Virtually Perfect (13 page)

'You know, I lived in London for almost eleven years,' she said, watching the gates draw closed behind the relief watch.  '...I never saw this.'

There was a crowd outside Buckingham Palace, lots of tourists, babbling in foreign tongues, holding camera phones high above their heads.  They found a clearing.  Ben pushed Eve to the rail, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and resting his stubbled chin against her temple.  Eve peered through the wrought iron railings, at the horseshoe of men in long grey winter coats.  They stood quite still, expectantly.  The only discernible movement was the ruffle of their glossy bearskins in the gentle breeze. 

She watched the conductor lift his thin white wands.  The guards raised their musical instruments in unison, flashes of silver and brass.

The intro was deafening, giving way to a solitary drumbeat, a French horn, setting the rhythm.  It seemed discordant; disjointed.  Eve frowned, then grinned as she heard the flutes, the piccolos.

'They're playing Austin Powers!'

Ben could feel her shoulders jiggling through her woollen coat.  He grinned and squeezed her tight.  He felt her cold little hands wrap around his.

Eve hadn't know what to expect.  She definitely hadn't expected this.  As she glanced around at all the visitors, clapping, cheering, taking videos, she felt a glow of pride.  She knew they'd be good, it was the Queen's Guard, but she'd imagined it would all be very sensible.  Stuffy.  A little bit pompous.  She'd never dreamed it would be this much fun.

'Look!' she said, pointing up to the Royal Standard, fluttering against the blue sky.  'She's in!' 

Eve scoured the windows and balconies.  She couldn't see anyone. 

'So whereabouts did you live when you were here before?' Ben asked as they drifted with the crowds up The Mall.

'Clapham.  Nightingale Lane.'

'Oh yeah?' said Ben.  'It's nice around there.  I had a friend who lived in Ramsden Road...  What was that club called?'

'Souk.' 

Ben frowned, giving her a sideways glance.

'Gigalum.'

Eve's eyebrows raised.

She remembered when they first opened up, the naff palm tree, the awful banana yellow sign.  She grimaced.  Gigalum reminded her of Benidorm.  Not that she'd ever been.

'Souk?' she heard Ben tease.  'I say, you must be awfully posh!'

'...Did you live here?' she asked.

'Hackney.'

Ben saw her gawking and grinned. 

'What?'

'Nothing,' said Eve. 

It was obvious she'd been expecting to hear 'Kensington' or 'Chelsea'
.

'I didn't have a meal ticket, you know,' he said.  'I had to work for everything.' 

Ben smiled politely. 

'Are we going in?'

They were in Trafalgar, at the foot of the steps leading up to the National Gallery. 

'We can go to The Tate if you'd...'

'NO!' Eve gasped.

Ben's brow clenched in a furrow.  He turned and studied her. 

'I...  I'm not keen on Modern Art,' she explained, erratically.  'Yes, let's go in!  That'll be lovely!' she said quickly, smiling.

'...You're being weird,' Ben said quietly as they picked their way through the clusters of students perched on the flight of stone steps.

'I like this one,' Eve whispered. 

Ben gazed up at the enormous Rubens. 

'Right little ray of sunshine, aren't you?'

It was
The Massacre of the Innocents
, the brutal depiction of infanticide in Bethlehem by King Herod's men.  Half a dozen thickset, virtually nude soldiers were terrorising a group of petrified women.  They were tearing newborn babies from the women's arms, flinging their limp bodies to the ground.  One woman clawed at the face of a guard as her baby slid from her fingertips.  A haggard old lady bit down on the little finger of another soldier, his other hand gripped around the hilt of a sword, thrusting it to her heart, her wizened fingers grasping the blade. 

'I mean, I don't
like
it but—'

'No,' said Ben.  'I know what you mean.'

It was a powerful piece.

He draped an arm across her shoulders.

'If I vere Freud,' he said quietly, in a mock German accent.  'I vould deduce zat you probably have issues vith men.'

Eve looked up at him.  His face dropped.

'I mean—'

'I know what you mean,'   Eve told him.  'On the whole, you're probably right.'

'...And you're not too fond of kids?'

'I don't mind them,' she shrugged.  '...What about you?' she said, looking up.

'They're alright,' he shrugged back, with a smile.  'Couldn't eat a whole one though.' 

He grabbed her hand. 

'Come on.' he said.  'There's something you have to see.'

Ben marched her through the Netherlands Collection and 16th Century Venice; through the columns, beneath the arches, to the Sainsbury Wing. 

Eve knew exactly where they were headed.

They came to Room 51.  Ben led her to the little booth, holding back the black curtain.  Eve slipped inside.  He darted after her.

They sat down on the bench in the darkness, gazing up at the huge charcoal and chalk relief. 

The cappuccino coloured paper was backlit.  You could see every line, every smudge.  It was unfinished,  just a precursor for the final oil painting.  Da Vinci's
Virgin and Child with St Anne and St John the Baptist
.  It took your breath away.

The outline of a hand jutted up one dimensionally, none of the detailing complete.  Perhaps it just wasn't finished.  Perhaps Da Vinci had changed his mind.  Seeing the piece, in its unfinished state, you felt you were actually there, watching him work.  Watching which lines he laid down first.  Watching a masterpiece unfold. 

The feet planted firmly on the ground gave the work a solid foundation.  The drapes of fabric had a fluidity that breathed life onto the paper.  The pose was fluid too, it suggested movement.  The faces were just stunning.  Jesus and St John like playful cherubs: chubby limbs, bouncing curls, angelic faces, and yet, if you really looked, old beyond their years.  Mary and St Anne turned in on each other, mirroring each other's features.  Serene smiles on beguiling faces, they were indescribably beautiful.  The play of light on their skin was sheer genius. 

'I used to come here a lot,' whispered Ben.

'So did I,' Eve whispered back.

She felt his hand brush hers.  They looked at one another and smiled.

'...Would it be completely inappropriate if I kissed you?'

Eve peered up at the cartoon.

'It does feel a little like being in church,' she whispered.

She felt his fingertips gently stroke her cheek, turning her chin.  He kissed her softly on the lips. 

They wrapped their arms each another, resting their foreheads together, almost touching noses. Gazing at one another in the pale amber light, smiling at one another.

In a split second, they shot apart, like a couple of naughty school children.  Bathed in light, joined by a Japanese couple and their very quiet, very polite, little children.  Ben and Eve sat behind them as they silently gazed up at the masterpiece, grinning at each other mischievously.

They hopped on the tube at Charing Cross.  Ben took Eve to Paddington Station.  They stopped off for a Krispy Kreme and a coffee, sitting at one of the round aluminium tables in the concourse.  Eve had original, Ben had chocolate glazed.  He went off to use the gents. 

Eve sat peering up at the arched glass ceiling.  She watched people bustling to and fro.  The well-to-do, with their cashmere coats and leather suit carriers; travellers with backpacks bursting at the seams.  A pair of police officers walked past in their dayglow vests, accompanied by springer spaniel sniffer dogs.  Trains chugged in and out, tannoys babbled, whistles shrieked.  Ben had been an awfully long time.

Eve couldn't see him.  She was beginning to worry.  She took out her phone and pressed 'Contacts'.

She paused.

I can't...

Alice, Amy, Curtis, Dan.  She'd deleted Ben after the last 'I'll call you' incident.  Eve started to panic.

'...Sorry.  There was a queue.'

She looked up.  He smiled.  He held out a plastic bag.  She took it from him and peered inside. 

She saw a black floppy hat, a blue duffle coat, curly beige fur and little red wellies. 

Her very own Paddington Bear. 

She beamed up at him.

'Thank you, Ben!'

He didn't need to ask whether she liked it.  She had a smile as wide as a mile.

He took his phone from his pocket, holding it at arm's length as he knelt down beside her, wrapping the other arm around her shoulders.  She felt his warm lips on her cheek as she saw the flash go off.

'Well, you said you wanted to be tourists...'

She was still grinning from ear to ear.

'Do you think Bo's alright?' asked Ben as they sat down on the tube.  'We can go back if you like.'

'He'll be fine,' Eve reassured him. 

She was so glad she'd trimmed his talons.  He'd purred as she clipped them, just as he always did.  Thank goodness he wasn't a sprayer.  When they left, he was ploughing through the halibut room service had delivered, a bowl of Tasmanian Rain at his side.  He'd be curled up by now, taking his afternoon snooze.

They wandered out of Holborn tube station, along Southampton Row.  They took a turn to the left.  Eve paused, peering up. 

Sicilian Avenue?

'That can't be right...'

'Can I help you?' came a well spoken voice.  Eve was startled to find a tramp standing in front of them, wearing a stained deerstalker and ripped brown anorak.  He was portly, with a fiery red beard.  Tufts of red hair peeked from under his hat.  He had piercing blue-grey eyes.  He sported vivid green candlesticks of snot.  

'...We're looking for the British Museum,' Eve told him. 

How many times had she been there?  How could she possibly be lost?

'How splendid!' he enthused with a brown, broken-toothed grin.  ' Well, you need to follow the avenue down to the end, you see?  You'll find a park in front of you, across the street.  That's Bloomsbury Square, my dear.'

Eve had it from there, but she didn't like to interrupt.

'...Head straight through the middle of it.  Turn left at the end, you'll come out on Great Russell Street.  The British Museum is about two hundred yards on your right.  There's a whacking great Greek revival pediment over the entranceway, by Sir Richard Westmacott. 
The Progress of Civilisation
, as he saw it...'  The tramp chuckled, then shook himself.  '...Huge building, black metal railings, lots of ionic columns.  I really don't think you can miss it.'

He was so genteel, if you closed your eyes, you could have believed you were speaking to the curator. 

He was sober as a judge.

'Thank you so much,' said Eve. 

There was a pregnant pause as she felt around in her pocket.  Ben beat her to it, pressing a note into his hand.  They exchanged embarrassed nods.

'Did that make you sad?' Ben asked, once they were out of earshot.

'A little bit.'

'It did me a little bit too.'

As soon as they emerged from Sicilian Avenue, Eve saw it.  The old red telephone box.  Ben guided her across the street.  She stared at it as they passed, remembering playing in there with Amy.  For them, it was Dr Who's tardis.  It always stank of pee.  Her dad caught them prank calling the operator once, practising their French.  He tried to tell them off, but he was laughing too much.

She walked with Ben through the park, that wonderful little carpet of green.  She could see Amy turning cartwheels in the shade of the trees, her father sitting on a bench, nose buried in one of his books.  She wanted to tell Ben where they were; what it meant, for her.  She wanted to share all of it with him.  But all the talking, the explaining, it would have ruined the moment.  It would have ruined everything.

Ben watched her gazing up to the stark treetops, smiling to herself.  Her cheeks were pink with cold.  Her lips were ruby red.  She looked back at him, flashing him a bright white grin.  She tugged him to a halt.  Eve raised her arms, wrapping them around his neck.  The carrier bag rustled against his back.  The winter sun reflected in her eyes, lighting up the facets of gold; setting off coppery glints in her scraped back curls.  He gripped her waist as she went up on tiptoe.  She kissed his lips softly, again and again.  Ben pulled her into him, holding her tight, kissing her back. 

Eventually, she stepped back giddily, sighing, Ben holding onto her hands.  She smiled up shyly at him.  They stared into each other's eyes for a second.  They started walking again.