One of Julian’s self-portraits had hung for a brief period in the National Portrait Gallery, in an exhibition titled The London School of Lucian Freud. Monica clicked on the image to enlarge it, and there he was, the man she’d seen in her café yesterday morning, but all smoothed out, like a raisin turned back into a grape. Julian Jessop, about thirty years old, slicked-back blond hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, slightly sneering mouth, and those penetrating blue eyes. When he’d looked at her yesterday, it had felt like he was rummaging around in her soul. A little disconcerting when you’re trying to discuss the various merits of a blueberry muffin versus millionaire’s shortbread.
Monica checked her watch. 4:50 P.M.
“Benji, can you hold the shop for half an hour or so?” she asked her barista. Barely pausing to wait for his nod in response, she pulled on her coat. Monica scanned the tables as she walked through the café, pausing to pick up a large crumb of red velvet cake from table twelve. How had that been overlooked? As she walked out onto the Fulham Road, she flicked it toward a pigeon.
Monica rarely sat on the top deck of the bus. She prided herself on her adherence to Health and Safety regulations, and climbing the stairs of a moving vehicle seemed an unnecessary risk to take. But in this instance, she needed the vantage point.
Monica watched the blue dot on Google Maps move slowly along the Fulham Road toward Chelsea Studios. The bus stopped at Fulham Broadway, then carried on toward Stamford Bridge. The huge, modern mecca of the Chelsea Football Club loomed ahead and there, in its shadow and sandwiched improbably between the two separate entrances for the home and away fans, was a tiny, perfectly formed village of studio houses and cottages, behind an innocuous wall that Monica must have walked past hundreds of times.
Grateful for once for the slow-moving traffic, Monica tried to work out which of the houses was Julian’s. One stood slightly alone and looked a little worse for wear, rather like Julian himself. She’d bet the day’s takings, not something to do lightly given her economic circumstances, on that being the one.
Monica jumped off at the next stop and turned almost immediately left, into Brompton Cemetery. The light was low, casting long shadows, and there was an autumnal chill to the air. The cemetery was one of Monica’s favorite places—a timeless oasis of calm in the city. She loved the ornate gravestones—a last show of one-upmanship. I’ll see your marble slab with its fancy biblical quotation and raise you a life-size Jesus on the cross. She loved the stone angels, many now missing vital body parts, and the old-fashioned names on the Victorian gravestones—Ethel, Mildred, Alan. When did people stop being called Alan? Come to think of it, did anyone call their baby Monica anymore? Even back in 1981 her parents had been outliers in eschewing names like Emily, Sophie, and Olivia. Monica: a dying moniker. She could picture the credits on the cinema screen: The Last of the Monicas.
As she walked briskly past the graves of the fallen soldiers and the White Russian émigrés, she could sense the sheltering wildlife—the gray squirrels, urban foxes, and the jet-black ravens—guarding the graves like the souls of the dead.
Where was the Admiral? Monica headed toward the left, looking out for an old man clutching a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. She wasn’t, she realized, sure why. She didn’t want to speak to Julian, at least not yet. She suspected that approaching him directly would run the risk of embarrassing him. She didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot.
Monica headed toward the north end of the cemetery, pausing only briefly, as she always did, at the grave of Emmeline Pankhurst, to give a silent nod of thanks. She looped round at the top and was halfway back down the other side, walking along a less-used path, when she noticed a movement to her right. There, sitting (somewhat sacrilegiously) on an engraved marble tombstone, was Julian, glass in hand.
Monica walked on past, keeping her head down so as not to catch his eye. Then, as soon as he was gone, about ten minutes later, she doubled back so that she could read the words on the gravestone.
ADMIRAL ANGUS WHITEWATER
OF PONT STREET
DIED 5 JUNE 1963, AGED 74
RESPECTED LEADER, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER,
AND LOYAL FRIEND.
ALSO, BEATRICE WHITEWATER
DIED 7 AUGUST 1964, AGED 69
She bristled at the fact that the Admiral got several glowing adjectives after his name, whereas his wife just got a date and a space for eternity under her husband’s tombstone.
Monica stood for a while, enveloped in the silence of the cemetery, imagining a group of beautiful young people, with Beatles haircuts, miniskirts, and bell-bottom trousers, arguing and joking with one another, and suddenly felt rather alone.
THREE
Julian
Julian wore his solitude and loneliness like old, ill-fitting shoes. He was used to them—in many ways they had grown comfortable—but over time they were bending him out of shape, causing calluses and bunions that would never go away.
It was 10:00 A.M., so Julian was walking down the Fulham Road. For five years or so after Mary, he often didn’t get out of bed and day morphed seamlessly into night, the weeks losing their pattern. Then he’d discovered that routines were crucial. They created buoys he could cling to to keep himself afloat.
At the same time every morning, he went out and walked the local streets for an hour, picking up any supplies he needed on the way. His list today read:
Eggs
Milk (1 pint)
Butterscotch-flavored Angel Delight, if poss
He was finding Angel Delight more and more difficult to track down. And since today was a Saturday, he would buy a fashion magazine. This week was Vogue’s turn. His favorite.
Sometimes, if the newsagent wasn’t too busy, they would discuss the latest headlines, or the weather. On those days, Julian felt almost like a fully functioning member of society, one with acquaintances who knew his name and thought his opinions mattered. Once, he’d even booked an appointment at the dentist, just so he could pass the time of day with someone. After spending the whole appointment with his mouth open, unable to speak as Mr. Patel was doing goodness knows what with a selection of metal instruments and a tube that made a ghastly sucking noise, he realized this was not a clever tactic. He’d left with a lecture on gum hygiene ringing in his ears, and the resolution not to return for as long as possible. If he lost his teeth, so be it. He’d lost everything else.
Julian paused to look in through the window of Monica’s Café, which was already filled with customers. He’d walked this road for so many years that in his mind, he could picture the various reincarnations of this particular shop, like peeling back layers of old wallpaper when you’re redecorating a room. Back in the sixties it was the Eel and Pie Shop until eel fell out of favor and it became a record shop. In the eighties it was a video rental store and then, until a few years ago, a sweet shop. Eels, vinyl records, and VHS tapes—all consigned to the dustbin of history. Even sweets were now being demonized, blamed for the fact that children were getting larger and larger. Surely it wasn’t the fault of the sweets? It was the children to blame, or their mothers.