The waiter took their order, moving soundlessly away, and Jonathan settled back into his chair. Almost unconsciously, he checked his watch and frowned.
‘Late?’ the stranger ventured.
Jonathan laughed stiffly. ‘Not yet. No, no. Not yet.’ He was aware of how henpecked he sounded. ‘You see, my wife’s pregnant. Again. Doesn’t like to be alone in the house at night,’ he lied.
‘Ah! Married life!’ The man smiled knowingly.
Jonathan felt the stiffness in his shoulders relax; he smiled too. ‘It should come with a warning, shouldn’t it? Like they put on packets of cigarettes: marriage kills!’ He felt instantly guilty. ‘Or at least, all the best bits die … the sex for starters!’ This time his laugh sounded hollow and forced.
The waiter returned and, armed with a fresh glass of Scotch, Jonathan rallied. ‘I mean, everyone has bad patches, right?’
The man was still.
‘It’s just, my wife has been pregnant for so long! One kid after another … It changes a girl. She’s not the same,’ he added, staring into his glass.
‘Yes, everything changes,’ the man agreed, gently.
It was a simple enough comment, but the man’s voice had a wistful quality. In his drunkenness, Jonathan imagined this stranger understood, with greater subtlety, a whole range of experience none of his other married friends would admit.
‘Thing is,’ Jonathan leant in closer, lowering his voice, ‘I don’t actually fancy her any more!’
There. At last, he’d said it out loud. To a complete stranger, but perhaps that was for the best. He felt a mixture of relief and panic. ‘I mean, I love her. Of course I love her …’
Did he?
Was it love or just habit that kept them together now? A sharp burning sensation filled his chest; the question was too painful even to contemplate.
‘Yes,’ the stranger tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. ‘You see, my view of marriage is that it’s an extremely delicate thing. Resilient, yes. But more like a finely made Swiss watch than, say, a huge, muddy piece of farm equipment. Sometimes, when it’s all come to a grinding halt, what’s really required is a little fine tuning rather than a large, clumsy repair job.’ As he spoke, the man re-crossed his legs. Jonathan was aware of the glossy black sheen of his handmade shoes and the way his dark navy silk socks matched the shade of his pinstripe suit perfectly. Elegant silver cufflinks flashed as he drew his elbows up, pressing the tips of his long fingers against one another. ‘From what you’ve said, it’s possible that both sides are feeling neglected, perhaps a little unappreciated. Does that sound like an accurate appraisal to you?’
He made it sound so light, so normal.
Jonathan nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘These situations can so easily get out of hand. Snowball, so to speak. But,’ he held his finger up promisingly, ‘if one of you were to make an effort, the whole thing could easily be reversed, don’t you think?’
Jonathan imagined a large snowball barrelling towards him, then suddenly swerving, heading in the opposite direction, growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared.
‘Perhaps …’
The man sensed his hesitation. ‘But when a dynamic has been allowed to grow unchecked for so long, one doesn’t always have the emotional resources to make the effort required,’ he concluded.
‘That’s right!’ Jonathan had never heard anyone describe his particular malaise so succinctly or accurately.
‘Yes, yes, of course!’ the man nodded. ‘I’ve seen it a thousand times!’
‘Have you?’ Jonathan leant forward.
‘Absolutely! Don’t despair. This whole difficult chapter of your marriage can be behind you in a week,’ the man assured him breezily. ‘In place of a distant, sullen wife who’s given up on herself, you can have a delightful, confident creature – without the time, expense or distress of resorting to long-drawn-out discussions where intimate details are dragged out in front of third parties.’
‘Really? But what’s to be done?’
The man took something out of his breast pocket; a thin silver card holder. And moving with no particular speed or urgency, he removed a card and handed it to Jonathan. ‘I might be able to help you.’
The card read:
Valentine Charles.
Procurer of Rare Domestic Services.
Satisfaction Absolutely Guaranteed.
Two days after the advertisement appeared in the Stage, 111 Half Moon Street was inundated with responses and the postman had to ring the bell because all the thick envelopes wouldn’t fit through the letter box.
Valentine Charles couldn’t quite decide if he enjoyed this bit of the proceedings; it was time consuming and exhausting sifting through all the letters, but also thrilling when one happened upon that rare gem. This morning, the deluge had been particularly heavy and as he sat there, in his cashmere dressing gown, with his morning coffee, he looked upon the pile with satisfaction. In there, somewhere, was a budding new apprentice and an answer to the staff difficulties that had plagued him for the past months.
He considered diving straight in but then dismissed the idea. He was a creature of habit and married to the inflexible, set routine of his daily life. One of the pleasures of living by yourself is the privilege of being able to practise, day after day, in whatever order you wish, the rituals that define your tastes and aspirations without any threat of disruption. And at fifty-eight, Valentine was deeply grateful for his solitude.
He had loved, a few times briefly but only once seriously. The love wasn’t returned and so he made peace with all the aspects of single life that many people find so abhorrent. Now he valued them above all else. Over time he’d mutated from a lonely, watchful person into a completely self-sufficient one, treating himself with the same affection a lover would. The older he was the more he realized that few people were given the time and means to be as completely indulged as he was. He hadn’t had to accommodate another human being on any matter of significance for years. He was entirely, unapologetically selfish and grateful for the opportunity to be so. Now, when he thought of the woman who broke his heart (which was rare), he viewed it as a narrow escape.
No, he’d finish his coffee, glance at the crossword, then have his bath. And while he was dressing, his assistant, Flick, would arrive.
Flick had been sent from an agency twelve years ago. She’d turned up, a rather dour middle-aged Irish woman in a beige Marks and Spencer twinset, shortly after her husband died. Her full name was Mary Margaret Flickering, but Valentine had christened her Flick early on. At first she was horrified. But gradually, Mary Margaret Flickering began to fade and Flick took hold. The beige twinset disappeared; her actions became sharper, her tone confident and Valentine learnt the power of re-framing someone. Flick was more daring and resilient than Mary Margaret Flickering had ever been. And she was funnier too. Now she was invaluable to him.
Half Moon Street wasn’t a traditional office. It was an old-fashioned bachelor pad. It had last been refurbished in the late fifties and still had some of the plumbing features from the thirties that are so popular now. There was a large reception room, a tiny office, a single bedroom and the kind of kitchen only a man would find adequate. It was furnished like a set from Brideshead Revisited; a look of luxurious, old moneyed antiques shoved into students’ quarters.