Free London Fields by Martin Amis Page B

girl, little Kim. And now it was all different. These days Keith kept a leash on his restless nature, restricting himself to the kind of evanescent romance that might come the way of any modern young businessman on his travels (the wife or sister or daughter or mother of some cheat in the East End, perhaps, where Keith went to get the perfume), plus the occasional indiscretion rather closer to home (Iqbala, the single parent in the next flat along), plus the odd chance encounter made possible when fortune smiles on young lovers (closing time, pub toilet), plus three regular and longstanding girlfriends, Trish Shirt, Debbee Kensit, who was special, and Analiese Furnish. And that was it.
    Most interesting, in her way, most representative, most modern, was sinuous Analiese. Naughty, haughty, dreamy and unreliable, given to panic attacks, swoons, hysterical blindness, Analiese, in Keith's view, was mental. She read books and wrote poems. She sent letters to celebrities in all walks of life. She hung around outside TV studios, concert halls, the Institute of Contemporary Arts. In the letters she sent to people whose faces she had seen on the television and in the newspapers Analiese Furnish often enclosed a photograph; as a result, she often got replies. Not that these photographs were lewd or revealing or fleshy. Oh no. Snapped by one or other of her male protectors (abject, tongue-tied types, platonic attendants: she thought, absolutely wrongly and with characteristic lack of imagination, that they loved her for her mind), these photographs showed Analiese in pensive poses, gazing out of windows, or in sylvan settings, bending in her frock, perhaps, to relish the touch of a flower. Yet the replies came in, guarded, cajoling, exploratory. Why? What did the photographs say? The wideness of the eyes told of a heavy dream life; the brow was the brow of someone who could be lied to, and successfully; and the wide mouth and tropical henna of the hair suggested that when Analiese gave herself to you, she would give herself utterly, and probably wouldn't ring the house. In this last particular alone, appearances were deceptive. Analiese was deceptive, but not predictably. Also, she had a figure of full womanly power and beauty, except for her legs (which were fat and always hidden up to the last moment. These legs were the bane of her life). What you did with famous people just wasn't your fault. Different rules applied. You were swept away. And when it was over (and it was usually over quickly), well, you were wryly left with your albums and scrapbooks, your poems, your train-tickets, your memories, your dreams, your telephone calls to his wife and children, your letters to the editors of all the tabloids.
    Keith had met Analiese on the street. She came up to him and asked, in her husky and theatrical voice, if he was television's Rick Purist – Rick Purist, of TV quiz-show fame. Keith hesitated. So might some medieval hermit have hesitated when the supplicant poor staggered through the dripping forest to his hovel, and asked if he was the Emperor Frederick or Baldwin IX, Count of Flanders, risen from the dead and come to redeem them, to give succour, to free from sorrow. Well now, the hermit must have wondered in his rags: am I or aren't I? It might be fun for a while. On the other hand . . . Keith peered at Analiese's heaving chest, and trusted to instinct. He admitted it to be so: he was television's Rick Purist. Thus the opening, tone-setting phoneme of their relationship – his slurred 'yeah' – was an outright lie. He accepted an invitation to join her for tea in her West Hampstead bedsitter. Keith drank the sherry while she showed him her memorabilia of the great and talked about the primacy of the human soul. Twenty-five minutes later, as Keith leadenly climbed into his trousers and headed for the door, he glanced back at the sofabed in the confident hope that he would see Analiese no more. But one night, a month or two