Thirty
By the time we sit down, I’m composed. “Ophelia called at 3pm this afternoon,” Sir John chides, “I’ve been waiting to tell you this all day!”
“That’s wonderful!” I gasp, forgetting my misery for a moment and getting swept up in Sir John’s sheer joy. “What did she say? How did it go?”
“Well, it didn’t go well at first…” Some of Sir John’s exuberance wears off temporarily. “She didn’t understand where this was coming from. Or why now.” Sir John coughs and looks awkward at the memory.
“I guess that’s understandable, right?” I say gently. “It is out of the blue, but we knew that. Were you able to explain a little more about why?”
“Eventually. She was a little peeved…”
“Peeved?” I probe.
“Furious then,” Sir John concedes, blushing. “That something so big about her mother could be kept from her. And then she was sad for what it had meant for us. She had a lot of questions.”
“Were you able to answer them all properly?”
“For the most part. It was difficult. But she wants to meet to talk more face-to-face,” Sir John brightens. “She’s coming to London next weekend.”
It’s easy to smile back; I’m so happy for him. “Where are you going to take her?”
“Certainly not to that opium den you dragged me to the other week,” Sir John shoots back, returning to form. “I was thinking of Etienne’s for lunch. It has some quiet booths.”
Etienne’s is one of the most exclusive eateries in Highgate. I consider Sir John’s ever so slightly moth-eaten suits, all of them immaculately tailored originally, but that was back in the late seventies.
“If you’re expecting company, we need to update your wardrobe a little,” I say decisively.
“What’s wrong with my wardrobe?” Sir John harrumphs. “Some of these suits are Savile Row, I’ll have you know. They were bloody expensive.”
“Yes, I’m sure you had to hand over a lot of shillings and groats or whatever the currency was back then. But fashion’s moved on a bit. Even for retired parliamentarians.”
“Hmmm. You’re hardly one to talk,” Sir John mutters sullenly.
“Meaning?”
“The other day, you came back with a pickled gherkin stuck to your coat.”
I cough. Damn, that had been noticed after all. “Yes, well, that was a result of inefficient multitasking (eating junk food on the bus while trying to speed write the editor’s intro for the June Reptiles Monthly ), which you, as a man, can’t possibly understand. Anyway, I’ll make it as painless as possible.”
“And I think I can get us a discount at Selfridges… like probably at least thirty per cent.” I smile brightly, feeling unreasonably confident that Emma had followed through on her awkwardly agreed discount promise at the insistence of Ryan, regardless of her glacial aura.
Sir John’s eyes light up at the thought of a discount. “Well, perhaps it would be good to have a little bit of a refresh. Tasteful mind, nothing youthful.”
“Don’t worry; we’ll leave the skinny jeans and nose ring for another time. Trust me. We’ll have you looking spiffy for next weekend.”
Once Sir John has disappeared to bed, my mind turns back to Ryan, and a wave of sadness rushes back again. I send a long and slightly rambling text to him, telling him that I do like him. A lot… but there are things I need to explain. I ask if we can meet on Wednesday. Time slows to a crawl while I wait for a response. Just after midnight my phone beeps, and I dive at it.
Ryan has kept his reply to “Sure.”
***
Dear Alex,
Just, why?
Descartes reborn.
Dear Fake Philosopher,
Because.
Yours,
Alex, a compatriot in pseudo-intellectualism.