On one of her first Sundays there, she braved a bus ride into the centre of the city. After the initial elation of watching the streets from the top deck, she became increasingly conscious of her lone, purposeless self, seated amongst a busload of Londoners and earnest tourists. Later, after struggling to find the right bus back, she tried the Underground, and got lost trying to decide which branch of the Northern Line she was meant to be on. She stood on the platform, staring up at signs that made no sense to her, battling a rising panic that left her feeling foolish, and robbed her of the confidence to ask for help.
The memory squashes the dress-induced confidence out of her, along with any conversation, and she walks along beside the two men in silence: Lando, neat and dapper; Eric the Viking rolling like a ship in full sail. When a text sounds on her phone, she takes the chance to look at it to buy herself some time. It is from Lucy.
Like the idea of you teaching the police to write. Tell me more about these people. L x
So the letter has gone down well. Something eases within her.
Jo thinks of Lucy’s innate ability to talk to people. She will strike up a conversation with anyone she meets, including posing random questions to strangers. Jo recalls how she has borrowed this trait from her best friend in the past (rather like her dungarees), especially when she has found herself in awkward situations. Has thought – what would Lucy say now?
It is bonfire night, and as a firework explodes over a building in front of them, she throws a question out into the cold November night air.
‘What three things in life do you think are completely overrated?’
The men leap on this, and by the time they have reached the restaurant, the conversation is flowing and the question has been thoroughly thrashed out.
Lando: fireworks, breakfast in bed (Eric is not buying that one), and God.
Jo thinks Reverend Ruth might have something to say about that, but thinks Malcolm would probably slap him on the back (if she could imagine Malcolm slapping anyone on the back).
Eric the Viking: caviar, shopping and emojis.
Before she can stop herself, Jo thinks:I can live with that.
She offers up: macaroons (controversial from Lando’s point of view), turkey (controversial from Eric’s point of view) and football (controversial from both men’s point of view).
Once inside the restaurant, it is apparent that the building is a former library – the walls are still covered in books, all in their thick, clear plastic covers. Jo guesses the name, La Biblioteca, is also a clue. Sitting down at their table, Jo experiences a momentary pang, realizing that this library is now filled with books that no one will ever read. The feeling doesn’t last long. It is impossible to feel low, sitting between Lando and Eric.
They clearly know each other well and alternate between insulting the other and then praising them in some way. Lando tells her about the travels that helped him develop his skills as a tattoo artist (and during which he had met his Bulgarian wife, Sacha). At this point Eric insists Lando show Jo some images on his phone of his tattoo art.
And it really is art.
Eric continues, explaining that the best artists become known for a particular style, some using more colour, realism, or taking inspiration from a particular theme. Anything from Japanese anime or Mãori symbolism to pirates or Disney. Lando’s art is mainly black ink work with the occasional splash of colour.
Jo comments, ‘It reminds me of Banksy.’
Eric roars out loud, ‘There you go, mate,’ and slaps Lando on the shoulder.
Then Lando takes over, deploring everything about Eric from his size to his dress sense, and his inability to open up his shop on time. And then in the next breath he is telling Jo that Eric is the first man he would go to if he was in trouble, and that Eric always spends Christmas Eve with the charity Crisis, providing eye-checks and glasses for the homeless.
Eric interrupts Lando at this point and starts insulting his goatee, telling him he needs to grow himself a proper beard.
It is at this point, several glasses of wine in, that Jo interrupts, ‘But I saw you!’ she cries.
They both look at her.
‘I saw you,’ she repeats, looking at Lando, ‘in the optician’s.That’swhy I thought it was your business.’
‘Poor bloke needs my help. Blind as a bat,’ Eric says, shaking his shaggy head.
‘Not as much as you need the help of a proper barber,’ Lando retorts, before declaring. ‘And Eric, here, wears contact lenses. At least I’m not too vain to admit I need glasses for close work.’
‘I have to wear contacts. It’s all the sport I play,’ Eric says, seriously.
‘Really? What do you play?’ Jo asks.
They both laugh uproariously at this and she is left feeling foolish and caught out.
Lando leans nearer, ‘And he always insists on coloured lenses. You don’t seriously think his eyes are that blue, do you?’
