Far from astounding them with his conversational flair, he managed to get in the way of the wheelbarrow and was jabbed sharply in the leg. ‘Sorry,’ he gasped again, removing himself to the far end of the site – an area planted with flowers and vegetables, with allotment-plots beyond. The cabbages and carrots and cheerful marigolds brought a surge of regret for his much-missed Kingston garden. It had given him such satisfaction to keep it neat and tidy; grow dead-straight rows of lettuces and beans; pounce on any weed or other threat to its good order. Order was essential when one had grown up in a state of chaos.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ he muttered under his breath. ‘You’re here to search for Charlie, not indulge in self-pity.’ And since he hadn’t seen a sign of the cat, he’d better push off home – although ‘home’ was hardly the word. It didn’t feel like home – never had, never would. The bars on the windows seemed to turn it into a prison; he a lifer in solitary confinement.
‘Come off it! You’re lucky to have a place to live at all – and one so conveniently central.’
The black girl was looking at him curiously – and no wonder, when he was talking to himself. He’d better get the hell out of here, before he was locked up as a mental case.
As he retraced his steps and turned into the street, he spotted a child’s red wool glove, waterlogged in a puddle in the gutter. On impulse, he retrieved it; shook and squeezed it dry. Erica had gloves like that, and he could almost feel her firm, woolly grip as she clasped her hand in his. Yet how limp and lonesome the glove looked. Things should be in pairs.
By the time he reached his flat, the rain was slackening off – although that didn’t mean to say he wasn’t drenched. He didn’t bother to change, however, but just sat in his cramped kitchen with a consoling cup of tea. Dusk had already fallen, although basement flats were always pretty gloomy, even in the daytime. The big advantage, however, was that Charlie had access to the garden – access forbidden to him, since it belonged to the ground-floor tenants, whom, in fact, he very rarely saw. Those on the first and second floors were more in evidence: one couple prone to shouting-matches and the other engaged in non-stop DIY.
Still, now it was as quiet as the grave, which only underlined Charlie’s absence. He missed her rumbling purr; her little mews of pleasure when he spooned food into her bowl; the way she scrabbled at the door when she wanted to go out. How could he tell Erica that Charlie had gone missing? – not that she was likely to ring. The divorce settlement had stipulated regular phone-calls, along with a raft of other measures to ensure they remained in contact, including a six-week stay in England every summer. This first year of her absence, though, the long-awaited visit had failed to come about, as she’d been stricken with glandular fever for most of her vacation. And, in the last few weeks, even the letters and the phone-calls appeared to be tailing off. He wrote, of course, every week; emailed almost daily, and rang whenever possible, but phone-calls were tricky to schedule when Seattle was eight hours behind, and Erica herself didn’t seem that keen, of late, to return his frequent calls. He feared she might be suffering from depression, after her debilitating illness, although Christine had vehemently denied it.
But then how could he trust his ex-wife, when she’d been the one desperate to move to America, so as to join her loathsome lover in his home state? Naturally, when dealing with the lawyers, she had emphasized the advantages for Erica: better schooling; a higher standard of living; new hobbies and excitements, such as sailing on the fellow’s ritzy yacht. Perhaps the girl was so enamoured of her new gratifying life – riding lessons, boat-trips, skiing on Crystal Mountain – she had forgotten all about her dad. The thought was so appalling, he removed the red glove from his pocket and pressed it against his face, remembering his loyal and loving Erica, who’d been content with simple pleasures and had never travelled further than Weston-Super-Mare.
He slouched into the living-room, to sit in front of her photo – his favourite one, in pride of place on his desk: taken when she was ten, with long pigtails and an easy, natural smile. And Charlie was with her, too, looking distinctly nervous, as if the flash had startled her. Perhaps fear was simply natural. Most animals and birds were scared – scared of noise and predators, unnerved by strange places or unknown situations. Yet cats and thrushes and squirrels didn’t swallow Prozac or rush off to counsellors, but just accepted terror as a normal part of life. As a boy, he’d sometimes pretended to be an animal, crouching down in muddy ditches, or hiding in hollow trees; relishing the feeling of being secure and well concealed; the heady combination of safety and escape. Sadly, someone had always come and hauled him out; dragged him back to his more troubling human life.
If only he could haul Charlie out from wherever she was lurking. She might have tried to find her way back to Kingston and been hit by a car or become hopelessly lost en route. Or maybe she’d been stolen, or killed by some heartless yob. First thing tomorrow, he would phone the local vets and the cat-refuge; even the police – although they would hardly waste vital manpower on the whereabouts of an elderly cat when they had murder and mayhem on their plate.
He jumped as his mobile rang. Erica, with any luck. No – she always slept in on Sundays and it was only 9 a.m. in Seattle. Maybe someone from one of the dating-sites, in which case he must prepare his voice – a bright, engaging, fun voice, to give a good impression. He even switched on a smile. (‘You can hear a smile,’ the Flirting book advised.)
‘Hi, Eric. Stella here.’
‘Oh,’ he said, reverting to his lost-cat, wet-jeans, alone-on-Sunday tone.
‘What d’you mean, “Oh”?’
‘Sorry. I’ve lost Charlie, so I’m feeling a bit down.’
‘She’s probably out on a date. I’ve just found this hilarious site – “Dates for Dogs” – so it can’t be long before cats get in on the act. It’s an absolute hoot – pampered pooches advertising for tummy-rubs and “yappy hours” and rolls in the hay and stuff.’
‘Ha-ha. Very funny. Anyway, if you’ve rung about the Family History project, I’m afraid I haven’t done a thing yet. I’ve been out all day and—’
‘No, I’ve rung about this fantastic event we simply have to go to. It’s called “Choc-a-Love” and it’s just been set up by this group of chocolatiers, who—’
‘Stella, I’m not into chocolate. I know it’s your great passion, but—’
‘Ssh! Be quiet – the chocolate bit’s not actually the point. It’s really a dating service and pretty classy, by the sounds of it. They make us all our own individual chocolates – you know, to express our personalities and quirks. Are we dark or milk, soft or hard, plain or fancy, bitter or sweet? Then they match the chocolates up – for example, Nutty Cluster meets Strawberry Cream, or Brandy Truffle fancies Nougat Parfait.’
‘Stella,’ Eric said, sinking down on to the sofa and stretching out his still sopping legs. ‘I’ve read the book you gave me, faithfully from start to finish; I’ve signed up for three more dating-sites, and I’ve spent bloody hours on Facebook, but I’m sorry – I absolutely draw the line at “Choc-a-Love”.’
chapter five
‘Chocolate,’ breathed Yvette, lowering her voice to a provocatively sexy purr, ‘has been celebrated as an aphrodisiac for more than fifteen hundred years.’
Eric shifted in his seat. It wasn’t an aphrodisiac he needed. Just the sight of all those women sitting in the audience was enough to turn him on. In fact, Yvette was pretty fanciable herself. His seat, just a few rows from the podium, was affording him a gratifying view of her truly voluptuous curves.
‘The last of the Aztec emperors, Montezuma, drank fifty golden goblets of chocolate every single day, to enhance his sexual powers. And, from all accounts, those powers were pretty legendary.’
He couldn’t have had a job, then, Eric thought. Today, the library had been so busy, he’d barely had time to snatch one cup of coffee, let alone devour fifty goblets of anything.
‘And when chocolate spread to Europe,
’ Yvette continued, as a colour map displayed itself on the large PowerPoint screen behind her, ‘it proved no less potent an aid to sex. The great lover, Casanova, called chocolate “the elixir of love” and always made sure he consumed it before bedding his many conquests.’
Eric closed his eyes a second; imagined himself servicing a whole string of willing conquests, pausing only to gulp yet another quart of chocolate.
‘And do you know’ – Yvette paused dramatically, her eyes roving round the room, to ensure everyone was listening – ‘recent scientific research actually supports those claims. Chocolate contains highly complex substances that produce the same effects we associate with passion, high libido and being head-over-heels in love.’
Eric gazed at the succession of pictures now flashing up on-screen. Clearly he’d missed a trick or two living on baked beans, instead of chocolate bars. Although these chocolates were in a different league from any he had ever seen: each one a work of art; some patterned with scrolls or shells in shimmering gold leaf; others studded with pistachio nuts or tiny pieces of crystallized fruit. Some were even shaped like miniature coffee-cups, complete with chocolate handles, and filled with different coloured layers, although all the colours were subtle – nothing vulgar or over-bright. And most of the chocolate itself was determinedly, stylishly dark. On no account must he admit that he much preferred milk chocolate, let alone that he had a yen for Milky Bar. Apparently, white chocolate wasn’t chocolate at all, or so he had learned this evening.
‘Not only that – chocolate is good for our health. It lowers blood-pressure, reduces our risk of heart-attack, improves our brain power and is even effective as a cough medicine.’
Which, reflected Eric, made it all the more ironic that Stella wasn’t here. Just this morning, she had gone down with bronchitis, and had rung to say she was coughing like a consumptive and couldn’t come in to work, let alone join him for this evening’s ‘Choc-a-Love’. He had immediately tried to chicken out himself (having agreed to come solely for her sake, and only after endless persuasion), but again she’d overruled him; insisted that he go, so that he could give her a full account of the proceedings.
Now, he was actually relieved that he had let her twist his arm. Having done a speedy head-count (thirty-nine women to seventeen men) he had realized that, statistically, his chances were pretty good. Admittedly, the organizers had promised to balance the numbers for the chocolate dating proper, this coming Saturday, but there was no compulsion to sign up for it. With any luck, he would meet someone during this introductory evening. In fact, several women had already approached him in the pre-presentation drinks session; one of them, Penelope, now sitting right beside him. Definitely a turn-up for the books.
Yvette’s husky cadences returned him to the matter in hand. ‘Now, I want to tell you something about our fabulous range of chocolates, and how to choose the one that best expresses your personality. These chocolates are as unique and special as you are, and those of you who decide to come on Saturday will have your chocolates made for you by hand. They’ll also be hand-decorated, with any kind of motif you choose, including your initials, if you want. And those chocolates will embody your individual nature; your very soul and essence; the sort of person you are – or maybe want to be.’
Eric fought a twinge of doubt – more than a twinge, a veritable tidal wave. How could a chocolate sum up one’s soul and essence? He was determined to be positive, however, if only in the spirit of a new dating book he’d downloaded from the Internet, which had promised to rid him of ‘negative inner demons’, and to make females positively salivate the moment he showed up. Indeed, some of the chapter-headings bordered on the miraculous: ‘How to make a woman believe you’re rich, famous and hunky, even if you’re poor, unknown and plain.’ ‘Nine short words that will make a female feel totally at ease coming back to your place, even on your very first date.’
OK, he could discount the hype, but he did undoubtedly feel more hopeful than of late. And if an elegant type like Penelope had chosen to sit next to him, something must be working. He turned to smile at her with what he hoped was genuine allure, and not only did she return the smile, she even leaned across to touch his arm a moment. A definite advance. Once the presentation was over, he would suggest they went for a drink in the stylish hotel bar and, if he played his cards right, who knew what might happen?
Yvette’s voice was mesmerizing – indeed, fantasy-inducing. Yes, he thought, he and Penelope might even book a room here; spend the night together and …
‘All of you who decide to sign up will have eight of your own personal chocolates waiting for you on Saturday, and these are the ones you’ll swap. You’ll get three or four minutes with each member of the opposite sex, to give you the taste of each other – if you’ll forgive the pun! And you’ll be issued with score-cards, so you can rate your approval, or otherwise.’
Eric suppressed a groan. This was simply speed-dating under another guise, and he’d avoided speed-dating on principle, so far. Stella had tried it, of course, only to suffer the humiliation of gaining only six ticks out of a roomful of thirty possibles. But since he didn’t intend to sign up, why get into a state? His own particular goal was to gain Penelope’s approval without the palaver of score-cards. He glanced in her direction again, keeping eye-contact for a provocative four seconds and, much to his delight, she didn’t look away.
‘I’m sorry,’ said a woman in the audience, echoing his own former thoughts. ‘I just don’t see how you can judge someone by one small mouthful of chocolate.’
‘Ah, but that chocolate will reveal a huge amount! You see, our preferences in chocolate go much deeper than you think. If you’ve chosen our champagne range, for example, you’ll probably be a thoroughbred, someone with sophisticated tastes. Or if you’ve gone for Filipino Ylang Ylang, you may well be highly sensual, with just a hint of Eastern mystery to your character.’
As Yvette spoke, gigantic versions of the chocolates she was mentioning flashed up on the screen in almost pornographic detail. ‘Or suppose you’ve selected our wild-strawberry-and-pink-pepper, then you’re clearly a one-off, a distinctive individual who never follows the crowd.’
‘That’s crap!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘A few minutes ago, you were talking about science, but I’ve never heard anything so ludicrously unscientific.’
Apparently unfazed, Yvette endeavoured to continue, only to be interrupted by someone else.
‘What bothers me,’ a slim, well-groomed woman remarked, ‘is that I couldn’t eat eight chocolates without feeling distinctly sick.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ a younger female piped up. ‘I could eat a hundred without the slightest trouble.
‘I’m not sure the thing’s workable at all.’ The speaker was a man, this time, with a top-drawer accent and a classy suit to match. ‘I mean, we sample each other’s chocolates, but so what? I can’t see it’s any advance on ordinary speed-dating – just a lot more pricey.’
‘And, anyway,’ another bloke put in, ‘won’t all the different tastes get muddled up? – especially if we have only a few minutes to judge them on our palate.’
Eric was tempted to chip in himself – he had objections by the score – but he didn’t want to run the risk of alienating Penelope, who, for all he knew, might be passionately committed to the concept of chocolate-dating. Besides, he was feeling slightly intimidated by the Sloaney types who had spoken up so far: colour-supplement people, with the ‘right’ watches, shoes, shirts, bags and hair-cuts. His own hair was cut by the local Vauxhall barber – a friendly Pakistani, who charged a friendly fiver. A further source of shame was the fact he hadn’t understood some of the words in use this evening – feuilletine, torrefied and couverture, to mention but a few – unforgivable ignorance for an information professional.
‘Ladies and gentlemen’ –Yvette’s tone had changed; its pillowy plush now tempered with a hint of steel – ‘we’ll have time for questions afterwards, OK? But first I’d li
ke to finish, if you don’t mind, so that we’re all clear about the basics.’
Her laser-gaze – authoritative, compelling – quelled any last ripples of dissent. ‘Now, as I was saying, whether you’re sophisticated and smooth, or breezy and bohemian, zingy or laid-back, we can produce a chocolate to express your personality. Tunisian Bharat, for instance, might suit you if you’re deep and complicated, with contradictory strands to your nature. When you first eat a Bharat, it’s piquant and peppery on the tongue, then the warm sensation of cinnamon develops, followed by a gentle floral aftertaste.’
Blimey, Eric thought, wondering if he had strayed into a wine-tasting, or a convention of perfumiers? But he mustn’t let himself be cowed. Clearly, chocolate had its hierarchy, just as did wine and scent, but there was no reason why he shouldn’t progress from Milky Bar to port-and-Cointreau truffles or geranium ganache – the two aristocrats now flashing up on-screen. After all, despite leaving school at sixteen, he had managed, through sheer willpower and a distance-learning course, to gain a degree in librarianship, and actually achieved his dream of chartership, just three years ago. And, even if he missed out on the Saturday bash, he could still decide his chocolate personality. Was he a tough nut or melting cream? Unfortunately, the latter. Yet if he planned to interest Penelope, he must add a touch more class. How about cassis and hibiscus, or pomegranate and passionfruit? Yes, she was now running her exquisite tongue over his pomegranate protuberance, and expressing her approval with little moans of pleasure. His mind leapt ahead to Christmas – a horizontal Christmas. Why get out of bed, if she were lying naked beside him?
He stole another glance at her, wishing she wasn’t quite so dauntingly chic. Aiming high in chocolate was one thing; aiming high in women more frightening altogether. Yet the new dating book kept stressing that simple self-belief could turn one’s aspirations into fact. So be it. He’d left Milky Bar far, far behind and was now a connoisseur of extra-dark, exotic chocolate, grown from exclusive Criollo beans in—
Broken Places Page 5
