Almost Perfect

BREN IS VERY PRECISE
It had been a long, long night, thought Ianto, but he had one thing more to do.
He was walking down St Mary Street. It was raining, but Cardiff was in full party mood. Tight hunting packs of single men, pumped arms and white shirts, strode past. Little groups of women stood queuing sulkily outside clubs. Everywhere were bouncers, flyer girls, and police just, you know, waiting.
And it was freezing. Last time he was out on the lash he’d been wearing a duffle coat. Now all he had to keep the elements at bay was a mini-skirt, a pair of tights and a light denim jacket. The rain was slicing through him. He was dying with each step.
Around him were girls wearing less and laughing more.
A gust of icy breeze lifted his skirt, and he heard some men across the street make a ‘Woooooo!’ noise. He glanced across at them, and they barked back.
Ianto cursed under his breath and carried on walking. ‘Lovely night for a spot of MurderRape.’ He got stopped briefly by an enormous queue outside a club. He stood there for a bit, trying not to jostle, sensing the ogling glances of the men, and the strange, jealous glares of the women.
A meaty hand landed on his arm. ‘Aw, not going home already, luv, are we?’ A boy’s voice, rough and slurred, sweet with beer, too close to his ear.
Ianto nodded. ‘I’ve got a boyfriend, sorry,’ he said quickly, and carried on walking.
All around him was noise and screaming, and empty glass bottles and rain, and the greasy smell of kebabs and piss. By the time he found the chip shop he was looking for, he was fed up and dripping, and he pushed gratefully inside, past a sign advertising curry with half and half. The shop stank of salt and vinegar and comfort. He shivered and made his way through the quiet crowd to the counter.
The shop was busy, as ever, the windows fogged up – couples sharing chips and sauce on the tiny lean-to formica counters, tight huddles of lads arguing over their orders, quiet groups of drunk girls, nudging and waiting and texting and stabbing at their chips with dainty mini-forks. And just one tiny little old lady behind the counter doing everything. Bren was a Cardiff institution, and a personal hero of Ianto’s – she was more organised and placid than he was. He just saved the world on a regular basis – but she kept order in St Mary Street on a party night. To the best of his knowledge, no one had ever had it large in Brenda’s.
She barely peered at him through her enormous fishbowl spectacles, waiting patiently for his order.
‘Aw, hello, Bren,’ said Ianto, cheered to see a familiar face, ‘How are you?’
She fixed him with a sudden razor gaze. ‘I don’t know you, dear,’ she said, quite certain of it.
‘No, sorry,’ said Ianto, slightly crestfallen. ‘I’m actually looking for Patrick.’
Bren held his gaze ever so firmly. ‘He’s out the back, luv, doing the batter.’ She leant back and raised her voice delicately. ‘Lady for you, Pat.’ And then Ianto was swept aside in favour of Vimto and a saveloy.
Patrick emerged, puzzled and then blinking happily. For a dead man he was in great health. He was tall and broad, with a grinning rugby-build that showed no signs of going to seed. He was wearing an old T-shirt, a little chef’s hat and an apron covered in flour. ‘It’s you – funny name girl. Er, Ianto, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Still checking up on me? Come through.’
He lifted the heavy formica counter, and Ianto stepped through into another world, past Tupperware, a smell of hot oil and jars of pickled eggs, and a slowly spinning kebab.
‘Sorry if I don’t shake your hand, but I’m breading fish,’ Patrick explained, moving to a table and working quickly. ‘What brings you here? Girls’ night out?’
Ianto looked baffled and then remembered. ‘Oh, no. No. Well, a bit, but just a quiet drink with friends. Tombola’s,’ he put in quietly as an extra detail. No reaction. ‘Although we nearly went to Abalone’s.’
Patrick smirked at that and carried on quietly, expertly mixing up a batch of batter. ‘Abalone’s, eh? What would you think if I took you on a date there?’ His smile was sly.
Oh. Oh god, he fancies me. Ianto thought of something smart to say or do, and instead gave a little snorty giggle. With horror, he noticed a tiny fleck of snot land in the batter, but realised that Patrick was looking away. ‘Er… well… er…’
Patrick met his gaze and smiled. ‘Look, I’ll be truthful. You’re a pretty girl. And I was supposed to be going speed-dating there. They do a deal when you sign up – you book a table in advance for the Saturday night at a discount. So if I met someone nice, I could take them there.’
‘I see,’ said Ianto, not seeing at all. ‘And?’
‘Well,’ said Patrick. ‘I just wondered – is it a naff place to take a date?’
‘Oh,’ said Ianto, distracted into considering it seriously. ‘Well, it depends. Now me, I love a salad bar. Especially one with a sneeze guard.’
‘So that’s a yes?’ asked Patrick, washing his hands in the sink. He was smiling with a natural confidence that Ianto had never really had.
‘What?’
‘God, why do the pretty ones always make a meal out of it? Look, gorgeous, I’m saying screw the speed-dating. Why don’t I just take you to Abalone’s, sneeze guard and all?’
Oh dear. He’s asking me out on a date. Right. What? But… What do I do about this? If I go, perhaps I’ll save his life. Or break the space-time continuum. Or end up pregnant. That’s a whole new risk. What would Jack do? Ianto thought hard. And realised that Jack would barely have glanced at Patrick’s wicked grin and blue eyes before having him up against the gherkins.
I need a better role model, thought Ianto glumly.
‘OK,’ said Ianto, slowly. ‘Firstly, why are you asking me out, please?’
Patrick wiped his big hands down on his apron. ‘Oh come on, Ianto. When you walked in here it wasn’t to watch me batter a sausage.’ He laid a hand on Ianto’s shoulder and drew close. ‘Or was it…?’
‘Well,’ began Ianto, ‘actually, it was to save your life.’
Patrick took it as a joke and leaned in closer. He was wearing quite a nice scent, Ianto decided. ‘Really? You’re my saviour, are you?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ianto, suddenly noticing how warm a fish and chip shop was. ‘Uh, yes. Seriously. I didn’t knock on your door by accident today. I was looking out for you.’
‘My guardian angel?’
‘Sort of,’ said Ianto. ‘I’m slightly psychic, see, and I saw you out the other night, and I had a premonition.’ He rolled the last word like a preacher.
Patrick laughed heartily, and clapped his giant hands on Ianto’s shoulders, drawing him into a big, easy hug. ‘Oh you are precious and funny.’
He pecked the side of Ianto’s cheek and then drew back. ‘So, gorgeous, you want to be around me and watch over me? Is that it?’ He grinned a big grin and then kissed Ianto again, this time on the lips. Ianto discovered two entirely new things about being a woman.
Patrick leaned back, and smiled at Ianto. ‘OK then. If I survive till the end of the week, we’ll go to Abalone’s. How about that, angel?’
Ianto was quite distracted for a second, but eventually replied. ‘Yes. Right then. So long as I’m just saving your life. If that’s all right?’
Patrick laughed. ‘It’s quite all right. You know, you aren’t like the other WAGs we get in here. You’re very shy. It’s rather sweet.’
He was about to kiss Ianto again, but they were interrupted by Bren bustling loudly down the corridor. ‘Pat, luv, there are customers who need to tuck into a good mutton pie. I can’t have you out here all night handling the fish.’ Bren gave Ianto the briefest of glances.
‘Yes, Nan,’ said Patrick, cowed just a bit, but also smirking. ‘Come on,’ he said to Ianto, leading him back to the counter and holding it up like a wedding arch. ‘See you Saturday, unless you feel the sudden need to save my life first.’
His hand brushed against Ianto’s skirt and then he went over to heat up some pies, giving Ianto an enormous wink.
Ianto watched Patrick’s back as he worked and realised that, for the first time, he was actually enjoying being a woman. Suddenly hungry, he turned to Bren. ‘Can I have some chips after all?’
Without looking up Bren got to work. ‘Small chips, is it?’ she said. ‘1.20 thanks, love.’
As Ianto walked out, he was oblivious to the two flour handprints over the back of his skirt.
Back out in the rain, he took three steps, trying to eat the chips and shield them from the weather. Steam rose from them, wafting around in the downpour. They didn’t taste of much, other than hot, but somehow they comforted him. A crowd of blokes edged past, their eyes all over him. Someone grabbed his arse, and he flinched and forced himself to move on. If only you bloody knew, he thought.
Later, he’d ask Gwen how she coped with an evening of constant ogling. She’d grin and say, ‘Well, most of the time, I was all padded up in my lovely copper’s outfit. That tends to soften the curves a bit. You still get a bit of chat, mind, but it’s all “awright luv?” banter. Honestly, if I’m lucky, someone’ll tell me that they’ll come quietly. You know. Clever. But not so bad.’
Yeah, Ianto would say, but what about when she was out… properly? And Gwen would shrug and grin. ‘I gave as good as I got.’ And Ianto didn’t doubt it for a second.
But for the moment there was just the chips and the rain. Ianto pressed on, past the bright lights of the last shop open selling cigarettes in Cardiff. One foot in front of the other.
These bloody, bloody shoes. I am never doing this again. And definitely never sober.
The chips were cold and damp. The rain was in everything.
I am completely soaked and sodden. I will never be warm and dry. I absolutely hate being a woman.
Ianto saw something in the street ahead, a figure standing in the shadows by the scaffolding. Something really quite—
Oh is that a cab?
Ianto rushed towards the flickering amber light sluicing down the road. He knew that around him a mini-stampede of drunk boys and desperate girls were all lurching towards the cab. But Ianto knew that he needed it more than anyone else. Screw the shoes, he was going to get it.
He got his hand on the door and was met by the baleful, seen-it-all gaze of the cabbie. ‘You going to be sick?’ asked the voice.
‘Stone-cold sober,’ promised Ianto. The door clicked open and he climbed gratefully in.
‘There’s a charge for sick, you know. And I hate having to scrub the back out. Why they can’t do it in a bag, I dunno. Bloody animals.’
And the cab puttered away, taking Ianto home through the storm. He sat there, hands scrunched round his bag of damp chips, thinking back to what he’d seen on the street just before he’d noticed the cab, with all its amber promise of home and central heating and towels. Because, as he’d been waving his hands at the cab, there’d been a man standing just ahead of him in the street. The man had been standing in the shadows of some scaffolding by the market. He’d just been standing there, looking at Ianto. It hadn’t been a look of lust, desire or even disgust. The look had been one of shock, or fear. Like he’d seen a ghost.
Ianto unwrapped the dead bag of chips and stared at them. Am I a ghost?
Standing there in the rain, watching the taxi drive off, Ross Kielty couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.
Everyone in Cardiff slept badly that night.




GWEN IS AWAKE FIRST
Gwen lay in bed, killing time before the alarm by staring at the back of Rhys’s head.
‘I know what you’re doing, you know,’ mumbled Rhys without moving. ‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’ Gwen was all innocence.
‘You are staring at the back of my head. I can tell.’
‘How?’
‘Burning sensation. Will you be happy if I get a bald spot? I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, no worries about that. Fine head of hair. Few bits of grey, though. Quite a few.’
‘No way. We Williamses don’t go grey.’
‘Awwww, Rhys. It’s fine – get used to going grey. There’s no harm in a bit of grey. It’s… distinguished.’
‘I. Am. Not. Grey.’
‘Of course you’re not, love. Now, hurry up and storm off and make us some tea.’
‘Not until you admit that I’ve not got grey hair.’
There was a click, and then Gwen leaned over him holding up her camera phone jubilantly.
‘Yes. I think it’s called salt-and-pepper. See?’
‘That’s just bad light.’
Rhys pulled the covers over his head.
‘Just go and make the tea.’




IANTO IS STAYING IN BED
Ianto Jones had a difficult second day as a woman. It started with waking up from dreams of dark, cold water and then with a shock, as though he’d fallen, spread out in his bed. And he’d forgotten, for the first few seconds, stretching out to touch the radio alarm, seeing his long, slender arm – seeing it but not noticing it.
And then he’d remembered.
Normally, Ianto Jones would wake up, swing his legs out of the bed, slope off for a pee and a shower and be out of the flat in twenty minutes. He’d have laid out his suit and shirt the night before, his lunch waiting in a Tupperware box in the fridge. It was order and a system, and he was proud of it.
But that was the old Ianto Jones. The new Ianto Jones sat in bed, wrapped in a duvet, listening to the radio babble away, staring out of the window. He didn’t even have much of a view, but he didn’t really know what else to do. He just watched the barren tops of three trees sway about in the wind like empty flagpoles.
Nearly an hour passed by. He went and stood in the shower, staring at the mirror as it steamed up and hid his new body from view. And he stood there feeling invisible and warm and hidden until he felt guilty about using that much hot water. And then he got out of the shower and dried quickly before the mirror cleared. Then he crawled back into the warmth of the duvet.
He heard the click of the door, and ignored it. He knew it was Jack standing there in his bedroom doorway, looking at him.
Neither of them spoke for a bit. Then Ianto managed, ‘I never gave you a key.’
‘And I never really needed one, but the gesture would have been nice.’
‘Ah well.’ Ianto heard Jack move across the room and felt him settle on the bed next to him.
‘Well, here am I,’ said Jack, ‘in the bedroom of a beautiful, naked Torchwood operative. Anything could happen.’
‘You realise the only word I heard was “beautiful”?’
‘I realise. I’m checking that you’re OK.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I dunno.’ Jack nodded. ‘You never even considered getting somewhere in Grangetown with a view?’
‘There are no views in Grangetown.’
‘Good point.’ Jack leaned in and wrapped a big arm around the duvet and Ianto, drawing them both in. Ianto let himself be folded up, marvelling at how much wet hair he had.
‘I miss you, you know,’ said Jack. Ianto laughed. ‘I miss me.’
‘But you’re still in there.’
‘Am I? It feels less and less like me. This body just gets more and more perfect. I can almost sense it – it hates me. I don’t belong inside it. I’m the wrong soul in the driving seat.’ He looked across at Jack.
‘If the real owner is somewhere out there in your body, she’s not shown up. Nothing.’
‘It’s at times like this,’ sighed Ianto, ‘we need Tosh.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Jack.
‘Apart from the whole science bit, she had some great jackets.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Jack. He stood up and reached out his hand. Ianto took it. ‘Come on, Miss Jones. Let’s put on some clothes and face the day.’





EMMA WEBSTER IS PLOTTING
REVENGE
It was on Tuesday that Vile Kate finally noticed the change in Emma. It had taken her a day longer than everyone else.
Kate had been in one of Her Meetings. These went on for a long time, were supposedly very difficult, and she pretended she found them A Terrible Chore, while at the same time dropping simpering hints about how Vital she was to the organisation, and how close she was to all the powerful people. When Kate walked in, she was talking to Arwel, the new researcher. ‘Honestly, she put down her Blackberry and gave me a big hug and told me how nice this perfume was. Do you like it? It’s very similar to something Posh wears.’
And then Kate looked at Emma. And noticed her. New, slim, gorgeous, perfect Emma. And her mouth formed a lovely little ‘oh’ and a frown. And for a glorious instant she looked like a sex doll. Emma grinned. Kate snapped on a warm smile. ‘Oh, Emma lovely, look at you! It’s so nice to see you making an effort in the office!’ She turned around to her colleagues with a fond look that said ‘See, everyone, what she can do when she tries!’ and settled down to work.
To Emma’s horror, everyone nodded at that.
I can give her cancer.
What?
I can give her cancer. Incurable, slow, painful cancer that burns away more steadily than your hate.
Emma’s head flooded with a sudden, delicious view of Vile Kate, sat at her desk, weeping and clutching clumps of hair that had fallen out.
No.
Really? Too much? Not even for a couple of weeks? How about a bit of a scare? Go on, the tiniest non-malignant lump. But, you know, worrying enough that they’ll chop off her boobs. Go on…
Emma shut her eyes and felt dizzy. She breathed in deeply and then out. And felt the red mist gently float away.
No. I hate her. But I don’t really know her. I don’t want to… maybe later. Is there anything small you can do?
Well, she’s had work done. Those boobs aren’t real, and her lips have had a bit of plumping. I can soon sort that out.
Really? Oh that’s brilliant.
And… I can make her fat.
Emma giggled, remembering all the little comments about struggling to bring up bebbies and maintain her figure.
Do it.
Nice one! I think you’ll love the results. And then some day you can dance on her grave while her fat children watch.
Emma smiled warmly and truly. A few minutes later some of the girls asked if she wanted to join them for lunch for the first time in ages. ‘You look really… confident,’ said one. And Emma beamed.
‘So how are you?’ asked Sharon. ‘We’re all dead impressed with your makeover. How are you feeling?’
Emma watched Kate walking over to the salad bar, laughing with one of the Divisional Sales Managers while ostentatiously picking out a few green leaves. ‘Perfect,’ she said.




IANTO TRIES BEIGE
Gwen walked along the wharf, trying to ignore how cold and wet it was. There are mornings when Cardiff Bay looks like Venice Beach, and there are mornings when it looks like Norway. Today was not one of the better ones, and sheets of rain lashed across the decking outside Torchwood. Gwen had already dropped her keys as she locked up the car and, added to that, a mild hangover refused to be ignored. Last night had been a late one, but she’d finally made it to Darren and Sian’s before Rhys drank all the wine. It was surprisingly fun, and the rat almost cute, even though she’d insisted Rhys wash his hands the moment they’d got home. Gawd, when had she drunk so much wine? She tried to clear her head. It felt like she hadn’t slept at all. The weekend seemed a long way away.
She let herself into the Tourist Information entrance to Torchwood and shivered. Despite living in Cardiff for years, Gwen had never bought an umbrella. It always struck her as giving in. Anyway, she hadn’t been allowed them on long nights on police duty, and it seemed silly to get her own when Rhys had a ridiculous golfing one with a daft corporate logo.
It was an odd day. Ianto was late for work. When he finally arrived, he seemed fine, bustling around, very much his old self. But every now and then, Gwen thought she caught a look of utter misery on his face. Plus, he was wearing a really inadvisable beige trouser suit.
‘I’ve been shopping on the way in,’ he explained. ‘Everything so far has been Lisa’s. But I figured it’s a bit… you know…’
‘Creepy?’ Gwen was quietly appalled.
Ianto nodded. ‘Yeah. Dead girlfriend’s clothes. I know. But I still had some of her stuff, and I figured… well, she’s the woman I know the most, really. Well, that’s not true. There’s also my mother. But, firstly, it’s just wrong, and secondly, floral print.’ He put on a brave smile, showing off perfect teeth. ‘Anyway, I spotted this on the way in. It feels a bit more… me.’
Gwen nodded, kindly. ‘Yes. Very nice.’
Jack wandered past. ‘Ianto. Beige. No.’ He vanished into his office.
Ianto sighed. ‘Were you being polite?’
‘No, no. No. Well. A little,’ she admitted.
‘OK. It’s so hard being… you know… A woman. I thought I was doing OK, but the shopping is just…’
‘Hard?’
‘Yes. And expensive. Jack really doesn’t give you a clothing allowance?’
‘No.’
‘Right. And I can’t take this back – I’ve already got Weevil blood on the cuff, and that’s a stain that never lifts.’ He gave her a look, and suddenly Gwen saw the old Ianto shining out of this new body – all Valleys Boy mildly confused by the world.
‘We’ll go shopping. Promise. Or get Jack to take you.’
‘Um.’
‘Is everything… OK… between the two of you?’ Gwen asked.
‘Not really. He’s fine… you know. But at the same time, I think he still worries that I might not be Ianto. And I can’t talk to anyone else about it. Not my friends, not my family. How do I explain? I’ve told my neighbours I’m flat-sitting while I’m… he’s on holiday. If you get what I mean. But they’re not going to believe that for ever. It’s all so bloody… and I can’t talk to anyone. You’re… Gwen… you’re it.’
Christ, Ianto’s unspooling, thought Gwen. Poor lamb.
‘Come on, Ianto. Jack will get you your old body back. Don’t give up. Any luck with the memory pill?’
Ianto shook his head, his long, beautiful hair following lazily, like it was in a shampoo commercial. ‘No, not really. I can suddenly quote all of Under Milk Wood and vividly recall having my wisdom teeth out. But nothing useful.’
‘Never mind. Tomorrow we’re bunking off. You’ll love shopping.’
‘Thank you, Gwen.’
Don’t mention it, thought Gwen, feeling a lot better.
Ianto had combed through Patrick’s Facebook profile and failed to come up with any coherent theories on who might want to kill him, or any brushes he might have had with alien technology. He and Gwen had been delighted to find a picture of Patrick running across a beach in speedos, but that was about it.
Jack was kept fairly busy dealing with reports of atmospheric disturbances around the city. Apparently static electricity was up by a quarter now, which Jack seemed to find curiously amusing.
Gwen was occupied assuring a rather weasel-like Assembly liaison that the Rift honestly had had nothing to do with the ferry crash in the Bay. It was one of those things – slightly mysterious, which meant that Torchwood had to be all over it. But she couldn’t quite work out what to do really, other than interview the survivors, who all seemed a bit dazed and not very communicative. But then, most of them had either hypothermia or concussion so it wasn’t really that surprising. As far as she could tell, the ferry had started taking on water just outside the Bay, listed alarmingly, but had made it into dock. Even Jack’s theory of a mine seemed off – Gwen had examined the hull, and couldn’t find any evidence of an explosion. So: more talking to gruff Norwegians and dazed people who’d been on a hen night.




EMMA WEBSTER IS HAVING IT
MEDIUM
Emma Webster logged off from her computer and got ready to go home. She was glowing but exhausted. Who knew being this beautiful would be so tiring? She acknowledged a couple of friendly nods from the boy totty in sales as they left for the day. Tiring, yes, but worth it.
The last couple of days had been a whirlwind. Previously, her life had been mostly about a comfortably poky one-bedroom flat behind a Chinese takeaway and far too many amusing photos of cats from the internet. Now, all of a sudden, she was gorgeous, vivacious and men couldn’t get enough of her. But not tonight. Tonight she just wanted a break.
What’s that, girlfriend?
‘You know,’ she said quietly. ‘Just a nice evening in. Watching some Friends and Scrubs and so on. Bottle or two of plonk, pack of ten and some Müller Rice. You know. Me time.’
Me time?
‘Yeah, yesterday was quite a day, really. I dunno what to think.’
I’ll tell you what to think, babe – get your arse out there and work it. There are drinks to be drunk, hunks to be had. Forget watching George Clooney – you could have George Clooney. Go out there and get him. I know I would.
‘But, you know, I don’t really… you know… I just fancied a bit of…’
I’ll tell you a little secret, babydoll. I NEVER get bored. I don’t like being bored. Being bored makes you boring. You want to know why you ended up alone? You made yourself. Get out there. Catch the eyes of a few tall, dark handsomes. You Know The Drill.
‘But, I…’ Emma saw her quiet night in vanishing.
That’s better girl. You just listen to Cheryl. We’re going to see you have a portion, all right. Tonight, my doll, we’re going to paint the town red and have it large. Yeaaaaaah.
‘Oh, all right then,’ Emma thought to herself. ‘Maybe just a quick one.’
Four hours later, Emma had sex in a car.




JACK IS PUZZLED
Cardiff didn’t make sense. Jack always worried when that happened. Mysterious energy cloud, corpses, that ferry. Ianto.
He wandered down into Owen’s area, and picked up one of the scans they’d done of Ianto. Everything seemed fine. Well, more than fine. He just didn’t get it. He was stumped.
Then he noticed his reflection in the mirror, and blinked with surprise. He had spots.




EMMA WEBSTER IS ON A DATE
She just met him in a bar. He honestly walked up to her, all shy. This had never happened to Emma before, and she just stared at him, like a fish without anything interesting to say. Luckily, he didn’t care.
‘Hi, my name is Joe.’ He grinned bashfully and paused. He was wearing a crumpled suit jacket, under which a striped Dennis the Menace jumper sagged. He was young and looked in need of ironing. He held out his hand, and Emma, slightly charmed, shook it. ‘Look, I don’t really know what to say. Hello!’ he continued, looking genuinely ill-at-ease and drumming the bar.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Emma, genuinely, thinking he was quite a few steps up from the tossers at speed-dating last night. A genuine husband. She smiled. ‘So, not that I’m judging you, but what do you do?’
‘Oh. I edit a magazine for the National Assembly. It’s OK – it’s a real laugh, and my Welsh has got pretty good. Do you know any?’
‘No, not really.’ Emma hadn’t actually sat down to learn any yet, although they had classes at lunchtime. Naturally, Vile Kate went every week.
‘Actually,’ continued Joe, ‘I’d always been rubbish at Welsh, and felt guilty about it. I blame too much vodka at school. There was an afternoon where we all sneaked out, bought a bottle of the cheapest vodka imaginable from the only corner shop that’d sell it to us. I think it was called Perestroyka, or something. And the four of us just sat drinking at Mandy Pollard’s house until Mandy threw up, and then they went back to school, and I decided that this was far more fun than learning Welsh. So I skipped all the rest of my lessons. Hadn’t really needed it until now.’
Emma thought about young Joe, bunking off. He looked the kind of guy who would. Oh dear, she thought, am I starting to fancy dangerous men? She smiled at him.
‘It’s really handy, you know. We have to publish two versions of the magazine, but it’s been really useful for the Cardiff Business Community.’
‘You just pronounced that in capital letters.’
‘Yes. Yes I did. Oh god. I take myself so seriously these days.’ Again, his fingers drummed on the table.
‘You do take yourself terribly seriously, don’t you?’ Emma had a sudden urge to mother him. ‘What did you want to be?’
‘When I grew up? A poet? Or even a writer of horror books. Ever read The Fog?’
‘It is my favourite book!’ Emma grinned, really liking him.
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. I read it until the spine fell apart. No book’s lived up to it apart from… Oh, I can’t say.’
‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘You do?’
‘The Da Vinci Code.’
‘Yes! No! How did you know? I’ve never dared admit that to anyone.’
‘I can tell. It’s like KFC, Jeremy Clarkson… you know.’
‘Oh, I so do.’ He is perfect.
I can tell you like him, said the voice in her head. The voice she had grown used to. The voice that had said ‘chat to him, let him buy you a drink’. The voice that oozed confidence, calmness and something else. Something Emma didn’t quite… like. Relax, Emma. I’m trying to stop you from blushing. It’s taking a bit of effort to calm down your body language.
What do you mean?
Well, I’m toning down the amount of shadowing you’re doing. Keeping you a bit more neutral. It gets him more interested.
Oh, ta. I dunno, though. There’s something about him I like.
‘Anyway, Emma – look, do you mind if I nip outside for a smoke?’
Oh damn.
Hey, Em, you smoke.
I know. But I don’t want him to as well. Then I’ll never give up.
But Emma, love, you don’t need to – I can cure any little thing that pops up.
And him?
Yeah, I can.
But can you just stop him from smoking?
Sure.
Emma paused, wondering. What about a little bit taller?
OK. Anything else?
Oh, I could do with a cigarette, decided Emma. She was aware that Joe was looking at her. Had she zoned out? It was hard concentrating with Cheryl around sometimes. She smiled. ‘Let’s,’ she said, reached for her packet, and slipped outside into the freezing Cardiff air.
She and Joe huddled next to each other. He grinned and handed her a light.
‘Does anyone still smoke?’ he asked her, cupping his hands round the cigarette.
‘Just us left,’ she said.
They looked at each other for a bit, and smoked quietly.
‘Er, you ever thought of giving up?’ asked Emma.
Joe laughed. ‘Who hasn’t, these days?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve tried a couple of times. I’m getting pretty good at it. It makes me happy.’
Joe nodded. ‘Nah, I’d never give up. Unless I wanted to.’
Emma smiled. ‘What if I made you?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, what if I had a machine that made you want to stop smoking, could repair all the damage, could make you… well, perfect, I guess.’
Joe laughed. ‘Well, if it can repair the damage, why give up?’
‘Good point,’ said Emma, feeling suddenly sad. She watched Joe go back inside and sighed. ‘Sorry, Joe,’ she said, stubbed out her cigarette and followed him back inside.
For the second night in a row, the people of Cardiff slept badly.