It’s a Kind of Magic

by Carole Matthews

  I look at him sadly. Leo has been a part of my life for a long time, maybe too long. Are we doing this out of habit now rather than love? It might well be a habit, but habits are notoriously difficult to break – even bad ones.

  It’s time to move on, start the next decade of my life with a clean sheet. They say life begins at forty, but I can’t wait that long. My life is damn well going to have to get a move on at thirty. I just wish someone, anyone would come and sort Leo out for me. I wish it with all of my heart. I know that I want to be with Leo forever, but I’m tired of nagging him, cajoling him, bullying him. All I want is a nice, quiet relationship with him. It’s frustrating when he has so much potential. I’ve tried everything and I’m at a loss. Isn’t there a boyfriend makeover programme that could sort him out? Surely that Aggie woman off the television could clean his act up a bit. Can’t someone take him away and bring him back refurbished as a proper, grown-up lover and save me all this trouble?

  Suddenly, a warm breeze envelops me, but it makes me shiver nonetheless. I swing round, for some inexplicable reason expecting to see someone standing behind me. But there’s no one there. I’m sure I hear the faintest peal of laughter. It’s disconcerting, but not enough to distract me from my purpose.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Leo says again, breaking into my reverie.

  ‘There’ll be no tomorrow, Leo. No ring. Not ever. It’s over between us.’

  Leo turns to me. There’s a bleakness to his bleary eyes. ‘Over?’

  The tears spring to my eyes. ‘Over.’ I confirm it with a nod.

  ‘Emma, I wish I could be what you want.’ He looks unhappier than I’ve ever seen him.

  ‘You mean not a deeply inadequate and crap boyfriend.’

  ‘I’ve tried,’ he says. ‘I’ve tried to live up to your high standards, but I can’t. This is me.’ He holds out his hands.

  ‘Me’ has unkempt hair dotted with icing, a skew-whiff tie, muddy knees, bits of birthday candle still stuck to his face and a heartbreaking smile.

  ‘I do . . . thing . . . you,’ he pleads. ‘I do. And you know I do. I just can’t do it the way you want me to.’

  I exhale sadly. ‘It isn’t good enough any more.’

  Leo echoes my sigh. ‘No.’

  We stare at each other without talking.

  ‘So,’ I say eventually. ‘This is it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This could be the last time we meet,’ I point out. In a ladies’ loo in a ridiculously stuffy restaurant – even that is typically Leo.

  ‘Yes.’ Leo fiddles with his tie.

  ‘Don’t you want to say something?’

  ‘I’m starving,’ he blurts out. ‘If it’s any consolation I didn’t go with Grant and Lard for a kebab. I don’t suppose I could have some of your birthday cake for old times’ sake?’

  ‘Leo,’ I snap. ‘You are too pathetic for words.’ And, without wanting to be overly dramatic, I burst into tears and bang out of the door.

  Chapter Six

  After Emma left, Leo looked at himself in the mirror. ‘Wrong thing to say, old bean.’ He tried to drink from the bottle of champagne but it was empty. ‘Still, it looks like a great cake.’ He pulled a bit of the icing from his hair and popped it into his mouth. ‘Mmm.’

  He’d looked for Emma at Ranolfs, but he couldn’t find her. Though he had to admit that he didn’t actually go back into the dining room as that would have meant facing her father and, quite frankly, Emma’s father always looked far too keen to perform cosmetic surgery on him without the benefit of anaesthetic. And probably not on his face. So, there he was, out on the street – alone, cold and suddenly a lot more sober than he’d been a few minutes ago.

  He had to throw a bit of light on this situation. Emma was a habitual dumper, thus making Leo a multiple dumpee. She dumped him, on average, three times a week for some real or imagined misdemeanour. And three times a week they then carried on as if nothing had ever happened. But even for Emma this sounded like a rather severe and final dumping. Leo had a horrible feeling that this time – perhaps for the first time – she was absolutely serious.

  And he could see that she had a point. Really, he could. If he was Emma – a stunningly pretty and feisty young thing – he didn’t think he’d put up with him either. He was always making her brown eyes blue – another favourite karaoke hit of his. But in his defence Leo had to confess that no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t help it. The world, fate, his inability to keep a watch in working order, all conspired against him. From the age of five, he had tried to develop reliability as a character trait, but to no avail. There were people in life who were natural organisers – Emma, for one example. They ran their lives by diaries, BlackBerry computer whatsits and were perfectly capable of keeping appointments. And they were wonderful. Truly wonderful. Leo was filled with admiration for anyone who had that sort of brain capacity. He, on the other hand, was one of life’s air-heads. If he could possibly miss a train, he would. If he could turn up at the wrong theatre/restaurant/wedding/address of any sort, he would. If he could arrive late – for anything – he would. The saying ‘you’ll be late for your own funeral’ was invented just for Leo. He’d probably be at the wrong church too. Or the wrong body would be in the coffin and Leo would be in a hamper at a dry cleaners somewhere.

  He blamed part of it on his English public school education – Leo was institutionalised from the moment he could walk. His parents were ridiculously wealthy and acrimoniously divorced, so during termtime he and his two older brothers had been nurtured by various housemasters with dubious tendencies. It was only the school holidays that had been a problem, for then his parents argued over who could and couldn’t have their offspring in between trips to the yacht at St Tropez and the ski lodge in Gstaad. Leo, subsequently, spent a lot of time being herded about by chauffeurs and fed by housekeepers. He never would have said that he had it hard – on the contrary. He wasn’t alone in being treated rather like an inconvenient parcel by his dear folks. In school he’d been surrounded by enormously privileged kids who had suffered abandonment and wealth-induced neglect far worse than he did. But everyone knew that boarding school was a hotbed of irresponsible and eccentric characters, that was why so many of their pupils turned out to be politicians. It also churned out a good few sexual deviants but Leo didn’t think he was one of them – unless you count a mild shoe fetish inspired by a matron who had a penchant for white stilettos. They also, along the way, hammered out of you any inclination you might have once harboured for forming intimate partnerships later in life. He might not have a clue what sort of people his parents really were or either of his brothers, for that matter, or have any sort of working relationship with them, but Leo was very self-sufficient in an annoyingly haphazard and blokey way. Really he was.

  Even when he had bouts of trying to organise his life – keep a diary, buy vegetables and generally act like a grown up – he fared no better. Things happened to Leo without him even trying. Cars crashed into him unbidden. Baths overflowed into the downstairs flat with annoying regularity, particularly for the downstairs neighbours. Clothes became mysteriously stained without him even moving. And Emma just didn’t fully understand that.

  Leo’s trusty car, Ethel, was waiting outside, but he’d had far too much booze – at the Last Chance Saloon, some might add – to consider driving all the way home. He couldn’t actually find his car keys either, to be truthful. Leo searched his pockets again, but he hadn’t got any cash for a cab – though he was sure he’d plenty when he set out for the night. Money vanished mysteriously from his pockets too.

  Although there was a fresh breeze in the air, it was a fine night for a walk down by the Embankment of the River Thames – one of Leo’s favourite spots in the whole of London and there were a lot of very charming spots to choose from these days.

  He went over and gave his car a kiss. ‘See you tomorrow. Be good.’ Leo waved as he walked away and advised Ethel over his shoulder, ‘Don’t do anythi
ng I wouldn’t do.’

  Ethel stood there looking like a particularly guileless and well-behaved vehicle.

  The stars were still twinkling, the moon was still a perfect crescent and it was amazing to think that life-changing events were going on all the time on the small planet called Earth, and yet the sky was unchanging. Well, Leo knew that it was changing all the time – he too watched The Sky at Night – but it didn’t look any different to the untrained eye. Emma had dumped him. Permanently this time, it would seem, and yet none of the stars had gone out. The moon hadn’t curled up and died. And you would think that they’d know that something awful had happened below them, wouldn’t you? But they didn’t. No one knew but Emma and Leo, and that made him feel close to her even though they’d parted. Leo turned up his collar and folded his jacket more tightly around him. No one berated him for coming out without a coat. And he knew already that life without Emma was going to be very strange.

  Chapter Seven

  I’ve found myself an elaborately-carved antique bench in a secluded corridor of the restaurant behind the kitchens and now sit curled up on it, knees hugged to my chest. Curling into a foetal ball is not far away. I sob into a tissue, sniffing loudly. Waiters bustle by, studiously ignoring me. But I don’t care who sees my distress. One of the paintings on the wall opposite is skew-whiff. A fault that I know only I will notice, despite my misery.

  ‘Now, now, darling. What’s all the fuss?’ My mother comes along the corridor and sits down beside me. Always the picture of elegance, my dear Mummy, Catherine Chambers, straightens her silk skirt and crosses her legs. Now in her mid-sixties, she is still tall, slim and very beautiful. I hope that one day I’ll age as gracefully. Whenever there is a crisis my father flies off the handle, while my mother stays steadfastly calm and unruffled.

  Mummy pats my hand. ‘I gather Leo has departed?’

  I nod.

  ‘You can always rely on Leo to make the party go with a swing,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘I could kill him,’ I sniff. ‘With my bare hands.’

  ‘Oh, Emma.’ My mother strokes my hair. ‘Leo is Leo. Don’t take him so seriously. That way holds nothing but constant pain and suffering. Let him be himself. You’ll not change him.’

  ‘I don’t want to change him,’ I insist, twisting my tissue into a tight spiral. ‘I just want him to stop doing all the things that irritate me.’

  Mummy gives me a knowing look.

  ‘If only Leo would . . .’ I start to cry again.

  ‘Grow up? Start acting his age? Be more like someone else? Anyone else?’ My mother shakes her head. ‘It doesn’t work like that. You can’t change someone’s basic character. I should know. Take your father. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool insufferable bore.’

  I look up, shocked.

  ‘We all know that,’ Mummy continues dismissively. ‘Don’t look so scandalised. He’s been exactly the same since the day I met him. Some days he drives me to distraction. I could joyfully strangle him.’ She looks at me with a warm smile and fine lines appear at the corner of her eyes under her flawless foundation. ‘You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve considered drugging his tea to make him more bearable. Or taping up his mouth so that he doesn’t drone on and on about the same old thing. But I love him just the same. Always have.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it isn’t,’ my mother advises.

  ‘If Leo could just . . .’

  ‘If you don’t love him as he is, darling, then you must let him go. Leopards invariably stay spotted. And your Leo is definitely a leopard if ever I saw one. A very handsome one. If it’s a domesticated lap cat that you want, then I’m afraid you’re looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘Why does he always have to be so annoying?’

  ‘He’s only annoying if you let him be. To some Leo is the life and soul of the party. He’s handsome, funny, and – with the odd lapse – charming. Leo is always going to be a challenge. But then he’s never going to be one to sit at home with his pipe and slippers. If that isn’t what you want, then it might be time to move on. You can’t spend your life trying to control him, darling.’

  I sigh. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

  ‘That’s not fair on either of you,’ my mother warns. She puts her arm round me and I snuggle into her shoulder just as I did when I was a child. The strong, heady scent of her favourite Chanel No 5 perfume washes over me as unchanging and steadfast as my mother’s love. ‘You are my favourite daughter,’ Catherine says. I make to protest but Mummy puts a finger to my lips. ‘We both know that you are. But you take too much on your shoulders. You are a worrier like your father. Worrying doesn’t change anything. It’s very easy to spend your life in a complete dither about something that might never happen. All I want is that you are happy in your life. Think very carefully before you let Leo go. Are you sure you’d prefer to have a Dreadful Dicky or an Awful Austin?’

  My eyes widen. I’d no idea that my mother and I have given them the same nicknames.

  ‘I love your sisters too,’ she continues. ‘But their taste in men is abominable. I don’t know how they can bear to be married to them. Leo might be a handful, but feisty men are so much more fun.’

  I fail to look convinced.

  ‘We’re only on this little planet for a very brief time, darling. Don’t spend it being miserable.’ Catherine sits back on the hard bench. ‘You need to relax. You’re very uptight. Chill out. Let it all hang out, as they said in the sixties. You need to drink a little, dance a little. Maybe love a lot. That’s my advice to you. Forget all about Leo for a few weeks. See where life takes you. Enjoy casual sex with a dangerous stranger.’

  Now I do sit up and take notice. ‘Mother!’

  ‘You might see things very differently. Life is too short to spend it wracked with anxiety. Loosen up. You modern women can do whatever you like. Isn’t that meant to be a benefit?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Be thankful for that,’ my mother says.

  ‘You’re probably right.’ I pick at a fingernail. ‘I love Leo so much. I want him to feel the same. I want him to show that he cares more, but he just seems to be completely incapable.’

  ‘You’ll worry yourself into an early grave.’ Catherine hugs me. ‘You girls have so many anxieties about your relationships. It seems as if you want the men in your life to be everything for you. That can’t be right. Men are men. You can’t take them and make them into another version of women, but with hairier chests.’

  ‘It isn’t that simple . . .’

  ‘We are meant to be different, darling. Rejoice in that. Vive la différence as the French say. You’ll sort it out, I’m sure you will.’

  ‘Mummy? What’s made you stay with Daddy all these years?’

  ‘Why, he’s an absolute animal in bed, darling. Grrr . . .’

  I feel my jaw drop. An alarm goes off on my mother’s watch. ‘Oh. Time for Daddy’s heart pills.’

  She stands up and kisses my hair, ruffling it gently before she walks away.

  I scratch my head. ‘An animal in bed. My father?’ I mutter to myself with a shudder. An unbidden image of my mother and father ‘doing it’ flashes inside my brain. Good heavens, no. I hang my head in my hands. ‘I could do with a couple of those heart pills myself.’

  Chapter Eight

  The more sober he became, the more Leo decided that he couldn’t give up on Emma quite so easily. He must explain to her that despite being a complete plonker he did, however, ‘L’ her a lot. In his own way. Why couldn’t he just tell her that?

  Instead of going home, he took himself down to the rather smart area of Shad Thames and headed towards Emma’s apartment where he was planning to declare his undying ‘L’ for her. Using the whole word. That’s the sort of thing she’d like. Trust him. After all this time together, Leo knew her so well.

  Shad Thames was jam-packed with trendy flats – all converted dockland warehouses and all ou
trageously expensive. Though they did have the most fabulous views of Tower Bridge and the turrets of the Tower of London. Needless to say, Emma couldn’t afford to buy this pile by herself. It was one of her father’s little investments and she had the benefit of it.

  Leo ambled along the narrow, cobbled alleys. Funny how times changed. This place used to be full of stevedores, brigands, pirates and the like – of course, that was going back a while. It had been a notoriously dangerous place. Now it was trendy and, therefore, overrun with City types and advertising executives and artists. The only mugging was carried out by estate agents.

  Leo was almost completely nearly sober as he’d wandered round for some time, taking the circuitous route to Emma’s place in an attempt to put some space between heavy drinking and declaring his undying wotsit. And, unfortunately, his champagne bottle was very empty. Also, it was now some ungodly hour in the morning. The only other problem was that Emma wasn’t answering the buzzer to her flat, despite the fact he’d kept his finger on it for a good five minutes and he’d shouted up to her window a million times.

  ‘Emma. Emma.’ Leo tried again.

  A window opened above his head. ‘Clear off, Leo,’ a disembodied voice said. That would be Mrs Canning. She’d never liked Leo since he let Emma’s bath overflow and it caused a teeny bit of damage to her lounge ceiling. It wasn’t only his own neighbours that he chose to temporarily inconvenience with his exuberant ablutions. You would have thought she would have enjoyed the three-month stay in a bed and breakfast hotel while her home was repaired, wouldn’t you? But no. Emma had never heard the end of it. And Mrs Canning had given Leo a very wide berth ever since.

  He could call Emma, but as well as his car keys, he seemed to have lost his mobile phone. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Leo and his mobile phones were never together for long. He’d had quite a few one-night stands with them over the years. ‘Emma!’

  Still no reply. Leo decided there was only one thing for it.