Free London Fields by Martin Amis Page A

glove. Her colour was high. She even hooked a thumb into the V of her black jacket and tugged. She's hung, too, he thought. The bitch. Remarkably, this final bonus began to have a dispiriting effect on Keith Talent. Because perfection would be no good to him. Rather wistfully, he imagined she might have a big scar somewhere, or another blemish that he, for one, might willingly overlook. Failing that, in her mental instability he would repose his hopes. The condition of her nails was some comfort to him. Cold comfort only, though. By Keith's standards, they weren't that bad. They were bitten; but they weren't bitten off. That left her accent, which was definitely foreign (Europe, thought Keith: somewhere in the middle), and they might do things funny where she came from. Well, there was no harm in trying, he decided, although there'd been a lot of harm in trying as hard as he had, once or twice in the past.
    She said, 'It's very muggy, don't you find?'
    ‘Torrid,' said Keith.
    'Goodness.'
    'As close as can be.' His smile was playfully abject as he pitched his voice low and thick and added, 'Anything you want, darling. Anything at all.'
    'Well as a matter of fact,' she said, in a tone so clear and ordinary that Keith found himself briefly standing to attention, 'there are one or two things that certainly need looking at. Like the vacuum cleaner. It's very good of you.'
    'What's your phone number, Nick,' said Keith sternly.
    She hesitated; then she seemed to give a sudden nod to herself. 'Have you got a pen?'
    'No need,' said Keith, re-emboldened. 'Got this head for figures.' And with that he let his mouth drop open, and rested a large tongue on the lower teeth as his bright eyes travelled downwards over her body.
    Her voice gave him the seven digits with a shiver.
    'Sweet,' said Keith.
    Thoughtfully Keith retraced his steps to the Black Cross. He had in mind a few drinks, to loosen the throwing arm; and then some serious darts. In the Portobello Road he encountered Guy Clinch, apparently browsing over a stall of stolen books. Keith never failed to be amazed that books fetched money. 'Yo,' he said, and paused for a few words. He considered. His circle of acquaintances was definitely expanding. It was through Guy, basically, that Keith had been introduced to Lady Barnaby. That's how it's done: the old-boy network . . . Keith had, of course, been friendly with people like Guy before: in prison. They were in for fraud, mostly, or drugs, or alimony default. White collar. They were okay (Guy was okay); they were human; they showed you respect, not wishing to get beaten up all day. But Guy wasn't in prison. He was in a huge house in Lansdowne Crescent. According to Keith, people like Guy admired and even envied the working man, such as himself. For some reason. Maybe because the working man lived that bit harder, in both work and play. When Guy now gamely asked him, 'Any luck?' – meaning Nicola – Keith waved him away, with a groan of hard-living laughter, saying he had too many birds on as it was.
    They parted. Keith's plans changed. He looked in at Mecca, his turf accountants, for an expensive few minutes, then hurried off to do some work.
    Keith used the heavy knocker. Slowly the door opened, and a pleading face blinked out at him. Filled, at first, with extreme caution, the pale blue eyes now seemed to rinse themselves in delight.
    'Why, Harry! Good afternoon to you.'
    'Afternoon, Lady B.,' said Keith, striding past her into the house.
    Lady Barnaby was seventy-seven. She wasn't one of Keith's birds. No way.
    In his bachelor days Keith had been a regular romeo. He had been a real ladykiller. In truth, he had been quite a one. Even Keith's dog Clive, in his dog heyday, had been no keener or less choosy or more incapable of letting a female scent go by without streaking after it with his nose on the ground and his tongue thrown over his shoulder like a scarf. Then came change, and responsibilities: Kath, his wife, and their baby