‘Fajitas?’ asked Hernán, looking up. ‘Fajita is Mexican dish.’
‘But you said you grew up in the fajitas?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Liar.’
Before they could debate the point further, her phone buzzed again.
Wilkes Maguire
Shall I come around to yours tonight? We can tell your parents. Also, I have great news for you!
She typed a reply.
Elizabeth Cleverley
Tell them what? And what’s the great news?
‘Fajitas,’ muttered Hernán under his breath as he shook his head contemptuously.
Wilkes Maguire
About the leper colony, of course! And I’ll tell you when I see you.
She rolled her eyes. This whole humanitarian thing was really getting out of hand. Still, she didn’t want to let him down and figured it would be easier for George or Beverley to tell him that it was a non-starter rather than her.
Elizabeth Cleverley
Sure. Say 7.30. I really want to help the lepers.
The pedicure continued silently for a few more minutes and Elizabeth wondered whether she had said something to offend Hernán.
‘Your feet are finished,’ he said finally, stepping back and admiring his handiwork. She looked down and wiggled her toes and, when she reached down to touch the skin, it felt uncommonly smooth and clean.
‘Very professional,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘It is Hernán’s job, you silly tart, you don’t have to thank him.’
‘I know, I’m just being polite. I don’t really mean it.’
He went over to the sink to wash his hands and she stepped into her flip-flops. She liked to stay off her feet after one of these sessions and decided that she’d hail a black cab to take her home, then lie on her bed for a few hours until Wilkes arrived, abusing strangers on Twitter. A perfect day!
THE BEDSPREAD OF THE DAMNED
‘Depression?’
‘Severe depression.’
‘But when this starts? And how this can happen?’
Beverley was in what she inexplicably called her writing room, talking to Pylyp through Skype, while he was seated in the same position he had been in during their last conversation. He’d chosen not to wear a shirt and, while she appreciated the view, she made sure to keep a wary eye on the background in case any more scantily clad young women appeared from what she assumed was the bedroom area.
‘Well, I don’t quite know, darling,’ she replied. ‘Yesterday afternoon, I suppose. I’ve done everything you asked me to do. I’ve paid more attention to him than I have to either my husband or my children. I’ve massaged his undercarriage and played the Celine Dion albums he enjoys. I’ve taken him with me whenever I’ve left the house, including to a screening at BAFTA last night, and let me tell you, Ian McKellen was not happy when he found that there was a tortoise seated between us, so I don’t think any of this is my fault. Dr Cavarlio said it’s probably separation anxiety. To put it simply, Ustym Karmaliuk misses you.’
‘I miss him too,’ replied Pylyp, looking gloomy. ‘Is he there now?’
‘No, he’s in the living room. I propped him up in front of Politics Live.’
‘But how you knew he was sick?’
‘The vomit. There was a lot of it and, speaking as a mother, I know what it means when someone throws up all the time. No matter what treats I lay out for him now, he turns his nose up at them.’
‘Treats? What is this treats? You feed him the crickets, like we agree?’
‘Believe me, that tortoise has seen more cricket action than a crowd at Lord’s,’ lied Beverley, who had spent ten minutes arguing on the phone with a sales assistant at Fortnum & Mason over why they didn’t stock the delicacy. The young woman had suggested Lidl or Aldi – premises that Beverley had never entered in her life – but a quick Google search had put her in contact with a man in Ealing who offered to provide five hundred in a polystyrene box, with the warning that it would only take a couple of escapees to leave her house overrun with the insects. And so, she’d stuck to the After Eights. Which, after all, he seemed to enjoy.
‘And the green leaves?’
‘So many green leaves,’ she replied. ‘I pick them myself. From, you know, the trees.’
‘From trees?’
‘I’m kidding,’ she said, seeing the horror on his face and assuming she’d said something genocidal. ‘I meant spinach leaves. And rocket. And kale.’
‘And he say no to eating this?’
‘Not only that, but he stopped following me around. Dr Cavarlio asked whether he’d ever behaved like this in the past and I said I didn’t think so. Did he have any sort of trauma in his younger years?’
‘Of course, but I am not there to see it,’ said Pylyp. ‘He is alive to see First Big War. He is alive to watch Soviets invade Ukraine. He is alive throughout Holodomor, when the people, they have no food and must eat their own socks. He is alive to see Second Big War. He is alive when Chernobyl, it goes boom. He is alive for Orange Revolution. He sees everything, just as you see the Queen Victoria and the Simpson and Mrs Edward and the Charlie Chaplin. There is big age difference between Ustym Karmaliuk and me. But I do not care about this. I like big age difference. Is why things work so well between you and me.’
Beverley’s lip curled in distaste.
‘I wasn’t in my nineties when we met, Pylyp,’ she protested. ‘I’m not even two-thirds of the way there yet.’
‘Fifty, sixty, ninety,’ said Pylyp with a shrug. ‘Is all same.’
‘Is very much not all same.’
‘To my eyes, is all same. I love everyone. The wrinkles and the lines and the purple veins on the legs that look like they will go pop. Is all beauty to me.’
‘I know you mean these things as compliments,’ replied Beverley, ‘but I don’t think you fully appreciate how they come out. Can we get back to talking about your tortoise?’
‘Yes. I worried, this is all.’
‘At least you know that he’s in safe hands,’ said Beverley. ‘Aren’t you at least going to thank me for taking him to the vet?’
‘Thank you,’ said Pylyp.
‘Well, it’s no good if I have to drag it out of you. Now, when are you coming home?’
‘I am home.’
‘I mean back to London.’
‘Oh. Soon. My mother, she starts to feel better now that she can visit grave where my father, he rots into the earth. No more is she pulling the hair from the head and running down the street tearing at the clothes.’
‘Is that something she did?’
‘Yes. But people understand. Many women, they gather the ripped skirts and blouses and soon they will make a cover for the bed with them and present it to her as offering.’
‘Waste not, want not,’ said Beverley.
‘Is tradition,’ said Pylyp.
‘Well, I’m glad to hear that she’s feeling a little more positive about the future. Have you considered setting up an account for her on Tinder? There might be any number of men who would be interested in her. An older divorcé, for example. Or a widower.’