoriana—two glass trinket pots, a ring holder and two glass candlesticks. I’d spend my inheritance on something similarly elegant and personal, which I’d see every day.

  For me, the jewellery tray and its crystal pots hark back to a time when people had fewer possessions, and those possessions were chosen after lengthy deliberation. My great-great-great-great aunt—or great-great-great-great-great aunt—was the original owner of the tray set. It might have been a wedding present, I never did know, but I’m sure it was a highly prized possession. No doubt, unlike me, my aunt kept the glassware free of dust and beautifully arranged. My face flushes. I imagine my aunt’s tray arranged with a dainty watch in one lidded glass pot, two bracelets in the other, an eternity ring and an engagement ring on the ring holder, three sets of earrings neatly placed in the tray. She’d be shocked to see it now. I’ve stuffed the pots with tat from my teenage years—the glass lids are perched atop. And between the pots, I’ve piled all my day-to-day jewellery.

  I step into the elevator, raise my left hand to my face and speak to the tip of my forefinger: “Draw up a shortlist of commemorative purchases, Polly, to remind me of Mimmy.” The choice will probably come down to jewellery, a seascape or a luxury holiday. But Polly may come up with a better idea. I can’t help but smile as the elevator descends. I should buy an armchair—that’s how I see Mimmy in my mind’s eye. Mimmy was a nest-builder by nature, a contented armchair voyager of the high seas.

  Polly, her voice inside my head, asks, “Is this shortlist my priority?”

  “Absolutely.” I button up my sculpted jacket. “Polly, why did you suggest this get-up for today? There’s nothing special in the calendar; no presentations.”

  “In line with your aspirations for 2120, Julia, I’ve requested a revised search for a romantic interest from your new agency. You ought to maintain a permanent state of preparedness. I’ve now requested one hundred per cent similar.”

  “Ha! One hundred per cent different was a total disaster. Swinging the pendulum won’t solve anything.”

  A circular table for eight, white starched table linen, at the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair—the best buffet breakfast this side of London, and a convenient location for the six of us regular attendees who live west of the centre. We’ll all commute to the Square Mile of the financial district when I guillotine our discussion at seven o’clock. I’m proud we’ve kept going with these meetings—the second Tuesday of every month—and as I instigated the idea, I try always to arrive a few minutes before six. It’s important we meet as early as possible in the day, before our rational selves have fully emerged from sleep. The others indulge me in this, but I’m convinced I’m right on this one. Ideally, we should roll out of bed and hold a holo-meeting, but all things considered, we prefer to meet in person without home distractions.

  The core of our breakfast group includes me, of course, and four other members who studied at the Saïd Business School in Oxford. Over the past five years, we’ve increased our number to form an informal think tank—and that’s a bit overblown, I suppose. Let’s call it a discussion group. Anyway, the fact is we get together to rekindle the level of debate in our Saïd seminars. It’s worth the effort to keep in regular contact with people who are the smartest of the smart in central and investment banking, sales and trading, private equity. Mostly, it’s a brilliant shortcut, keeping each of us abreast of a wide field, gaining rich insight from people who read more than the quality press. People who drill down.

  By four minutes past six, everyone has arrived, and Javid—always the last—rushes straight up to me at the buffet; these central bank people aren’t early starters. “I thought you’d have begun without me, Julia.” He grabs pastries and fruit. “That’ll do for me.”

  Should I tell him? “You’ve got sleep in your eyes, Javid.�
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  “Oh, thanks for . . . Sorry.” He pokes around in the corner of his eyes. “Shit! You’re right. What a mess.” Got to laugh.

  He places his order with the waiter for green tea as Chantelle, this year’s chair, says, “If we all have our plates piled high and drinks ordered, let’s make a start. Labour markets! For the coming three months, we’ll discuss a persistently thorny issue—the participation of lower-skilled citizens in the workforce. Specifically, we’ll address ourselves to the question: What are the obstacles, political and educational, in creating gainful employment for an underskilled underclass? And to start us off, Javid will give a brief spiel, as deliberately provocative as usual, I expect.”

  As Javid wipes crumbs from his shirt, I receive an emergency alert from Polly—though Polly’s understanding of what constitutes an emergency does not coincide with mine. I duck down to the side, bring my left hand to my face and whisper, “Not now.” She’ll be calling about the heirloom purchase. She buzzes again. Well, she can buzz as much as she likes.

  Javid starts by posing a question. “Isn’t there a simple fix here? Why pour government money into benefits for the underemployed”—he looks around the group—“when we can cut subsidies for automation, sack a few droids, sacrifice a bit of productivity, but bring more citizens into the workforce?”

  We all shout him down. “That horse has already bolted,” I call out.

  Javid smiles, raises his palms to the group. “I knew you’d say that. Just testing. But we had to get that argument out of the way.”

  “A total nonstarter,” Chantelle mutters.

  I turn aside again—Polly is driving me nuts. “What? Be quick.”

  “I’ve found a perfect match, Julia! He’s in London until this evening. There’s no other overlap in your calendars for the next five weeks. You must meet him for lunch. I’ve set things up with his personal assistant. I’ll send you—”

  “Okay. Now, desist.”

  “Do you ever feel you’re not in charge of your life?” he says as a greeting. His name is Richard, he’s a management consultant, and that’s all the information I’ve had time to read. I hoped he’d be late so I could scan the essentials. Sadly, he was prompt.

  “Like today? A pile of work, and I’m suddenly instructed I have a date. And it won’t wait.”

  “Exactly,” he says. We shake hands. Neither of us seems willing to release contact.

  I’ll suspend judgement on his little-boy haircut. After all, according to Polly, the data match is categorical, almost irresistible. And I hope Richard heard the same from his assistant. He’s my kind of fella, looks-wise, so I’ve nailed that in the screening process, though he’s slightly taller than my stated preference. I don’t like looking up at a man, gets bloody uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry I passed on your restaurant suggestion, Richard. I had a big breakfast thing. Just not hungry.”

  “This is perfect.” We’re at the thirty-second floor of the Walkie Talkie building, in the arboretum. “Or is this your usual venue for a date?” He laughs. After a moment’s hesitation, I decide not to take offence.

  “You’re being cheeky already,” I say, adding, “If you must know, I tend to meet my girlfriends here before a big night out. Gives me a buzz.”

  In fact, Richard guessed correctly. This is my default place for a first date. It’s in the heart of the city, therefore handy; it’s public; and the fabulous view gives both parties plenty to talk about.

  I take charge. I lead the way to the full-height windows that overlook the Thames and point down towards the opposite bank of the river to the steel and glass canopy over Hay’s Wharf. “See that?” He nods. “Hay’s Wharf was once known as the Larder of London. It handled most of the dry goods coming into London in the nineteenth century—all the tea, for example. It later burned down and was rebuilt, and then it was bombed in World War II. It’s a tourist attraction these days.” We stroll along the window, briefly distracted from assessing one another by the forest of high-rises south of the river. We take a seat in a niche set among yuccas and ferns.

  “I don’t know about you, Richard, but I haven’t had time to read the briefing paper on you.”

  “Me neither. Let’s do a two-minute icebreaker, if that isn’t too hackneyed for you. We can do our homework later. Unless you feel I’m a nonstarter.”

  We cover the bases—where we work, where we’ve studied, where we’ve lived. Our assistants know all of this already, and more, and they’d have flagged up any dealbreakers: a major differential in salary or education, any genome alerts. It’s so reassuring; leaves me free to concentrate on subtle clues to his character. I like the way he sits—relaxed, no fidgeting—as though he’s happy to be in the moment, confident without being overly assertive. I don’t try to gauge how I myself come across; gave that up a long time ago. But I do know that if I assume a confident pose, I’m likely to feel more confident. Shoulders back.

  “How long’s your lunch break, Julia?”

  “Another fifteen minutes, tops.” I grimace in apology. “I didn’t want to delay meeting you, but you know how it is. I’m having a crazy day. So help me out.” I place my elbow on the back of the seat. “I have a conundrum. I’ve received a bequest from my grandmother, and I can’t decide what to do with it. What’s your advice?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “It’s a real question. It’s not a test. I honestly want to know how you’d approach the problem.”

  “Well, first of all, a bequest cannot be described as a problem, can it?” he says.

  “Agreed.”

  “Unless you feel pressure to spend the money one way rather than another. Is anyone trying to influence you?”

  “Not exactly. I’m trying to imagine what my grandmother would like me to do. And I want my father’s approval.”

  “With my professional hat on”—he mimes crowning his head with a hat, which is rather corny, but I have to admit, on him it’s quite endearing—“I’d say pay down any debt that’s running at a high interest rate. But I guess you’ve a decent salary in your line of work, so this could be an opportunity for fun. Depends how much money is involved. Could it be a gamechanger? Could you buy a romantic cottage in the country? Or a one-off holiday, to a space resort even? To be honest, I think your best bet is jewellery or a collectible.”

  I shoot back: “I’d stress about losing an expensive piece of jewellery.” Seeing his face sag, I add, “But you’re definitely right about a collectible. We’re on the same wavelength there.”

  When I take my leave of Richard—and I must say, as first dates go, I can mark Richard as eight out of ten—I decide Polly needs a tailored briefing. “Polly, dear, amend the search criteria for the commemorative purchase, will you? Forget jewellery, if that’s the track you’re taking. Hone in on collectibles, travel, holidays, adventure.”

  I drop into the sofa, my jacket already thrown to the floor. Eyes closed, slow deep breaths. I’ve yet to read the briefing paper on Richard. Resisted the temptation to do so back at the office and during my commute home. He’s by far the most promising date of the three so far with this agency. He deserves careful, quiet consideration, but only after a rest.

  When I signed up for the full service, I spent an eight-hour day taking part in psychological assessments, followed by thrice-weekly therapy sessions for two months. All aimed at identifying my personality type and any sensitivities. It’s the sensitivities that constitute the make or break in most relationships—or so I was told. I did dither about making such a big time commitment, but as the agency consultant said, “Why wait a year, two years, to discover you’re not suited to someone? We won’t let you waste your time like that.” I had to get serious about finding a partner, if only to stop my parents worrying.

  Although I’ve had plenty of dates, I haven’t had an actual boyfriend for five years—not since finishing with Josh on the eve of my thirtieth birthday. He’d failed to pay his share of the rent on time for the fourth
month in succession. I couldn’t bear the build-up of tension as the due date approached. It was too much. After that break-up, I promised myself—and I’ve kept to it—that I’d never date another unreliable type; creative genes are fascinating in friends, but I can’t cope with the intimate proximity.

  In the shadow of my disappointment with Josh, I’m looking for a man who’s at least as solvent as I am. Makes me sound bitchy, but it’s plain embarrassing being the one with money, the one constantly saying, “I’ll cover that if you like.” In fact, I stopped doing that after six months with Josh. I stopped booking dinner dates or concerts. Instead, I found inconspicuous outlets for my spending—luxury body products, weekly manicures, expensive lunch dates with girlfriends. I treated myself with total discretion when I travelled overseas on business trips. A case in point—my tour, last summer, of the French Riviera, a fact-finding visit to assess potential sites for new offshore solar farms. All very interesting in itself, but I timetabled my itinerary so I could dine each evening at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

  I drag myself over to the wine cooler, pour a glass of Puligny-Montrachet and take a large gulp. I feel better already. My extravagances are becoming a habit—I accept I should take stock. By now, I should be living in a better part of town. Most of my friends are thinking of bigger homes, having children. And it isn’t cheap to conceive these days. Honestly, you need to earn a pile of money just to be poor in this city.

  I should use Mimmy’s bequest to pay down some debt—make a fresh start, fewer fripperies. And as for buying a memento of Mimmy, I won’t go overboard.

  I open the briefing paper on Richard and skip through the exposition on education, family, genome and employment. Reaching the section titled “Personality Traits,” I feel my stomach rumble. Pure nerves. Braced for disappointment. I pick out the descriptives. Nothing too unusual—personable, loyal, magnanimous. The challenge is to spot the slightest hint of a negative trait. In Richard’s case, I notice one possibility; the report says he tends to be indulgent. That can be a good thing. Depends on who exactly he’s being indulgent towards. And indulgent with what? Attention, sympathy, money?