When I approach Vince’s house a couple of days later, the smell of coffee draws me through the open front door.
‘Hello, Daisy Chain.’ Vince breaks into his award-winning grin. ‘I’m making breakfast. There’s a clause in my mortgage deeds obliging me to head out at a ridiculous hour to buy rye bread fresh from the baker every morning, browning it in my Dualit toaster before covering it in hand-churned butter with milk produced from the teats of organic cows in Cornwall. Want coffee?’
‘Please. I’m from a lesser part of London where sourdough means the bread’s gone off. No bagels?’
He cuts some bread, slams it into the toaster and selects a pod for the coffee machine. ‘You can’t buy a real bagel outside of the US and I would even go so far as saying you can’t purchase an authentic one outside of New York.’
‘What makes the New York version so special? Do they name them twice or something? Come and get your bagel bagel!’
‘Passion.’
‘You push your tongues through the hole?’
I cringe as I’m flipped back tothatkiss, but Vince is oblivious as he throws back his head and laughs. ‘You are one funny child.’ Child? I suppose he’s a similar age to my dad. ‘A New York bagel is special because of the passion of its creators. Each store is different. Each owner is different. And there’s also a special ingredient. New York water.’
‘They pee in it?’
‘Haha! Our water is different from any other in the States, or the world. It’s softer, has a different make up of minerals. My mom once told me it came off the mountains in upstate New York but I don’t know if that’s true. There are differences in production too. The yeast is often proofed for longer and the dough boiled before baking.’ As he speaks, the toast pops up, and he opens a packet of salted butter.
‘Have you ever made them yourself?’
‘Once. With my son. With disastrous consequences.’
I know about Vince’s son, but there’s nothing specific online and my curiosity is piqued. ‘How old is your boy?’ I ask him.
‘Old enough to make his own way in life. I don’t think parents should give their kids a leg-up, do you?’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a grown man. Not my responsibility.’
Having spent a lifetime envying people who have decent parents, I’m winded by his words. I despise people who don’t know or care enough to bring up a child in a more than a semi-detached way. How can anyone be happy if they don’t know their child is happy? But I file this away to challenge him later. For now, I don’t want to be thrown off course. ‘Did you mark the Day of the Dead?’ My words make him pause, and his jaw tics as he presses a button on the coffee machine. ‘Last time I was here, we talked about the Mexican tradition. Did you get your candles out?’
His reply is as sharp as his knife. ‘There was enough talk of death last time we met.’
‘Funny, I can only recall your happiness list and Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs,’ I say.
He picks up his folder of cuttings. ‘The production company has pulled the plug on the tour forCancelled. Now I’m playing the only regular role of the jobbing actor– the Universal Credit claimant.’
‘Get away, there’s no way they’d give you benefits with this pile and the supercar. I guess it’s time to get going on those bucket list ideas if you want to fill up your life until your next audition.’
The rest of the session is more productive as we talk about how elements of his list fall into Maslow’s theory and discuss where he is on the pyramid. He decides his basic needs are fine, but further up the chain he’s struggling.
‘OK, we need to work on how you can smash that hierarchy. Oh, and I have this for you.’ I pull out a jar from my lilac duffel bag and hand it to Vince.
‘A caterpillar?’
‘Your new day job is to keep him alive long enough for him to … what do they call it …?’
‘Metamorphose? Is this a metaphor? Am I the caterpillar with the potential to change into a butterfly? A creature trapped in a jar until someone like you shows me the way out?’
I shoot him a look. I may not have the qualifications of a university professor, but I do need to get on with the teaching without being challenged. He turns the jar upside down so the caterpillar falls into the lid. ‘Vince the caterpillar– sounds like a cake someone’s gotten from Marks & Spencer.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I shop at Shepherd’s Bush Market. You should meet me there sometime and see how real people live. Also, who says the caterpillar is called Vince?’
Chapter 14
As Bonfire Night approaches, I’m still avoiding Joe and the coffee cart. But I can’t forget what happened. I keep replaying the touch of his hand on my bare arm and his lips yielding for me. And that excruciating moment of rejection. Was I too full on? Did I capture his tongue so aggressively I should have sent his teeth a ransom note? I wake in the middle of the night, wondering how I misread the signals so badly, reliving how he wounded me without even wielding a toy knife.
