Edward Docx - The Calligrapher

I exited the shop and began feverishly to gather the better oranges.

Roy filled the doorway. ‘Having another one of our little lady-related emergencies, are we, Mr Jackson? Bit early in the week for that sort of thing isn’t it … Fond of oranges, is she?’

‘Roy, seriously: is it OK if I just take these? I really can’t hang around right now.’

‘Be my guest. A pleasure to see them going so fast.’ He chuckled.

‘Thanks. And I’ve got a couple of limes.’

‘I’ll make a note.’

Back up the road I hurtled, and across, and (fumbling for my keys at the big black front door) up, up, up I raced, back up the stairs and through my door, and up some more, and into the hall and straight to the kitchenette where I washed my hands and hastily, frantically, began slicing, squeezing, pouring until the job was done, lime and all, into a jug and into the freezer.

Off came my clothes, my work tunic over my head, my jeans shaken leg from leg as I tore into the bedroom. I threw myself into the shower. I scalded and froze and scalded and froze my shocked and flinching body. I leapt out. I towelled myself raw. I fetched out my trusty shorts, plunged into the arms of my freshly laundered, parchment-white, short-sleeved shirt and dashed back into the hall.

Freshly squeezed orange juice with just a little lime – the ideal refreshment and a pithy passport into my lady’s afternoon.

One more check. I sprinted back to the studio window.

She had gone!

Oh fuck !

No. Wait!

She had only moved. She had only moved! Now she was lying across the bench almost directly beneath me. My God. But for how much longer? I eyed the treacherous sky. A grey-hulled taskforce of destroyer clouds was moving in from the west.

This time I took the stairs like an Olympic pommel-horse specialist, vaulting around the banisters with a mighty swing at each turn, rucksack pressed against my shoulder. I banged out of the front door and – sandals slapping like demented seal flippers on the twelve stone stairs down to Bristol Gardens – set off, left, towards the entrance to the communal garden.

Which was locked.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Must the human condition be forever frustration and inarticulate wrath at the sheer injustice of it all?

For a long minute I stood, stalled on Formosa Street like a bewildered and long-travelled tourist blinking in the summer sun outside the Uffizi gallery – ‘Closed until next year for essential restoration work.’ Vast, white, twelve foot high, the unscalable double gate mocked me, the light glaring in the bright white gloss. There was nothing else for it. I would have to go all the way round to the other entrance at the opposite end of the garden. I turned the corner back the way I had come and rushed up the hill.

And so into paradise at last I came, outwardly serene, but with a heart now beating itself blue against the cage of my ribs. Along the path, through the trees, into the open, across the grass, between the chestnut boughs, just a little further, and there she was. There she was: Venus on a bench with pillow.

At fifty paces, I deliberately scrunched on the gravel path. She glanced up in my direction. I stepped on to the grass and crossed towards the middle of the lawn between us. A black cat licked a white paw.

Fresh fucking orange juice!

What oh what oh what was I thinking? What kind of an idiot brought a woman he did not know – had not met, had only seen, had only seen from a distance – unsolicited orange juice? What in the name of arse was I doing? There she was: an innocent woman, minding her own business, quietly happy, undesiring of any man’s attention, trying to read, trying to enjoy the sunshine, trying to live her life. And here was I … What had got into me? For God’s sake man, turn it around for a single moment and ask yourself what you would think if your afternoon was hijacked by some terrible penis appearing (as if from the most casual of nowheres) with a picnic flask of freshly squeezed orange juice and two – two – glasses in his rucksack? Come on Jackson: only imagine her later relating the episode to her friends – their faces practically maimed with uncontrollable laughter – imagine her telling the story of this hapless, hapless scrotum of a man. Orange juice. Could anything be worse? Could anything be less natural?

Disgusted and horribly afraid, my faculties were fleeing the scene like so many deserting conscripts. But my stolid legs were carrying me ever on.

At thirty paces, the fiasco downshifted and became a disaster: unbelievably, unceremoniously, she started to get up. First she swung around so that she was sitting normally on the bench, her exquisite knees almost touching, then she picked up the pillow and … simply stood up.

Twenty paces and I could only look on aghast. Suddenly she had started walking towards me. It was appalling – desperate – ruinous. The light turned grisly pale, pregnant with doom. She cut the corner across the grass. The distance decreased at double speed.

Me: ‘Finished with the bench?’

Her: ‘It’s all yours.’

Me: ‘Thanks.’

And then she was past and there was only the faint almond scent of her sun lotion, followed by the sound of her footsteps as she reached the gravel path behind me. Six steps, seven, eight. I made the bench. I sat down. I looked up. She had already disappeared.

The wood was still warm.

I am two fools, I know,

For loving, and for saying so

In whining poetry;

‘Finished with the bench?’

Finished with the bench?

Finished with the fucking bench ?

Of course she had finished with the bench, my dear Jasper, she had risen from it, removed her things and walked decisively away. Could there be any clearer evidence than this?

I told you it was bad. I told you I fell apart. I blame horoscopes. I blame faulty chakra. I blame my parents. I blame her. I blame the shock of her face up close. If she hadn’t looked … Oh Christ, I suppose I can no longer evade my descriptive duty. I’d better get it over with. Up close, she had the pure-skinned features of a perfume model but softer, more delicate and without the strident angles of someone employed to be striking in two dimensions. The day’s sun had left a faint redness across the bridge of her pretty nose and her fleeting smile, when it came, was all the more priceless for the slightest downturn at the corner of her mouth. Her lips – parted a fraction as we passed each other – were neither full nor thin but, I noticed, the lower had been lightly bitten. Her brow, like her hair, was fair. Her eyes were a captivating hazel – quick and self-possessed. Taken altogether, there was, I remember thinking, something in the lines of her face that mingled provocation with her ridiculous beauty.

And yes, I know: it depresses me too. But the point is that from that desperate moment – down there on the canvas with the head swim and the eye sting and the blood in my ears and the referee already at nine – I was always going to demand a come back fight.

First, I called William.

‘Well how many times have you seen her?’

‘Three,’ I replied. ‘The first time I was buggering about with oranges and so I sort of fucked up what I –’

‘You were what ?’

‘I … It’s not important. Then I saw her again yesterday, walking towards the Tube when I was coming home. And now – just now – she’s been out in the garden behind my flat for the last forty minutes. She started sunbathing but it’s clouded over and she’s gone back inside. That’s three times. Anyway, listen, can you come over tomorrow?’

‘I’m not sure. I half promised to take Nathalie to Goodwood and –’ The void of a lost voice.