‘I wouldn’t have thought Julie needed parents. I see her organizing her own conception and birth.’
‘Haha.’
‘So, what’s her mother like?’
Jonathan thought. ‘Rich and strange.’
‘Rich is good. Strange how?’
‘Max, do you know anyone – any single human being on the planet – whose parents aren’t strange?’
‘How strange?’
Jonathan sighed. ‘Too thin, slightly fixed expression, answers the question she thinks you should have asked.’
Max considered this. ‘Not so bad. Four and a half on the strange scale.’
‘Five. But on the plus side, lives in Hong Kong. Eight thousand forty-eight miles away.’
‘But who’s counting.’ Max paused. ‘OK.’
‘OK? Why thank you. So good to have your blessing.’
‘Sarcasm demeans you. And you do not have my blessing.’
Later that night, Julie and Jonathan squeezed into the sleeping bag in which he’d lost his virginity but their attempts to have sex failed.
They left after breakfast the following morning, to everyone’s relief.
15
Jonathan’s regular coffee bar refused to let him in with the dogs and the possibility of dognapping meant tying them outside wasn’t an option. It wasn’t until his second week of walking to work that he found the perfect replacement: a tiny café halfway between home and Comrade with the unlikely name of Le Grand Pain.
The proprietor introduced herself in a glorious French accent. ‘Hello. What can I get you today? My name is Clémence. Who are you?’ The second half of her greeting was addressed to the dogs.
‘They’re Dante and Sissy,’ Jonathan said, relieved that her first words hadn’t been, ‘Sorry, you can’t come in here with animals. It’s against health regulations.’ There was something about that sentence that made him crazy. Why couldn’t they at least add, ‘If it were up to me, of course you could bring them in any time but you know how it is’ (sympathetic frown), or ‘Don’t worry, I’ll hold them outside while you decide what you want.’ But they never said that. They all smiled that passive-aggressive smile and said ‘really sorry’ in a way that meant not-sorry-at-all.
The sliver of a café smelled delicious and he ordered coffee. Clémence pointed to the croissants and said, ‘I bake them myself. They’re very good. Not like the ones at Starbucks.’ She sounded so enthusiastic he bought two.
‘I hope you won’t feel insulted if I split the second one and give it to my dogs,’ he said. ‘They’ve actually got pretty fine palates.’ He paused. ‘Does that make me sound like a crank? More or less everything I say these days makes me sound like a crank.’
She smiled at him. ‘Not at all.’
He gave her money for the coffee and two croissants and told her to keep the change. ‘And thank you for letting the dogs come in.’
‘But, such nice dogs! Who wouldn’t let them in?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Jonathan said, darkly.
She gave them a final pat. ‘See you tomorrow!’
During the rest of his walk to work he planned his life with Clémence. They would live in a tiny studio above the bakery. He would bring her coffee in bed at 5am before she started baking and they would make love in the evening when he got home from work and the shop was shut. He would learn to cook beautiful cassoulet from ingredients imported from her childhood village of . . . of . . . Ampersand sur Mer. They would have two children, Celeste and Raoul, who would speak French and English and be beautiful like their mother. The children would love him like a father, which would make sense, as that’s what he would be. Clémence’s anti-American relatives would be doubtful at first, but they would soon see how happy she was and stop thinking about her ex-boyfriend, Olivier, who, despite being a fantastically rich banker, was not reliably monogamous and a soupçon homosexual besides.
The next day Clémence welcomed them like old friends. ‘Dante! Sissy! How nice to see you again.’
Jonathan looked at Clémence’s spotless apron. ‘Aren’t you baking today?’
‘I bake every day except Thursday and Sunday. Those days I sleep till six.’
Till six? How early did she get up on baking days? He felt reluctant to ask a question that referred, however tangentially, to her bed. It seemed disrespectful, somehow, of their pure and wholesome future together.
Having paid for coffee and croissants, he wanted to linger but couldn’t think of an excuse, so he opened the door and left with a jaunty ‘à demain’ which he instantly regretted.
As he walked to work, he considered their relationship further, drawing happy family portraits in his head of Celeste, a sturdy, wild girl with a thick mane of curls and smudges of flour on her clothes, and Raoul, their serious, sloe-eyed boy, still a baby but with an uncanny air of wisdom.
Celeste would be three and Raoul, one, when Clémence would find herself pregnant again. ‘But we’re already so stretched for money, mon amour,’ she would say, her eyes huge with unshed tears, and he would answer that nothing would be more of a treasure to him than her baby, and so they would kiss and kiss and eight months later Clémence would give birth to another girl, whom they’d name, um, something French, like Alouette. Gentille Alouette.
The third day when Jonathan arrived in a lather of future plans, there was no Clémence. A ridiculously handsome Frenchman looked up from behind the counter and asked in a bored voice whether he wanted coffee, and when Jonathan demanded to know what had happened to his beloved, the Frenchman said, ‘Ah yes. The man with the dogs. Clémence told me about you.’
‘And you are . . . her brother?’
‘Husband,’ the Frenchman said, taking Jonathan’s order without engaging in further pleasantries.
Jonathan returned the following day, furious and distraught. ‘You didn’t tell me you had a husband.’
‘Ah, cheri. I didn’t know you cared.’ She smiled and, without asking for his order, put two croissants in a bag and started to make his coffee.
‘Of course I care! I’ve named our babies.’ He fumbled in his backpack for his notebook and waved it at her. ‘I’ve drawn pictures of them. All three!’
‘Three babies? I will have my hands full!’ She laughed. ‘So, you don’t have a wife of your own?’
‘Of course not,’ Jonathan said, indignant. ‘Do I look as if I have a wife?’ He felt unaccountably outraged at the thought.
‘I don’t know.’ She studied him carefully. ‘Is there a particular look such a man has? A miserable look, maybe? Or triumphant? Depending on the wife, perhaps?’
If she were his wife, he would look joyous all the time.
The impossibly handsome Frenchman emerged from the back, put a proprietary hand on her waist and murmured something in her ear. ‘Luc!’ She blushed and kissed him.
Jonathan paid for his coffee and croissants and left feeling even more despondent than usual.
16
The minuscule advance in his salary improved Jonathan’s relationship with neither Comrade nor Julie. Most of his working hours were spent developing elaborate fantasies of escape and revenge in which he stole Eduardo’s fancy car, put the dogs in the back and drove off into the horizon. On top of this he wasn’t sleeping, tossing around at night for hours, mulling, which eventually drove Julie to suggest he sleep on the couch. Once settled there, Sissy joined him, insinuating her way closer and closer until she was wedged up against his chest, her head under his chin. He found he slept better with the spaniel than his girlfriend.
Looking up from his desk, he found Greeley standing over him in jeans and a bright blue T-shirt accessorized with a 1920s Hermès scarf and silver sandals.
‘Hello,’ Greeley said.
Jonathan blinked. ‘Hi.’
‘Just wondered how you’re doing.’
‘About the same as ever.’
‘You want to get some lunch?’
‘You mean go out?’
Greel
ey nodded.
‘OK.’ Jonathan stood up, grabbed his jacket and followed. They walked two blocks to a quiet café and Greeley pointed to a table in the corner.
They sat. Greeley looked at him. ‘So. What’s your plan?’
‘Plan?’
Greeley waited.
‘You mean about everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘Everything is a bit too wide-ranging for me. I thought I might start small.’
‘With?’
Jonathan was silent. ‘With nothing so far. I haven’t actually decided anything.’
Greeley sighed, a world-weary sigh, and pushed an envelope across the table to him. ‘I’ve taken the liberty.’
Jonathan opened it. It was a letter of resignation. From him to Wes.
‘You don’t have to do it today. Or ever, for that matter. I just thought it might be a good thing to have at hand.’
‘You want me to quit my job?’
‘Not necessarily.’
Jonathan looked out the window at the people walking by. Greeley called the waiter over and ordered for them both.
‘I have to do something to pay the rent. And I might have to support a family soon.’
‘Is Julie pregnant?’
Jonathan’s expression was pure horror. ‘Of course not!’
Greeley gazed at the ceiling. ‘Are you sure you’re ready to get married?’
Jonathan smiled a distracted smile.
‘What?’ said Greeley.
‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about this woman I met.’
‘A different woman?’
Jonathan nodded. ‘She’s amazing.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Clémence. She’s French. And . . .’
‘And?’
‘And married. To Luc. A really handsome French bastard.’
‘You’re marrying Julie.’
‘I know.’
‘Then stop thinking about Clémence.’
Jonathan glowered. ‘Stop asking me about her, then.’
Greeley stared at Jonathan, hard. ‘Is there something fundamentally wrong with your decision-making powers?’
He hung his head. ‘I think there must be.’
The waiter returned with two coffees and two roasted vegetable and pesto sandwiches.
‘Greeley?’
‘Yes?’
‘What do you want in life?’
Greeley picked up half a sandwich and looked at Jonathan. ‘Like Freud said: love and work. Isn’t that what everyone wants?’
‘Some people want money and fame and a big house and then another house and huge L-shaped couches and expensive cars and a home cinema and to be famous. Most people want that, I’d say.’
‘Well,’ Greeley chewed, contemplatively. ‘It passes the time.’
‘What does?’
‘Stuff.’
Jonathan took a bite of his sandwich. ‘But what if it makes them happy?’
‘If it does, fine.’
‘Why are you working at Comrade, Greeley?’
‘I need the money for my degree. I’m studying forest ecosystems and conservation.’
Jonathan thought about this. ‘Forests is a thing. I don’t have a thing.’
‘Maybe you do.’
‘Like what?’
Greeley shrugged. ‘You tell me.’
‘I draw comics. I like to write. How much of a life is that?’
‘I don’t know. How much of a life is it?’
‘No one makes money out of comics. Or writing.’
‘No one?’
‘Hardly anyone.’
Greeley considered this. ‘So, no one makes a living except the people who do.’
Jonathan nodded. ‘I wouldn’t be one of them.’
‘Depends how hard you work, whether you have anything to say. Ambition, luck. Hanging on when everyone else has quit. How much money you need. Where you live. And with whom.’
‘You need a fortune to live in New York.’
‘So don’t live in New York. Go to Portsmouth, Cleveland, Burlington. Austin. I don’t know. Pittsburgh. Raleigh. Tucson. Ankara. Bilbao.’
‘Enough.’ Jonathan pressed his hands against his temples. ‘I have to think.’
‘You think,’ Greeley said. ‘Don’t ever stop thinking.’
‘The thing is, I need resolution.’
‘Do you?’ Greeley looked at him. ‘Resolve your life now and what’ll you do for the next fifty years?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jonathan said. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions? I just want to get happy and stay there.’
‘You don’t know much about life, do you?’
Jonathan’s shoulders sank. His head drooped. ‘No. I’m doing my best, though. Why isn’t there a course at the New School? How to Be a Person.’
‘There probably is.’ Greeley smiled a little.
‘Anyway, I thought I was doing pretty well. I’ve got the job and the girlfriend and all.’
‘All what?’
‘All the stuff you’re supposed to have.’
Greeley sighed. ‘Congratulations. How’s that working out so far?’
‘Not great.’ Jonathan felt unaccountably gloomy.
‘Uh huh.’ Greeley finished the sandwich and nodded at the waiter for the bill.
Jonathan wondered what sex with Greeley might be like. It wasn’t so much that sex with Greeley was on the menu, but Jonathan longed to be included in that perfect aura of calm.
‘Instead of dragging me out to lunch and asking a lot of impossible questions, I wish you’d just sort it all out for me.’
Greeley laughed softly.
‘No, really, I mean it . . . I do.’
‘I’m sorry to say, but that’s your job, Jonathan.’
Another job I despise and dread, Jonathan thought. Perfect.
17
Jonathan wanted to convince Julie of his desire to love her above all other forms of life – but this, much to his genuine regret, required getting rid of the dogs for the duration of their romantic weekend. He couldn’t ask Max to dog sit. Or maybe he could, but he didn’t want to have to explain about going away with Julie. He’d passed the new boutique dog hotel in his neighbourhood numerous times, but on this particular Saturday morning, he gritted his teeth and went in. Fideaux Suites, said the swirly gold writing on the glass doors.
The concierge of Fideaux Suites introduced himself to Jonathan (‘Hi, I’m Darren, I’ll be providing your dogs’ surrogate familial affection while you’re away’) and then barely addressed him again throughout the rest of the tour.
‘We’ve got three levels of accommodation from basic to five star, depending on how much Daddy loves you.’ Darren smiled ingratiatingly at Sissy.
‘Let’s assume for now that Daddy loves you a lot.’ He spoke with exaggerated enthusiasm to Dante, who hated over-familiarity, and then opened the door to a bedroom nearly twice the size of Jonathan’s at home, complete with flatscreen TV, king-size bed, bedside tables, lamps and fluffy sheepskin rug.
Jonathan gaped. ‘Holy shit. Can I stay here too?’
‘No.’ Darren smoothed his hand along the cashmere throw, neatly folded at the foot of the bed. ‘Of course we have 24-hour room service in case you two get the nibbles late at night.’ Sissy peered around the room and wagged her tail, glancing at Jonathan to see if she was allowed up on the bed.
How did room service work? Jonathan wondered. Did guests bark orders down the phone?
‘You can choose your own channel, but we find many of our guests prefer Animal Planet.’
Jonathan giggled and Darren glared at him.
‘You’ll make lifelong friends,’ Darren confided to Sissy. And Sissy did seem to like Darren. But why did dogs need bedside lamps? What else was included? A mini-bar? Yoga? Hot-rock massage?
Darren led them from the guest rooms via a softly lit corridor, up to the mezzanine level. He pushed open a glass door.
‘This is the kitchen, wher
e our chef creates bespoke meals for any diet or taste preference,’ Darren continued, and handed Jonathan a menu. It included steamed fish, roast lamb, grilled beef, plus a vegetarian option. Was there such a thing as a vegetarian dog?
With its acres of stainless steel, latest in high-tech equipment, immaculate work-stations, knives that cost more than Jonathan’s monthly salary and a gigantic commercial range, the kitchen would not have looked out of place in one of New York’s finer culinary establishments. Piles of fresh fish and prime cuts of beef awaited grilling or braising under the watchful eyes of the intent sous-chef. The head chef, glowering in a corner, looked vaguely familiar to Jonathan, who dimly recalled reading about a disgraced Michelin chef who had sought employment ‘in a related field’.
The kitchen door swung closed and Darren led them down to the basement, through a heavy door, into a steamy anteroom smelling of chlorine. ‘And this,’ he said with a slight bow and a flourish of the hand, ‘is the health and fitness centre.’ Darren leaned in close. ‘Every guest has an individual programme designed to maximize his or her capacities.’
Dante froze at the sight of dogs on treadmills, each with a trainer in sweats sporting the gold Fideaux logos. Sissy looked puzzled. ‘There’s more,’ Darren said, nearly bursting with pride. And he guided the little group to a window overlooking the dog infinity pool.
‘It’s only a foot deep and there’s a shallow end for dachshunds, so no one drowns. Just look at the fun they’re having!’ Darren beamed and clasped his hands together. It was hard to deny that they were having fun.
If only he and Julie could stay at a hotel with a gym, playrooms, a bespoke menu and an infinity pool. Jonathan wished he could afford it. He also wished that everyone in the world had enough to eat, clean water and sanitation; that man would someday achieve peace on earth; that children in Third World countries would be educated; polar bears would have enough ice; and that sentient animals like pigs and cows wouldn’t be slaughtered for food. What it had never occurred to him to wish for was an infinity pool for dogs. Still. It’s not as if life in New York hadn’t thrown up this sort of conundrum before.
Back at reception, Darren asked if the dogs had their own email addresses and seemed miffed that he’d have to contact them through their owner.