No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! (24 page)

Last day of the
Rant
before I go. ‘PAMPERED LIFE OF SERIAL KILLER!' read the headline. ‘
28-year-old Barry Bastard, serving life for torturing eight youngsters last year, lives Life of Riley. He has four widescreen televisions, one in each room of his spacious
“penal quarters”, which also feature a spa and internet access
. IS THIS JUSTICE??'

I'll miss my daily dose of
Rant
.

Now just sitting in the airport before I go through the departure gates. That's the good thing about a laptop. You can whip it out and write anywhere. I've got another horrible thriller from Penny to read on the journey, but with any luck I'll use the time knitting. I've nearly finished the front of Gene's jersey.

Had a very jolly farewell drink with James and Penny last night. Penny says that I must watch out for evangelists. It's an urban myth that they spend a lot of time evangelising on long-haul flights, imprinting on their neighbours the fact that if the plane were to crash, they wouldn't have made their peace with whichever particular god they're pushing. By the end of six hours you're so scared and bored, that before you land you find you've signed up to Mormonism, Scientology or some equally loony cult.

Oh God, what a nightmare! Just got to the departure lounge, and security wouldn't let me keep my knitting needles! I begged and pleaded but they just removed them from the wool, with a look of contempt, and dropped them into some
see-through box full of nail scissors, small tubes of hair conditioner, and all the other things that are so essential for hijacking. I could have killed them, but had to keep my temper or they wouldn't have let me on the plane. Surely they'll have knitting needles in New York! Or will they? I still think of New York as being so completely trendy that if you mentioned knitting needles they'd just laugh and send you to one of those weird towns they have in the South where all the inhabitants are forced to wear eighteenth-century dress.

Then, later, I thought I'd cheer myself up by checking my emails at one of those internet places and, to my horror, found an email from Penny with EMERGENCY!!! in the subject line.

Apparently the council has passed the plans! I feel utterly distraught. Here I am, just off to New York for three weeks, at the very moment we should be marshalling our forces. I rang Penny at once.

‘What's all this?' I said. ‘Can't we appeal? This is frightful! Have you been on to the local paper?'

Penny was almost in tears of rage. ‘God, it's so maddening you're going!' she said. ‘Shall I call another meeting? What can we do?'

‘Yes, have another meeting and write to the MP,' I said. ‘That would help. Invite all our local councillors along, and get hold of someone on the local rag. And organise a public rally. We ought to try a bit of direct action.'

‘Oh God! I can't do it all on my own,' wailed Penny.

‘Get James to help you,' I said. ‘And Marion and Tim are brilliant and Sharmie and Brad will be great. It'll be fine. They can't build it before I get back and if the worst comes to the worst, I'll shin up the tree and stay there for a few days with a banner with YOUR COUNCIL WANTS TO KILL THIS TREE! written on it in bright red letters. That'd make them think.'

There was a slight pause. Then: ‘Would you really?' said Penny. ‘That would be a great idea.'

Of course I hadn't really meant it, but as I was sure it wouldn't come to that I said, ‘Of course! If I can't do my bit now, I promise I'll do more than my bit when I get back! And, oh,' I added, remembering it must be some time soon, ‘Happy birthday for when I'm gone!'

I'd booked an aisle seat, but they'd made some muddle so luckily the very kind and rather dishy young American man sitting next to me agreed to swap. (Well, I say young – I thought he was probably in his late forties). On those long flights I'm always up and down going to the loo and I don't want to disturb the poor person next to me, particularly if they're asleep.

He'd got a laptop, like me, which he was waiting to turn on when we got airborne, so I thought there wouldn't be much conversation during the flight, but as we were taking off he suddenly said, ‘Oh, God!' as if he'd forgotten something.
Then about ten minutes later, after rummaging around in a bag by his feet, he said, ‘Oh Jesus Christ!' and for some reason I couldn't stop laughing, because it fitted in so well with what Penny had told me last night. I got terribly embarrassed, giggling on my own, but couldn't help it. Finally he looked up, turned to me with an amused expression on his face and said, ‘Good joke? Care to share?'

He seemed so sympathetic that I explained as well as I could, and he laughed and said, ‘So because of my cussing you thought I was going to inveigle you into my cult!' He gave me an admiring, even flirtatious glance. It was a look directly into my eyes, and with that I knew with absolute certainty that he fancied me. Ridiculous, I know, because there must be over ten years between us at least, if not twenty, but there was no mistaking it.

The reason I can type now, is because soon we'll be starting to land, and he's gone to a seat nearer the exit because he has to make a quick getaway for an urgent meeting, but oh, he was
terribly
attractive, with black hair and a really sweet smile and deep-blue eyes. He reminds me of a particular boyfriend I had in the sixties, and as soon as I remembered that he slotted into an entirely different groove. I felt I'd known him all my life. You could never do that when you were young, of course. But now I find that the people I meet for the first time often always remind me of someone I've known a long time before, so I just pop them into that category and behave towards them as I would towards the person I've known for years.

After we'd talked about evangelical Christians, he asked, ‘What's bringing you over the pond?'

‘I'm visiting my son and his wife,' I said. ‘And my grandson.' I felt I had to get this fact in right away before he started asking for my phone number. (Fat chance.)

‘You have a grandson? No way!' he exclaimed, apparently amazed, turning right round in his seat and assessing me. ‘You must have started young! And so must your son, by the look of it. My name's Louis, Louis Bravon, by the way. I'm just returning to New York from visiting my mom. She still lives in England. My father was a Prof at Oxford – and my mom loved England so much, she stayed on after he died.'

And he held out his hand so I shook it.

‘Marie,' I said.

‘Marie …?'

‘Marie Sharp.'

‘And do you work, Marie?'

‘I'm ret … a teacher.'

Funny. I never used to know what to say when asked what I did when I was young. Sometimes I'd say ‘I teach' but to actually be ‘a teacher' – it didn't sound right. I think it was because when I was teaching and I looked at my life I was too much in the middle of it all really to know
what
I was. It's only since I've retired that I can see the whole picture. And, yes, now I look back, it's true. I
was
a teacher.

‘And you?' I said.

‘Guess,' he replied.

‘Doctor?' I suggested, tentatively.

‘Doctor!' said Louis, horrified. ‘Jesus, no! Well, maybe not where you live, but in the States they're a whole bunch of crooks waiting to open you up, steal all your money, and then stitch you up again. No, I'm a freelance journalist. What you call a hack.'

‘Hang on,' I said, ‘I thought journalists were meant to be the evil ones, tapping people's phones, stealing photographs of victims from bereaved parents …'

‘No, I'm a
good
journalist,' he said. His eyes were twinkling attractively as he spoke. ‘I put the world to rights, uncover wicked financial and political scams, and am generally the scourge of conmen and criminals everywhere.'

‘A bit like Batman,' I said.

‘Exactly like Batman,' he said. ‘With a touch of Superman thrown in. You are, at the moment, sitting next to a living fusion of the two mightiest superheroes in the world.'

I liked him. He was fun.

‘And what do you read, in the way of newspapers?' he asked, noticing the copy of the
Rant
that I'd picked up free at the airport and stuffed into the pocket in front of me.

‘
Daily Rant
,' I admitted. ‘I'm ashamed to say.'

‘The paper that wakes you up and brings you down all at the same time!' he exclaimed. ‘Don't apologise. It's got a fantastic circulation and it's a fantastic newspaper. Not my politics, mind you, but still, you have to admire it.'

He started flicking through the movie list on the plane, and we talked about films we liked –
Sweet Smell of Success
,
All About Eve
– and didn't like –
The King's Speech
, anything by Almodovar or Mike Leigh – and, of course, agreeing on absolutely everything in that way you do when you meet a kindred spirit, and then he stopped and clicked a button. ‘Here – what about this one – what's your opinion on this?
Bitter Quinces, Poisoned Souls
.' He put up a finger before he'd let me speak. ‘This is the big test, Marie. Give it to me straight. Or haven't you seen it yet?'

Although I'd never met anyone except Penny who thought it was crap, I thought honesty was the only policy. ‘Well, you probably won't like this,' I said, nervously, ‘but I walked out after the first half-hour. I know everyone says it's a masterpiece, but I just didn't get it.'

‘Let me buy you a glass of champagne!' said Louis, grinning broadly and clapping his hands. ‘I have been searching the globe to find someone who thought it was balderdash, as you'd say in England, and you're the first person I've come across who's seen through the emperor's new clothes! Let's celebrate!' He caught the eye of a passing hostess and soon we were knocking back the bubbly.

‘I still can't get that horrible opening sequence out of my mind,' I said. ‘That dismal woman in the car park. Those fingers …'

‘You didn't see the piano-playing bit? Oh God, excruciating! I was reviewing it. It was the only piece of mine they refused to print. They said, “You just can't say that about a foreign movie. We'll look like idiots!” And they sent someone else to review it who raved about it. Jesus!' He paused. ‘You
didn't get to the little boy, then?' he said, animatedly. ‘Oh, my God, the little boy! He was the very pits!'

Before he moved to the front, and as he was getting his bags down from the overhead locker, he put his hand into his jacket pocket and fished out a card.

‘Give me a call if you're at a loose end in New York,' he said. ‘It's been great talking to you. I sure hope we'll meet again.'

‘Unlikely, as I'm only going to be here for a three weeks,' I said, regretfully.

‘Oh, you never know,' he said, cheerfully. ‘Remember I am a journalist. No door is ever closed to a good journalist!' And off he strode down the aisle, swinging his jacket on one finger over his shoulder, something I have never seen done except in films.

As I stared at his retreating back I had that awful kind of sinking feeling that I'd last had when Archie started making it clear he fancied me all those years ago. A kind of thrilling yet dreadful inevitability. In a way, I hoped nothing would come of it, because I'm about a hundred years older than him – or to be precise, because I did some quick mental arithmetic on the basis of a few dates he'd thrown into the conversation, a bit less than twenty years.

But then with a pang I was reminded of Archie, and I couldn't help being struck by guilt, and wondering how he was. Suddenly I felt really bad about having had such a good time with Louis that I'd hardly given him a thought.

But back to Louis … well! This facelift! I didn't have it done with the intention of picking up blokes, but as a side-effect it's not half bad!

Well, here at last! I am quite giddy with excitement and happiness, writing this in my lovely new bedroom in Jack and Chrissie's apartment.

After I'd got through customs I got my baggage trolley, or ‘cart' as they call it here, and pushed it through to Arrivals, looking frantically for Jack and Gene. Nothing. I couldn't see anything familiar except dozens of people – Indians, Russians, Chinese – rushing about … and screaming children on piles of suitcases … and rows of cab drivers standing with handwritten notices, waiting for clients. There was no notice for me, and for an awful moment I thought they'd forgotten to come to meet me. All I could hear was the drone of flight announcements and the beeping of vehicles covered with luggage and the general hubbub.

And then suddenly I spotted Gene at the barrier, being held up by Jack and waving a big sign which read ‘WelCOmE TO nEW YoRk GrANY!' It was covered with stars. Scrambling out of Jack's arms, he ran under the barrier and rushed to meet me. Then he stopped, and hung back slightly, obviously a bit shy of his emotional outburst. But as we walked out he took my hand and briefly pressed his cheek against it.

And when we'd gone a few yards, Jack joined us and gave me an enormous kiss and a hug, and said, ‘Come on, Mum, we'll get a cab,' and before I knew it we were out of the airport doors, met by a huge wave of hot air – it was 24 degrees apparently as they're having a freak heatwave – into a cab and eventually we parked outside a huge old mansion block on, as Jack informed me with some pride, the Upper West Side. We then went up in a lift – ‘elevator' said Gene, firmly, ‘we call them elevators, Granny' – into their splendiferous flat. Or apartment.

I must say it looked a lot nicer than when I'd seen it on Skype, which gives a consistently unflattering view not only of people but of objects and apartments as well. It reminded me of those old mansion flats you get in London: it was all on one floor, corridors with vast rooms off each side, and a wonderful view of the Hudson out of the living-room window.