It’s a Kind of Magic

  He comes from very good stock, to use Dicky’s phraseology. Nothing wrong with his pedigree and he could certainly give Awful Austin and Dreadful Dicky a run for their money. I look round the table and can see why Leo might not be keen to spend time with my delightful family. The men treat him like something of a leper because he doesn’t have an opinion on politics, cricket or rugby. My sisters nag him, at every opportunity, about when he’ll ‘make an honest woman’ of me.

  Though, I have to say, his own family don’t fare much better. It isn’t entirely Leo’s fault that none of his relatives are speaking to him at the moment. If you fall drunkenly into your grandma’s grave at her funeral it tends to stretch the filial bonds to breaking point. I’m sure they will, in time, forgive him. After all, it was his beloved grandmother who taught him most of the drinking games he knows. She would have found it very amusing – God rest her soul. It’s a shame the rest of his family don’t. Which is unfair. Leo is Leo. They smashed the mould to smithereens after they made him. Some will say with just cause. But if you take the time to look, he has a lot of qualities. Amazing qualities. They’re just hard to put your finger on.

  ‘Leo is a nice man,’ I insist. Everyone around the table avoids looking at me. My mother pats my hand sympathetically, which makes me want to cry. Out of all of them, only I can see Leo’s good points. ‘He is. He’s just . . . He’s just very good at hiding it.’

  I grip my champagne glass even more tightly while smiling sweetly at the rest of the white-lipped gathering at the table. And when he finally shows up, I’ll kill him.

  Chapter Three

  ‘See you tomorrow, Leo.’ Grant and Lard were leaving. Reluctantly. They were clearly worried that they were abandoning Leo to the mercy of the night. Which they were. ‘Will you be okay?’

  ‘Fine. Fine.’ Leo managed a wave. ‘Night, night, chaps.’ His best friends in the whole wide world were going off in search of a taxi, a woman or a kebab. Leo couldn’t remember which. Instead of joining them, he was crawling along the pavement on all fours. Remaining upright had proved just too difficult. Strangely, Grant and Lard seemed to be coping much better with vertical.

  The pavement was very cold and hard. Leo thought that pavements should be made in a much softer material, especially for moments like these. Then he noticed what a lovely night it was – the stars, moon, sky, that sort of thing – and he wished that Emma was there. But he didn’t know why. Love, probably. Love, love, love. All you need is love. In one hand, he had a bottle of champagne. In the other, his car keys. Somewhere near was his car. A lovely car that he’d christened Ethel.

  But all the cars looked the same. All the bloody same.

  ‘Ah. Looks likely.’ Leo ran his hands over Ethel’s curvy flanks. Very likely. ‘Hello, my shpeshial girl,’ he slurred.

  The keyhole didn’t appear to be big enough. The key was all bendy too. Leo’s mind wandered to kebabs – they seemed like a nice idea, but it was late. Late, late, late. Horribly late. No sex for a fortnight late. The key was still bendy, bendy, bendy. Leo couldn’t get it to do the right thing.

  ‘Open. Open. Open.’ Leo shook the door handle in case the car was playing hard to get. ‘Open, you bastard.’

  A loud siren started. Beep. Beep. Beep. Too many decibels. ‘Not bloody deaf,’ Leo shouted and shook the handle some more. ‘Come on, you bloody stubborn blue . . .’

  Then it hit him. Not his car. His car was red. Yes, red. A battered VW Beetle. Unlike its owner – young and flakey – Ethel was loyal, reliable. And not blue. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ Leo gave the car an apologetic pat. ‘Sorry, old chap.’

  He crawled a bit more. His head and his knees throbbed. ‘Ah!’

  Then he saw Ethel. He leaned towards her, kissing her red bonnet. She was there all the time. Waiting nicely. The key fitted smoothly into the lock, the door swung open and he climbed in. ‘That’s more like it.’

  Now all he had to do was negotiate the pedals. Up, down. Up, down. The gears were next. Wiggle, waggle. Giggle.

  ‘Start, start, start.’ His key fell to the floor. ‘Start, start, start.’

  Eventually the car started. He found first gear and eased out the clutch. With a few more revs he was off jumping, jumping down the road. But not too fast. The window was open and the champagne bottle was dangling out.

  ‘Hello, cyclist.’ Leo waved the champagne in what he hoped was a friendly gesture. But he was a bit too close.

  The cyclist wobbled and fell off as Ethel continued to jump along.

  ‘Sorry. Awfully sorry.’

  Leo waved the champagne apologetically and the cyclist shook his fist. But Leo had no time to stop. He could see the restaurant ahead of him.

  It was a posh restaurant. Stuffy. And Emma’s party was taking place inside. Hours ago. Leo was well and truly stuffed.

  As he stumbled out of car and tripped over on the pavement, Leo took some deep breaths. He straightened his tie. Straightened his hair. Straightened his eyes.

  Emma, he thought smugly, would never guess that he’d been drinking.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Oh,’ my mother cries. ‘A lovely surprise!’

  My family gathered at the table all look expectantly towards the door. My head shoots up and I try not to look too downhearted when there’s still no sight of the errant Leo. Where the hell can he be at this time? Anything could have happened to him. He’s a one-man disaster zone, a walking soap opera, not safe to be let out on his own. He could be anywhere – in a ditch, in a hospital, in the city centre naked and tied to a bollard – all of which have applied to Leo in the past. This better had be him and he’d better not be full of his usual Emmenthal excuses – stories with more holes in them than Swiss cheese.

  But it isn’t Leo. Instead, a rather grand waiter sweeps in bearing an equally grand birthday cake. It’s white and iced with pink frills. Thirty candles flame exuberantly on the top and I hope that someone has a fire extinguisher to hand. Thirty bloody candles and what have I got to show for all these years?

  Forcing a smile into place, I stand up as the waiter sets the cake on the table. My family start a tense and uncomfortable rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ while I try to look deliriously happy, as the song requires, even though it’s a truly terrible dirge. Halfway through, as my parents are running out of steam, there is a unearthly crashing noise from the adjoining hallway. ‘Happy Birthday’ is truncated. The gentle and civilised hum of conversation in the restaurant grinds to an abrupt halt.

  A waiter appears, wearing what seems to be the contents of a soup tureen.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry. Awfully sorry.’ And following him is, of course, Leo. Carrying a bottle of champagne and weaving unsteadily. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

  Two dozen stony faces turn towards him. Six of them from our table alone. Like a dinosaur experiencing pain, it takes a moment or two for Leo to realise the venom that’s being directed towards him.

  He gives me one of his heartbreakingly beautiful smiles. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Late. Fuck. No. Sorry. Sorry. Not fuck. Bad language. Flip. Late. Oh flip. Very flip. Flipping heck. Late. Flipping office party. Bollocks.’

  I want to die. I want to lie down and die. But first I want Leo to die. Painfully.

  ‘Hello, Mrs . . . Mrs . . .’

  ‘Chambers,’ I supply tightly.

  ‘Mother.’ Leo gives her a cheesy smile.

  My mother, never easily flustered, goes all girly. ‘Oh.’ She fans herself with her napkin.

  ‘Mother.’ Leo tries it again.

  ‘Not while there’s breath in my body,’ my father mutters.

  Leo, not realising that he should stop while he’s on a roll, answers with, ‘Dad’ and a pantomime matey wink.

  My father coughs out his drink.

  Leo turns his gaze on me – a helpless puppy expression face-to-face with my best snarling werewolf look. ‘Emma!’ He holds up his bottle of champagne. ‘Darling! Happy Birthday!’ Leo swigs from his bottle. ‘Happy Birthday to you . . .’ He urges the
crowd to join him. The crowd doesn’t. ‘Happy Birthday to you . . . Happy Birthday dear . . . dear . . .’

  The pause goes on for too long.

  ‘Emma,’ I supply.

  ‘I knew that! Happy Birthday, dear EMMA, Happy Birthday to you-hoo!’

  Leo blows out all the candles on my cake. ‘Marvellous,’ he says. And then he passes out in it.

  Chapter Five

  The ladies’ loo at Ranolfs is just as posh as the dining room. Deep marble sinks with individually folded fluffy hand towels stacked next to them grace one wall. A tray of complimentary perfumes and lotions await each customer. Plush velvet chairs grouped in one corner make sure that no one has to suffer the inconvenience of standing while waiting.

  Leo sits in one now. Slumps, actually. All six gangly feet of him shoe-horned into a delicate apricot velvet, fringed chair. There’s a pink candle-holder from my birthday cake wedged behind his ear. I pick bits of sponge and jam from his dark, floppy hair and peel splatters of candle wax from his face more forcefully than is strictly necessary.

  ‘Ow! Ow!’

  ‘Shut up, Leo.’ I hand him his cup of extra strong coffee which he obediently drinks in an attempt to sober himself up. ‘You look dreadful. Everything’s askew.’ I take in his work suit. Clearly he hasn’t even made it home from the office. ‘You look like you’ve been crawling along the pavements.’

  Leo looks shocked. ‘Never.’

  I resume my task with vigour. ‘You’re useless.’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘It’s my birthday.’

  He hangs his head. ‘I know.’

  ‘You should have been here hours ago.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You have humiliated me . . . mortified me . . . in front of my parents.’ And my sisters’ stupid, smug husbands, which probably hurts more. ‘It’s my birthday! Did you get me a present?’

  Leo slaps his forehead. ‘Fiddlesticks.’

  ‘No.’ I roll the ball of wax into one of the fluffy towels I’ve purloined for the purpose. ‘You didn’t last year either. Or the year before.’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry,’ Leo mumbles. ‘Terrible er . . .’

  ‘Memory,’ I supply.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘You have embarrassed me.’

  ‘Again,’ Leo adds.

  ‘Yes, Leo. Again.’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry. So bloody sorry.’

  Standing up, I throw the soiled towel into the waiting hamper. How many times in the past has Leo let me down? My father is right. They’re probably all out there now, eating my birthday cake, discussing what a loser Leo is and saying aren’t I silly to have stayed with him all this time – particularly as I’m approaching my sell-by date. I can just hear the conversation. It’s one that has played over in the Chambers’ household many times. Usually when Leo fails to appear for something important at the pre-arranged time. Or turns up inappropriately dressed. The time he arrived in a pink tutu for a night of Swan Lake at the Royal Ballet singularly failed to amuse my father. Even though it was just a coincidence that it was a tutu and Leo was wearing it to raise money for Children in Need. A wonderful cause, I’m sure you’ll agree. It wasn’t my dear boyfriend’s fault that it clashed with a night out with my parents. Both arrangements had been longstanding and Leo didn’t want to lose the five hundred quid bet that he wouldn’t last in it all day. My father offered him five hundred if he’d take it off. It was just a shame that Leo hadn’t thought to bring any other clothes with him – otherwise they’d both have been happy. But that was one noble cause in a sea of less honourable ones. My mother occasionally rises to my loved one’s defence, but she does sometimes wonder why she supports him. And even I’m getting fed up with explaining away all of Leo’s failings.

  I look at my boyfriend, pink icing in his hair, with dismay. He’s ridiculously handsome and, when sober, charming and funny. It’s just . . . it’s just that it’s rather like dating a fourteen year old. An irresponsible fourteen year old. Isn’t it about time that I was in a relationship with someone who’s my own mental age? I guess it is. But that doesn’t make letting go any less painful. I love Leo. With all my heart. It’s just that most of the time he drives me to distraction. Sometimes I feel more like his mother than his lover. I should have got hitched to one of the dullards I dated when I was nineteen – just like my sisters did. By now I would have been settled down with a barrister and a couple of tousle-haired kids to keep my parents happy – or onto my first divorce. Finding a mate seems to become so much more complex as you hit thirty. Or perhaps I’m simply getting more fussy.

  ‘This is it, Leo,’ I say sadly. ‘This is as far as it goes. It has to be. This is the end.’

  ‘The end.’ Leo looks up at me with bleary eyes. He appears to be going to sleep.

  ‘You’ve gone too far, too often.’

  ‘It was just a lickle-ickle leaving party, Ems.’ He indicates ‘lickle-ickle’ with his fingers and flutters his eyelashes at me.

  ‘One drink, you said, Leo. You said you would go for one drink.’ I take the bottle of champagne that dangles from his hand and calmly pour the remaining contents over his head. Leo doesn’t even flinch. ‘Not several bottles.’

  ‘I had a couple.’

  ‘A couple? That usually means you’ve knocked it back like a man who’s been stranded in the Sahara desert for six months with nothing to eat but salted peanuts.’

  A woman with a fulsome matron’s breast comes in and recoils in horror as she sees Leo in the corner. A man in the ladies’ powder room is clearly an affront to her delicate sensibilities and it’s quite obvious that she considers backing straight out again.

  ‘Evening,’ Leo says drunkenly, giving her a leery smile.

  ‘He’s with me,’ I say. ‘He’s harmless. Mostly.’

  The woman rushes by and, glaring at me, heads into one of the cubicles – thankfully not the one Leo has thrown up in. She locks the door behind her with feeling.

  I lower my voice. ‘We used to have fun, Leo.’

  ‘I have fun.’

  ‘Yes. With Grant and Lard. Not with me. Your idea of fun is getting drunk and dancing on tables.’

  Leo looks at me, filled with indignation. ‘It is not.’

  ‘You’re so unreliable these days.’

  ‘I always have been.’

  ‘And I’ve always hoped you’d grow out of it.’

  Leo takes my hand. ‘I’m trying to, Emma. Really I am.’

  ‘You’re not,’ I insist. ‘You’re getting worse by the minute. And I’ve had enough. There’s no magic any more.’

  ‘Magic?’

  ‘Yes, Leo. Magic.’

  ‘Did there used to be?’ he asks tentatively.

  ‘Yes,’ I say softly. ‘Once upon a time.’

  ‘I could buy a top hat and a white rabbit.’ He shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘It’s suggestions like that which make me realise that you’re a lost cause.’

  ‘I might have the best of me hidden up my sleeve, ready to produce at an appropriate moment.’

  ‘You might,’ I sigh. ‘But I doubt it.’

  His lip droops sadly. ‘I wish I could give you magic, Emma. Really I do.’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s no good. It’s gone. We could never get it back now. The magic has gone, Leo. Gone.’

  ‘Gone.’

  The woman emerges from her cubicle, hurriedly washes her hands, eschews the free toiletries and scurries out like a frightened rabbit rather than a white one, giving us both as wide a berth as possible.

  ‘Nice meeting you,’ Leo shouts after her. I’m sure in her panic the woman doesn’t see my boyfriend’s friendly wave. Perhaps he is losing his charm. I do hope so. Leo arranges his face to look suitably penitent.

  ‘You never tell me that you love me,’ I say.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The L thing. I do. You know . . . L you.’ br />
  I sigh and rub my hands over my eyes. In the restaurant they’ll be bringing in the coffee and the mints. I look at Leo’s cup, the dregs inside going cold. ‘You can’t even bring yourself to say it.’

  ‘I’m a bloke. An English bloke. We’re appallingly bad at slushy stuff. Possibly the worst in the world. It’s genetic. If I were French it would be a very different story. I’d be all oui, oui, oui, ma chérie and je t’aime. Kissy. Kissy. But I can’t do that. Besides, you’d laugh at me if I tried to be romantic.’

  ‘I think you’d better go now,’ I tell him. ‘Before I hold your head down a toilet and flush it. Probably the one you were heartily sick in.’

  ‘Yes. You’re right. Jolly good idea. Fine idea.’ Leo stands up and retrieves his empty bottle of champagne. Still looking the worse for wear, he ambles towards the door. ‘I’ll give you a ring tomorrow. When you’re feeling better.’

  I stay where I am. Rooted to the spot. There’s no way Leo is going to sweet-talk me round this time. I’m thirty years old. I have the birthday cards to prove it – with one notable exception. It’s time I had a decent boyfriend. One who treats me properly. One who might even want to settle down and think about the future. One who, perish the thought, might even want to marry me. Can I ever imagine having children with Leo? Inwardly, I shudder. He’d be more badly behaved than any offspring we could produce. He’d be teaching them all how to do armpit farts before they could walk and putting vodka in their bedtime milk. My eyes follow Leo as he totters to the door and my heart contracts painfully. They’d be damn good-looking kids though. Is that enough to build a future on?