‘The thing is . . .’ Leo began. He took a deep breath. ‘Isobel can do strange things.’
‘I knew it,’ Lard puffed. ‘I just knew this was going to be about sex!’
‘Ssh. Ssh,’ Leo urged him. ‘It’s not about sex. Really it isn’t. She can do strange things.’ They looked unconvinced. ‘Magic things.’
Grant frowned. ‘She’s a magician?’
He was usually considered the more intelligent of the two. ‘No, no,’ Leo said. ‘She’s not a bloody magician!’
They both stared at Leo blankly.
‘She’s a fairy,’ he said.
They continued to stare at him blankly.
Then, after some considerable time had passed, Lard was the first to speak. ‘A fairy?’
Leo nodded at them in an earnest fashion.
‘And how do you know this?’ Lard asked, now that he’d found his voice.
‘Isobel told me.’
‘And you believe her?’
‘Of course I do.’ Leo took a steadying drink of his beer. ‘It may seem a bit weird . . .’
‘A bit weird!’ Grant said. ‘You really believe this, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I think she’s telling the truth.’
‘She might think she is, but have you considered checking with any of the local lunatic asylums to see if they’ve got any of their inmates missing?’
‘She isn’t crazy,’ he insisted. ‘Well, she is . . .’ It had to be said that some of Isobel’s behaviour could not be classed as normal. ‘Completely crazy.’
‘Particularly in bed?’ Lard was dribbling.
‘Will you shut up about sex,’ Leo snapped. This was not going well. ‘This is not about sex.’
‘If she’s not crazy,’ Grant observed, ‘then perhaps you are.’
Leo slumped towards the bar and, for once, it wasn’t because of the amount of strong alcohol he’d consumed. ‘I’ve seen things, Grant. Things that forty-eight hours ago I wouldn’t have believed either.’
‘Leo,’ Grant said with a sigh, ‘you haven’t been smoking those strange-smelling cigarettes again?’
‘I know she’s telling the truth. You have to believe me. You have to.’
Grant and Lard exchanged a glance and Leo knew that he was wasting his time. Isobel was right – they didn’t believe him. It was time for Leo to leave. ‘I’d better be off.’
‘Yeah,’ Lard said. ‘Alice in Wonderland might be having a tea-party in your front room.’
‘Shit!’ Leo bolted down the flat remains of his drink. ‘You’re right. See you tomorrow.’
As he rushed to the door, he saw his friends shaking their heads. ‘That is one very sick man,’ he heard Grant say.
‘Love-sick?’
‘Yes,’ Grant answered. ‘And that’s something I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.’
As he pushed his way out of the door, Leo had to concede that they were right. So very right.
Chapter Thirty-One
I bustle round trying to keep myself busy. If I stop for one minute, the events of this morning and the disastrous lunch with Leo keep playing in my head. Only the feverish dusting of a row of modern glass sculptures is keeping me from picking up the phone and speaking to him. Only the fact that the glass sculptures are worth in excess of a hundred thousand pounds is stopping me from throwing one against the wall.
It’s nearly time to go home. Time to go home to an empty flat and face hours stretching ahead alone. We’re the generation who have it all – everything except enduring love, it seems.
Caron has left early from the gallery to get ready for a hot date tonight. Her last three hot dates in as many weeks have all proved to be lukewarm endurance tests. I hope that tonight will be better for my friend. But then if Caron hooks up with a smokin’ new boyfriend, what on earth will I then do for company? In fact, what are all the resolutely single women of thirty going to do in the long years ahead when we have no family, no friends, no children and no husband to care for us? It’s great to be with friends, but how many friendships survive for a lifetime? A handful? Less than that? How many good friends will suddenly disappear when you not only need them for the odd bout of tea and sympathy but start to rely on them for the daily needs of life if you’re ill or incapacitated in some way? Being single at thirty might be great fun, but I’d like to bet that it’s less of a giggle when you’re knocking on sixty. Instead of women being the nurturers, we seem to be hellbent on creating a whole raft of lonely people. Are we, the Germaine Greer generation, by setting ourselves impossibly high standards, simply failing to achieve anything of worth?
I flick my duster harder. Today, I can’t think about these things, my brain hurts too much. And that is the least injured of my bodily parts. A knock on the window surprises me. Spinning round, I see Leo’s friend, Grant, staring back. It’s pouring down with rain and he’s getting very wet. He grins cheesily at me. Despite my black mood, I find myself smiling back. Grant and Leo could have been chipped from the same block.
I’ve always had a strained relationship with Leo’s friends. It isn’t often that we all socialise these days. Grant and Lard, I think, tend to view me as a necessary nuisance. Whereas I tend to see Grant and Lard as just nuisances. Unnecessary ones. Whenever Leo is in trouble – frequently – they are always behind it somewhere. Usually egging him on. And I hate to sound so petty, but I also see them as rivals for his affection.
Grant sidles into the gallery.
I carry on dusting. ‘I’m just closing up.’
Sitting himself down on the edge of the desk, Grant pulls his soaking mackintosh around him. ‘I’m not here to buy.’
‘Don’t drip on my desk,’ I say. I’m in no mood to play games with Leo’s envoy – which is what I assume Grant is here for.
Grant avoids my eyes. ‘Leo told me what’s been going on,’ he says quietly. ‘With the two of you.’
‘With the three of us,’ I correct. ‘And if you’ve come here on a plea-bargaining mission for that feckless bastard you call your best friend, you needn’t bother.’
Grant looks hurt. ‘That bad?’
I sink down next to him on the desk, heedless of the puddle forming around him. ‘Yes.’
‘Leo doesn’t know that I’m here,’ he tells me.
‘Oh.’
‘I’m just extending the hand of friendship.’ He waggles his fingers at me. ‘Come and have a drink of Australian grape juice with your Uncle Grant.’ He slips a damp arm round me and I don’t have the energy to shrug it off. ‘I thought you might need an ear to bend.’
‘I’m not very good company at the moment,’ I say.
‘You’re always good company,’ Grant insists. ‘It might make you feel better.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘What else had you got planned for this evening?’
‘Nothing,’ I admit with a weary exhalation. Jo and Caron are getting fed up with my constant ear-bending, so it’s nice to be offered a fresh pair. And if I’m doing nothing else, I might as well go out with Grant and drink myself silly as stay at home alone and do it.
Grant nudges me. He has a very cheeky expression on his face. ‘Come on, then.’
‘Okay.’ I jump down off the desk and force a smile to my lips. ‘And I promise I’m not going to mention that bastard once.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Emma was right. She did leave his car outside the flat this morning.
‘Hello, lovely car,’ he said, and kissed Ethel on her roof.
What he didn’t realise, however, was that Emma had left his cherished vehicle in a rather crumpled state and that Isobel had been at it with her witchy little wand and Ethel was now fully repaired. He gave his car a friendly pat. ‘Welcome home, old girl.’
Going in through the front door of the flat, Leo noticed that everything was very tidy – nay, positively gleaming. It had a magical air about it. Something he would have scoffed at just a few short days ago and now look how se
nsitive he’d become. Emma’s Whitney Houston CD was playing again. The soft, sultry music drifted over him.
Ducking back out of the door, Leo checked the number. Yep. It was the right flat. Clearly, Isobel was at home.
Leo went back inside and, with a deep breath, headed through to the kitchen. Isobel was at the sink. Wearing an apron. And rubber gloves. Washing dishes in the more traditional manner. Which Leo knew was purely for his benefit. The whole kitchen had an unearthly sparkle. His chrome accessories – kettle, toaster, microwave – all glinted as they did in adverts for new, improved cleaning products. Little star-shaped spangles twinkled off them in the light. It was as if Isobel had read a manual on how to be the ideal housewife – which, Leo guessed, she probably had – and was putting it all into practice. She’d already confessed that most of her knowledge of humans had been gleaned from glossy magazines – which was a truly terrifying thought.
Throwing down his laptop, Leo instantly felt guilty for making the place look untidy. ‘I take it Mr Sheen didn’t do this?’
Isobel turned to him with an enigmatic smile. Leo had never seen anyone but the Mona Lisa do a smile more enigmatic. ‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’ Leo went to the fridge and when he opened it, he found it crammed full of beer. ‘Phoar!’ He gave the cans a squeeze to check that they were real.
Isobel gave him a reproving look. ‘I went to Sainsbury’s,’ she said with a tut.
‘Oh.’ But he’d like to bet she blasted the cashier with her wand so she didn’t have to pay for them.
‘And I used the spare key under the plant pot to let myself in,’ she said. ‘Just in case you were wondering.’
Leo hadn’t wondered and it just went to show how his levels of acceptance had changed in recent days. He helped himself to a beer and then went over to Isobel and wrapped his arms round her. He realised that this was not the natural order – it should have been cuddle first, beer later – and resolved to be better in future. Even fairy women would probably get the arse if you did that sort of thing regularly, he reckoned. ‘How did you enjoy your first day at work?’
‘It was great,’ Isobel said animatedly. ‘I typed up some documents.’ She looked sheepish. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘I can imagine.’
She shrugged. ‘How was your lunch with Emma?’
‘Great,’ Leo said, looking at his feet. ‘We had a nice time. “In a manner of speaking”.’ He held out his beer and Isobel twitched her head. The top obediently snapped off and Leo took a slurp. ‘I am well and truly a single man.’
Isobel looked at him quizzically. ‘Oh really?’
‘Well. In a manner of speaking.’ Leo pulled her to him tightly. His conscience was still struggling with finally breaking up with Emma. But it had to be better for both of them. Didn’t it? Emma was now free to find someone who would treat her as she deserved and Leo must learn from his mistakes and not make a complete bollocks of the new chance he’d been given. Leo vowed that he was going to be more attentive in this relationship. In a grown-up way.
‘I was going to buy you flowers,’ he told Isobel. ‘But . . . this is a terrible admission – I’ve never done it before. I got as far as the florist’s doorway and I . . . well . . . I just couldn’t go in. I came out in a cold sweat. Flowers are a very female thing. I’ve never quite got the hang of them. I paced up and down, but eventually had to walk away empty-handed. I know that lots of men buy flowers for their other halves, but I simply couldn’t do it. In my mind I can rationalise that it’s a good thing to do, but in reality . . .’ Leo held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘To be honest, I felt a bit of a prat.’
‘What type of flowers did you have in mind?’
‘Red roses,’ he confessed.
‘The flower of love.’
‘What else?’
Isobel produced her wand from her apron and waved it at the table. And, of course, a beautiful bouquet of red roses appeared in a vase. Leo’s fabulous, fairy friend kissed him on the nose. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she said. ‘You’re so thoughtful.’
Leo was quite amazed and felt deeply ashamed by his years of ingrained inadequacy. ‘You make all this stuff so easy.’
‘That’s my job.’
Pulling up a chair, Leo sat down. ‘What’s this all about, Isobel?’ he asked. His head was whirring. ‘Why me?’
‘I heard that mortal men were great in bed,’ she said flippantly.
‘Oh really?’
‘Yes,’ she teased. ‘I thought I’d come and see for myself.’
‘And?’
‘They are.’ She grinned. ‘You are.’
Isobel came to sit on his knee and Leo held her close. She felt so small and fragile compared to him. Emma was much more compact and sturdy. More like a real woman and less like a fairy, Leo supposed.
Isobel gazed up at him. Her skin was luminescent and Leo had never really known what that word meant until now. Her eyes were the colour of the night sky and they shimmered with stars of light.
‘I want a child, Leo,’ she breathed.
Leo felt his face fall.
‘A human child. Your child.’
He held her away from him. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘No. No. No. I don’t do babies. I have a fatal allergy to Pampers. Like people do with peanuts but much, much worse.’
She took his hand. ‘This is what I came for,’ she told him. ‘This is what it’s all about.’
‘No. No. If I’m so useless with flowers, just imagine what I’d be like with a baby.’ Leo gave that some time to sink in.
But it was no good, Isobel’s chin took on a determined set. ‘I want a baby, Leo.’
Leo shook his head vehemently, starting a glitter snowstorm. ‘This is not what happens on my planet.’ He spoke slowly as you would to a foreigner. Which, essentially, Isobel was. ‘First we date. With no commitment. Maybe for a couple of years. Then we spend a long time skirting round the dance floor of marriage. Eventually – after a long, long time – we bow to peer pressure, get married, settle down, buy gardening and home make-over DVDs for a while and then when we are well and truly bored with that, we think – just think – about starting a family. It’s a very long – hideously long – and involved process. We don’t rush into these things. We used to, but not any more. They have to be very carefully considered and then invariably we leave it too late, so we have to scrabble round desperately as we approach the twilight of our years. Families cost an absolute fortune too. There’s the nannies and the private education and the top-of-the-range buggy with disc brakes and GPS systems to buy. We much prefer foreign holidays to having kids these days. This is how it is. You need to read more glossies. Perhaps your information is out of date.’
Isobel regarded him levelly. Leo could tell that he was talking to an immovable object. ‘What happened here? You’ve skipped a couple of chapters in the book of life,’ he pointed out. ‘We should still be on fumbling foreplay.’
Isobel twisted his hair between her fingers. ‘The truth is, Leo, I don’t know how much time I’ve got.’
‘You’re a spring chicken!’ he said magnanimously. And she was. ‘You’re barely half a millennium old. Probably not even near the peak of your fertility. Do fairies go through the menopause?’
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’ Isobel looked sad. ‘I only have so much time here.’
‘So do we all!’ Leo threw up his hands. ‘One minute we’re learning to walk, the next – but a blink of an eye later – and we’re driving round on motability scooters. I’m barely halfway between the two. I’m still clinging wildly to my youth. I can’t even consider moving onto responsibility yet. The closest I’ve ever come to it was looking after my next-door neighbour’s goldfish while they were on holiday. It died.’ Glancing towards Dominic and Lydia’s flat, he wondered if they’d ever really forgiven him for that. ‘I went in one day and it was all white and floating on the surface of its little bowl. If I can’t look after a fish for a week, doesn’t it p
rove that I’m not ready for the next level? I’d need to practise on cats – or maybe a hamster. What about a dog? They’re a real tie. But a baby? That’s a whole new ball game.’ And one that Leo hadn’t even previously considered. He sort of assumed it would happen with Emma. One day. But not yet. And certainly not with a fairy.
‘I’m really not ready for this. Don’t you want a career? Earth women put having children on hold for years – years and years – virtually until the point where it’s a real struggle to have them and they have to get eggs and stuff from much younger and fitter women. They all want careers much more than babies. Much, much more. Don’t you want a career? You’d look terrible with stretchmarks. Although you’d probably be able to sort them out with that thing.’ He pointed at her wand. ‘We need to discuss this thoroughly. At a later date.’ Leo didn’t tell her that human men and British ones in particular avoid discussing anything. ‘This is not the right time. This is definitely not the right time.’
‘It is. And you’ll come to know that it is, Leo. Men on earth seem to have been conditioned to think that entering into a loving partnership means that they have to give up something of themselves. But it doesn’t have to be like that.’
Leo raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘Trust me.’
‘I’m learning that fairies are not to be trusted. At all.’
Isobel kissed him. Leo’s brain was spinning. But she kissed him a lot and nearly succeeded in kissing his worries away. Her kisses were truly potent things. They left his head reeling and his lips tingling – very probably there was some kind of spell involved. But this conversation had introduced something into the equation that Leo hadn’t even wanted to think about. Men’s sperm stayed wriggly for years, they didn’t need to think about children until they were ready to draw their pension. They could have a James Bond lifestyle until they were well into their seventies – just look at Sean Connery – and then think about giving up the good things in life. Leo must vet the sort of magazines that Isobel was reading; she was obviously getting her hands on all these trendy ones that had a downer on men. Perhaps she could find herself a proper career, one that she couldn’t do by waving her magic little wand, so she’d come home all tired and stressed and wouldn’t be interested in jumping his bones every night, all night, let alone the by-products of reproduction.
It’s a Kind of Magic Page 13
