Jane Gordon - My Fair Man

He was looking round the huge flat as if taking an inventory of her and her life. And if her range of teas, coffees and confitures had invoked in him some kind of culture shock her home was even more incomprehensible to him.

‘Where’s your telly?’ he said.

‘It slides away into the wall,’ she said, moving across to the living area to demonstrate.

‘Why d’ya wanna do that?’ he said incredulously.

‘Because, Jimmy, the person who designed this place suggested it. It’s funny really but televisions – in the circles I mix in – are something rather shameful. We hide them away in the way that other people might hide things that they think might betray basic instincts in them that they would not like others to see – like pornography or Jeffrey Archer novels …’

‘What?’ he said, his face creased up with confusion.

‘I like bare space,’ she said, suddenly thinking how very pretentious the term ‘minimalist’ was.

‘I like places to be a bit more cosy, like,’ he said. ‘No offence, mind.’

Gradually she began to talk to Jimmy in rather the way that Toby spoke to their Bosnian cleaning lady: very slowly, choosing her words carefully so as not to baffle or confuse him. It wasn’t that she thought that he was stupid, just that he came from such a different world to hers that it really was as if there were some international barrier between them.

‘Can I watch it, like?’ he said, indicating the television.

‘Of course. I’m going to get dressed and then we can talk some more.’ Hattie handed him the remote control.

In the bathroom she rang Claire, who sounded a little grumpy, and insisted that she get herself over as soon as she could. When she emerged, bathed and dressed, she found Toby making himself some coffee in the kitchen. His mood, she instantly surmised, was no better for a good sleep, and she had to suppress a smile.

‘He’s still here then?’ He nodded his head towards the figure of Jimmy who was flicking from channel to channel on the remote control, a fag burning in his other hand.

‘Yes, and so are you,’ Hattie said sharply.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he replied.

‘Oh Toby, I haven’t the energy for another row. Claire is on her way over to help me with Jimmy. If we get our way he’ll be staying here for a while.’

‘You aren’t seriously saying you’re taking Jon up on his bet?’

‘Ssh, the boy doesn’t know about the bet. He thinks that he’s helping me with some research paper I’m writing,’ she hissed.

‘But does he have to stay here? Does he have to take up residence with us? Christ, Hattie, he’s smoking in there!’ A look of disgust and horror passed across Toby’s already disgruntled face.

They were saved from further argument by the doorbell and the arrival of Claire, now in high spirits.

‘Well, where is he, darling?’ she shouted as she came through the doorway.

‘Ssh,’ said Hattie. ‘He’s watching television.’

Jimmy had given his channel hopping a kind of rap rhythm. With split-second timing he wove between terrestrial and cable programmes, oblivious of the two women who stood watching him or the irritation he was causing Toby, who was clearing up in the kitchen, washing up last night’s glasses that would, he always claimed, be ruined in the dishwasher.

‘Hadn’t we better clean him up first?’ said Claire, her enthusiasm dimmed by her first glimpse of Jimmy in daylight.

‘I didn’t know quite how to raise the subject,’ said Hattie in a whisper. ‘I didn’t want to offend him.’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Claire, walking across to Jimmy and grabbing the remote control from his hand.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect you remember but I was here when you arrived last night. I’m Claire. I bet you would like a nice hot bath, and a shave. I’ll go through and run one for you.’

Jimmy’s eyes lit up. ‘I divvant know if she had one, like. What with the telly in the wall and all. I had to pittle in the sink this morning …’

‘Pittle?’ said Claire in a bemused tone.

‘Eeee, you know – pittle, piss …’

At this Toby, who had been rinsing the last of the glasses, threw in the mop. ‘Christ, I can’t take any more of this,’ he said, looking distastefully into the murky waters of the kitchen sink. ‘I’m going out.’

Hattie was enormously relieved to see him go and smiled encouragingly at Jimmy whilst making a mental note to rewash the glasses that were standing on the stainless-steel rack in the kitchen.

Claire was organising things in the bathroom, pulling from the concealed cupboards an assortment of pungent bath oils, soaps, shaving foams and razors for Jimmy.

‘Don’t forget to clean behind your ears,’ she said, glancing with disgust at his matted hair as he walked in, his face wide with wonderment at Hattie’s bathroom.

‘Eee, man …’ he said as he looked around him.

‘The towels are in the cupboard by the loo,’ said Hattie in a maternal fashion as they closed the door on him.

The two of them stood cautiously outside as Jimmy wrestled with the power shower that pounded down into the sandstone bath.

After what seemed like an age, but was probably closer to half an hour, the door opened and from the steamy interior Jimmy finally emerged with a waffle towel wrapped round his waist.

There was about him, the two women suddenly realised, an extraordinary beauty. There were, of course, physical indications of the life he led. A series of tattoos covered various regions of his body – girls’ names entwined in hearts on both arms, a dagger in the centre of his chest and, across his back, a prowling tiger. And there were a number of vivid scars and bruises gained, Hattie guessed, during his time on the streets.

Hattie had noticed his eyes right from the start but the rest of his features had been obscured beneath grime and facial hair. With his dreadlocks shampooed and slicked back from his brow, and his chin clean-shaven it was as if one man had gone into the power shower and another had come out.

‘My God,’ whispered Claire breathlessly, her interest suddenly and dramatically aroused.

And if the beauty and sensitivity of his face was a surprise, exposed at last beneath the dirt and hair, his body was, well, a revelation.

Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that now he was holding himself upright – rather than crouching down as he had been when they had first seen him – and was no longer swaddled in the thick layers of filthy clothes that now lay, in a horrid heap, on the bathroom floor, destined only for the rubbish bin.

Hattie and Claire looked as blankly at him as he had looked at them when they had first disturbed him in his own mean quarters on the streets. As if it were now they who were inferior creatures, not him.

The silence was broken by a long laugh from Claire.

‘Hattie, do you remember what you said that night with Jon? You said that you believed that all men were born equal. Well, you were wrong and Jon was right. Some men are born more equal than others. But not Jon or Toby …’

Jimmy suddenly became self-conscious and crouched down again to reclaim his old clothes.

‘Oh, don’t put those back on,’ said Claire. ‘You can wear something of Toby’s, can’t he, Hattie?’

Hattie went upstairs and retrieved a white Paul Smith T-shirt, some Calvin Klein Y-fronts and a pair of Toby’s button-fly jeans, and handed them to Jimmy, who moved back into the bathroom to get dressed.

‘I really don’t think our task is going to be too difficult,’ said Claire confidently when Jimmy was out of earshot. ‘I mean, what was it the bet said: “make him a man of worth”? I think that most women would count him that after a simple bath. Just as long as he didn’t open his mouth to reveal those teeth.’