Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘You’re not allergic, are you?’ Olivia asked. ‘Allergies are really common nowadays, so my GP says. You can even be allergic to yourself, would you believe?’

  Yes, he would believe and, yes, he was allergic, although he quickly changed the subject, recalling Stella’s advice not to mention boring things like health; to avoid all risky topics such as death, divorce or dentistry, and, above all, to be original.

  ‘So what really makes you tick?’ he asked, emboldened by his vodka-and-champagne cocktail, and desperate to distract her from the hiccough.

  ‘Oh, books!’ she gushed. ‘No question. Which was why I was so enchanted to hear you were a librarian.’

  Enchanted? Was he dreaming? For the average punter, librarians were irredeemably downbeat: menopausal females in cardigans and grannyspecs; sad blokes, past their prime, with dandruff and no prospects.

  ‘It must be so exhilarating,’ she continued, fluttering her long, dark lashes in a disarmingly coquettish way, ‘being surrounded by all that knowledge.’

  His spirits soared still higher. She truly was a soulmate; not following the common view that books were dead and librarians were dinosaurs, but grasping the true appeal of scholarship, the open-sesame of learning. The only thing that worried him was the speed with which she was drinking; gulping down champagne as if she’d just run a marathon and was seriously dehydrated.

  ‘Let’s have another, shall we? It’s such a brilliant vintage, it just floats across your mouth.’

  Suddenly decisive, he opened the menu and set it down in front of her, in the hope of diverting her attention from the wine list. Apart from the cost, if he drank a third glass of anything without some food as ballast, he might lose his grip entirely and start babbling on about death, divorce and dentistry in one long, shaming spiel.

  ‘Yes, do let’s eat! Food’s another passion of mine. In fact, I eat out almost every night.’

  He refrained from comment. The last time he had eaten out had been the day his ancient cooker blew up, singeing off his eyebrows (which had grown back paler still). And it had been egg and chips at the local caff, not gourmet, five-star fare.

  ‘Another two glasses of this, please.’ She gestured to her glass, flashing a smile at the waiter. The wretched man was still hovering obsequiously, probably sizing up Olivia’s breasts, which were, in truth, gratifyingly prominent.

  ‘What do you suggest as a starter?’ she asked, fixing her eyes on the menu – captivating dark-chocolate eyes. ‘The ballotine of chicken sounds nice. Or how about the Piedmont Bresaola, tête de moine?’

  He quickly scanned the starters for something he could pronounce – not to mention something cheaper. ‘The soup for me,’ he said, wishing it were homely oxtail, rather than coconut and lemongrass.

  ‘But that’s frightfully unadventurous! Why not have the game and foie gras terrine?’

  Fatally weakened by her cleavage, he heard himself agreeing. Her top was so low-cut, he could all but see her nipples – in his mind was kissing them in an ecstasy of bliss.

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll have that too. And the ballotine of chicken.’

  What the hell was Ballotine? ‘The chicken as a main course, you mean?’

  ‘Oh, no – as well as. I often have two starters. I have this weird metabolism, you see. However much I eat, I’m never full.’

  He would have to pawn his bike at this rate, or even ring the bank and arrange an instant overdraft, but he kept his focus strictly on her breasts. He would gladly lose his bike – lose everything, in fact – for the chance to see them naked. ‘And what to follow?’

  She pursed her darling mouth. ‘Well, I adore Beef Wellington, but it says they only do it for two. Would you fancy sharing it?’

  At £45 the double portion, no! Best to pretend he was vegetarian, but the lie stuck in his throat. ‘I’m not actually a great meat-eater.’ That was true, at least. Since the divorce, his usual fare was beans on toast. ‘I think I’ll go for the’ – his eye fell on a pasta dish, at a merciful £12.90 – ‘the crab linguine.’ Seafood brought him up in a rash, but so would a bill in three figures.

  ‘In that case, I’ll have the Beef Wellington all to myself. I’m ravenous tonight, so it’ll suit me rather well. And I’ll have the sautéed spinach to go with it, and the lemon-crushed Charlotte potatoes.’

  Vegetables were extra, of course. Another reason he had opted for pasta, which could be eaten on its own. He wasn’t mean – far from it. He would gladly buy a woman dinner – indeed, treat her every week, if things went well – but his wallet and this restaurant just didn’t marry up. Even the basket of bread, just set down by the waiter, who had come to take their order, cost a flagrant £5.50. Admittedly, it was stone-ground, seed-encrusted and organic, but what was wrong with Sainsbury’s ‘basic’-range white – a mere 50p for a whole family-sized loaf?

  Olivia grabbed the largest piece, spread it liberally with butter and began devouring it at frantic speed. ‘Mm, yummy!’ she enthused, spraying him with half-masticated morsels. ‘I adore this bread, don’t you?’

  Since she hadn’t thought to pass him any, he couldn’t give his verdict. Bemused, he watched her seize a second chunk and down it at the same dizzy rate.

  ‘So, tell me all about yourself,’ she mumbled, between manic gobbles. ‘Do you work at the British Library?’

  ‘Er, no. I’m afraid I’m not quite in that league.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’m in public libraries,’ he explained, ‘and my special interest is community engagement – you know, bringing in new readers amongst the socially excluded, particularly those with mental-health problems …’ The sentence petered out. Not only was he using jargon, but his line of work didn’t sound exactly glamorous. Indeed, Olivia’s expression was already one of mild distaste. Just as well he hadn’t mentioned ex-prisoners or asylum-seekers as amongst those he burned to help.

  ‘I’ve never met a librarian,’ she commented, dismissively, still chewing hard and speaking with her mouth full. ‘I prefer to buy my books. I mean, if you borrow them from some public source, you never know where they’ve been. You could pick up awful diseases – things like AIDS or—’

  He dodged the shower of saliva-coated crumbs spraying from her mouth. She was now on piece number three, and clearly viewed the whole large basket as her own private property.

  ‘Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if all libraries were made to close down – I mean, once the powers-that-be get wind of the real health risks. It’s a bit like doctors not washing their hands in the early days of surgery. It took a while for society to grasp that patients were dying because of the surgeons’ lack of hygiene, not on account of the operations. Oh, great – our starters! Which shall I eat first, Eric?’

  Without waiting for an answer, she dug an eager fork into the terrine, swallowed a large mouthful, then repeated the exercise with the ballotine of chicken, which resembled a fat brown bolster floating on a lake of creamy sauce. He jumped as she cut into it, sauce spattering over the clean white-linen tablecloth, and leaving a yellow stain. She hardly seemed to notice, so intent was she on eating; alternating forkfuls of each starter, and washing them down with her second glass of champagne.

  He was so astounded by her messy eating, all conversation died; the ensuing silence filled solely with the sound of rampant chomping. He thought back to the Soulmates site, which did include questions about one’s eating and drinking habits. For drinking, she had answered ‘rarely’; for eating, ‘sparely but healthily’. ‘Sparely’ was an outright lie, and was it really healthy to eat so extraordinarily fast? At this very moment, she was emitting a succession of strangulated gasps, as her speed increased still further and a recalcitrant piece of chicken lodged itself in her gullet.

  ‘Are you OK, Olivia?’

  ‘Mm. Just starving! Eating actually makes me hungrier. My mother said I was like that even as a baby. My first word was “More!”, apparently.’

  As she talked – and chewed – he could
see directly into her open mouth; had no choice but to watch the slimy brown gobbets slithering down her throat. She had mentioned her mother, but that mother had been seriously remiss in failing to teach her table-manners.

  She paused, at last, although only for a second. ‘Why aren’t you eating, Eric?’

  ‘I’m … just finishing my drink.’ In fact, confronted by her greed, he was beginning to lose his appetite – even more so, as a gob of food-and-spittle landed on his face. He moved his chair back, in an attempt to dodge the firing line, but he was still stomach-churningly close.

  ‘That reminds me, we ought to order our wine – red for my Beef Wellington, of course, but a Chardonnay right now. I’d like some with the rest of my chicken, and it’ll go nicely with your linguine.’

  Maybe she was paying, he thought, with a surge of relief. Surely no woman would take the initiative like this, then leave him to settle the bill. He couldn’t count on it, however, and even if they agreed to go Dutch, it would still more or less clean him out. He didn’t even want more wine – was in need of some plain tonic water to settle his queasy stomach.

  Then, suddenly, she leaned towards him, mouth open, eyes ablaze, and for one dizzying moment, he assumed she was going to kiss him – an advanced French kiss, all darting, pulsing tongue. But all she did was help herself to his as yet untouched terrine. She had already devoured the whole of her own, yet now was cramming in a huge chunk of his.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you, Eric? I can see you’re not a serious eater.’

  Yes, he thought, with rising indignation – I do mind. He watched in revulsion as she continued to gobble his starter, only pausing to butter more bread and stuff that into her mouth, as well. Then, turning back to the ballotine, she sloshed another puddle of sauce on the cloth, in her feverish haste to scoop it up. Even her once-pristine top was now patterned with yellow splodges, and sauce had splashed the sleeve of his best suit. He could hardly bear to look at her as she bolted down her food – and his. A frond of parsley was stuck between her teeth; her mouth was moustachioed with grease, and her champagne glass all smeary from those unappetizing lips.

  Literature and art? He all but hooted. Her sole concern was eating for Great Britain, so how could they discuss the things he longed to talk about: the role of fiction in fostering empathy and tolerance; his firm belief that illiteracy must be banished, root and branch; his passion for using books and libraries to help minority groups, underachievers, and indeed anyone in search of knowledge, or that satisfying sense of lives beyond one’s own?

  She had barely listened to a single word he’d said, nor had the simple courtesy even to offer him the bread or salt. Even her looks were fast losing their appeal. However blonde her hair or sensational her breasts, how could he be soulmate to someone who thought libraries were a source of plague and pestilence? The whole concept of a soulmate was desperately important to him – had been since his boyhood, when the notion, although impossible in fact, had still been a cherished dream and a future aspiration. Looks were less important than believing in some cause, sharing the same ideals, viewing the world through roughly the same eyes. But this woman had no ideals – only a serious eating disorder, combined with a drinking problem. Even if she offered to pay the whole exorbitant bill – even if she was a millionaire – she was still, at base, a slob and, frankly, his overwhelming instinct was to bolt out of the restaurant and keep running, running, running, until he’d put fifty miles between them.

  In fact, he had come to a decision: he would rather spend his days alone – for ever, till he died – than settle for a female as gross and gluttonous as this.

  chapter two

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are, mate? I booked this sodding computer for ten o’clock and now you’re saying it’s not free.’

  Eric deliberately adopted a calm and pleasant tone. The guy was leaning across the counter, one fist clenched aggressively. If he didn’t defuse the situation, and defuse it pretty fast, that fist might well make contact with his face. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s now ten-fifteen and we only hold the computers for ten minutes.’

  ‘Listen, chum, I booked the bloody thing for half an hour, so it’s mine by rights till half-past ten.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Eric repeated, in the same conciliatory manner. ‘If you’re late, we have to release the slot to someone else. It’s library policy. But, look, why don’t I make you another booking, for later on today?’

  ‘Because I don’t happen to have all fucking day to swan around doing damn-all. I told you – I want it now.’

  ‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible. In fact, the earliest slot I can give you, sir, is – let’s see – half-past three.’

  The fist veered towards his jaw. 999, he thought, glancing frantically around for Trevor, who at six-foot-two and built like a bull, might disarm the man at a stroke. But before he could call for help, the man – miraculously – backed off, pushing his way past the queue of people behind him with a torrent of abuse.

  Eric realized he was sweating – and with reason. On two occasions he had been hit, once seriously enough to land him in A & E. Well, he thought, composing himself, at least he didn’t work in Iraq. There, the National Library was subject to constant bomb-blasts, and staff-kidnappings were the order of the day. He suddenly saw himself cowering in a stinking cell, bound and gagged and blindfolded – and about to die of fear.

  ‘I’m looking for this book….’

  The next person in the queue was, he realized with relief, not a hulking prison-guard, come to march him to the torture-chamber, but an elderly woman too frail to hurt a flea.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, encouragingly. ‘Could you give me the name of it?’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s the trouble. I can’t remember names.’

  ‘Well, do you know who wrote it?’

  ‘I think it began with a …’ Her voice tailed off and her eyes took on a glazed look.

  He waited patiently. Who knew what she was suffering – loneliness, confusion, dementia, bereavement?

  ‘It was red,’ she said, in a sudden rush of words. ‘A big red book, with a yellow bird on the cover.’

  He ran through his mental repertoire. Although familiar with most of the stock, he couldn’t recall such a volume. ‘Was it fiction or non-fiction?’

  It was obvious from her baffled frown that she didn’t know the difference.

  ‘Well,’ he tried to explain, ‘more of a story, with characters, or a book that told you how to identify birds?’

  ‘A story – for my grandchildren.’

  ‘Ah, I think you need the children’s library. I’m just going up there myself.’ However busy he might be, he had to have a word with Stella, to beg her help at lunchtime.

  Once Harriet had relieved him at the desk, he took the stairs at a snail’s pace, so the old lady could keep up with him, then left her in Kath’s hands. Despite her youth, Kath was proving a real asset, although Harriet had complained, of course, about employing kids who should be still at playschool. But he, too, had started as a library assistant, at the age of just sixteen, so he felt a bond with Kath; still recalled the sense of being confused and overawed by all one had to learn.

  The colourful shelves and frieze of children’s drawings pinned in rows above them reminded him of being younger still; the pride he’d felt when his own pictures were displayed. The library had been his childhood refuge – in fact, almost a sort of prep school – and he’d continued to use it through his teens, not just as crammer and college, but as an escape from noise and bullying and the whole round of petty punishments. Without it, he’d be nothing now, or maybe – worse – a criminal or dope-head. Admittedly, reaching his favourite haven had often been a problem, since he’d had to rely on busy, non-bookish adults, with a thousand more important things to do. But, once there, he felt secure and – more important still – could be instantly transported to other, better worlds, simply by opening the pages of a book.

  Stella�
��s voice returned him to the present. She was just finishing her ‘Rhyme-Time’ session – clearly one with a marine theme, since she had set up a stretch of ocean (a blue tarpaulin), a beach (a yellow rug), and brought in various ‘fishy’ toys, including a green-plush crocodile, with a cavernous scarlet mouth.

  ‘Now, our last song is “Row Your Boat”. We learned that one last week, so shall we all join in?’

  Eric found himself singing along with toddlers, mothers, nannies; even managing a creditable shriek when they reached the verse, ‘If you see a crocodile, don’t forget to scream.’ The contrast with the church-like silence of libraries in the old regime never failed to strike him, in these days of exuberant sing-songs and boisterous events. He continued watching with a twinge of envy as the mothers prepared to take their children home; buttoning coats; retrieving hats and gloves; each mother or each nanny leaving hand-in-hand with a child. Incredible to have someone all to yourself, someone you didn’t have to share, someone linked to you by blood-ties.

  Once everyone had gone, Stella tidied away the rugs and books and toys. ‘I’m off for my tea-break now, Eric. Any chance you can join me?’

  ‘Well, only for five minutes. We’re up to our eyes down there.’

  Having left Kath to do some shelving, Stella followed him to the staffroom, where he remained standing by the door, too pressured to bother with tea.

  ‘Stella, could you do me a favour?’

  ‘Depends. If you want me to dress up in a rah-rah skirt and perform the cancan on top of the returns-desk, then—’

  ‘No, nothing so exciting. I just wondered if you could heat the lunchtime soup.’

  ‘I thought Helen usually did it?’

  ‘She does, but she called in sick first thing. It won’t take long, I promise. The stuff’s all ready, right there on the worktop.’