Since my blog, Tone Deaf, had become one-way traffic I had it put down and resumed writing my previously stalled novel, Rictangular Lenses. Here's a sample of my progress, without any attempt to provide context
... Only to discover that Amber had changed radically. The old certainties had disappeared. Life with Greta and Gerald in a comfortable home, attended to by surrogate parents, the object of generous expenditure and comforted by central heating that remained on during the waking day had dulled Amber’s poverty-driven beliefs. She arrived at Lindsay’s flat strangely muted, even cowed, and remained in this state throughout the stay. Pathetically grateful for being shown the expensive wonders (A ten minute tour of Fortnum and Mason; behind-the-scenes at the Courtauld Institute; up and down the Thames by helicopter) and even moved to tears by lobster thermidor sampled for the first time. Theoretically this passivity should have simplified Lindsay's duties as hostess but when Amber departed, ten days later, Lindsay found herself diminished
Not that Amber had complained; she was too cowed for that. Rather, behaving artlessly and without any self-awareness, she regularly revealed that Lindsay’s home lacked what could only be described as basic amenities. Certainly the original interior designers had ensured it was capable of winning glossy magazine prizes but at a less visible level it failed to deliver easefulness. No towel rail for the shower enthusiast, Lindsay being a committed bather. Fruit, unprotected from the central heating, rotting at a jolly rate. And – oh, yes - those eminently fashionable easy chairs with their squared-off contours seemed intent on abrading the soft area behind the sitter’s knee. Why no handy electric sockets on either side of the bed heads? And how about that extractor hood above the hob, delightfully tricked out in copper, yet resonating piercingly at the second harmonic of its rotating fan. Close up, a door knob one centimetre too close to the kitchen’s jamb. Tiny matters which Amber seemed born to discover and to mark with the softest of Oh, ohs.
Alone again, Lindsay gritted her teeth and embarked on a careful re-examination of her under-used homestead and found a further dozen faults, absences and other glitches all enemies of occupier comfort. Proof that Lindsay had merely existed in this apartment, never lived in it; proof too that she was ignorant about what constituted a home. Money needed to be spent.
But, at least, money was something she was familiar with and it had never been in short supply at McLeod. Sheer luck intervened a fortnight later, in the form of an enormous, virtually unearned, personal bonus. The project had been small scale and at the bottom end of her short-term expectations. A comparatively cheap investment in land on the outskirts of Chester was pleasingly revealed to be the final jig-saw piece in a major property developer’s ambitiously pentagon-shaped grouping of luxury houses. The negotiator’s initial enquiry was casual but rapidly became desperate. Practising a calculated reluctance, Lindsay and the other owner contrived to triple the land’s price tag to the advantage of everyone except the harassed buyer.
Given the brief period between the investment and this agreeable transaction Lindsay tended to think of her cut as “found” money and thus quickly expendable. So why not simultaneously use it to right the wrongs of her flat and erase her own embarrassment?
But this time acting as an informed adult. The cleverest customer Lindsay had ever encountered had also involved her smallest ever investment. A few thousand well-secured pounds to help university student ,Werner Raineke, acquire a highly techno whatizzit from Switzerland with which he would analyse and then resolve a molecular problem in chemistry and thus gain him his masters at UCH. Raineke had proved to be a great conversationalist as well as an expert in more intimate skills and Lindsay had waived the small amount of interest in gratitude for the way Raineke had cast new light on how science informed everyday life. And especially the physio-mechanics that lead to reproduction.
Raineke answered her phone eagerly and Lindsay knew she would get good value. After all he was more than familiar with one particular room at Shepherds Bush.
“Werner, my dear, I’ve just discovered that my flat doesn’t work. Lots of the detail is duff but I suspect the solution is less a case of interior design Elastoplast and more root and branch. Who should I approach?”
“Obviously, an ergonomist.”
“Don’t they work in factories.”
“They work wherever they’re needed. You need root and branch, that’s their speciality: improving the efficient relationship between man and his environment. Including women, of course.”
“But I merely occupy the place. I don’t manufacture.” Adding. “Don’t even cook.”
“I agree. But you do other things. You sleep there. Feed yourself. Bathe. Pursue leisure activities. Communicate with the outside world. Adjust your living conditions. Change the layout to accommodate guests. Inform yourself. Some of these facilities were added after you moved in and are separate; there may be advantages in having them interact. Others you may never have considered. Plus modifications to bring things up to date. An ergonomist would advise on - even manage - individual features or look at the flat as a whole, a machine to serve you best.”
“Wow!”
“Wow indeed. If you’re serious it’s going to cost big money.”
“I have big money.”
“Good. But there is a difference between a big spend and a silly spend. And I can help there. An established specialist would also bill you for expenses that merely supported his bigness. His rent, his debt, his PR consultant. UCH educates ergonomists; I could connect you with a qualified student who’s doing research work. He’d be sharp, keen to go the extra mile, looking for work to add to his CV. The cash he spent would be much closer to the work he did. And he could also act as your project manager. What’s more you could have the job filmed and sell it to one of the TV companies; defray your expenses. You could…”
A sense of euphoria was growing. Excitement even. She bought Werner dinner at a Michelin three-star at Windsor. And, since it was attached to a hotel,they spent the night together. A week later she met Jack Lim, scion of a wealthy family previously based in Hong Kong now discontented residents of Lewisham following the Chinese Anschluss.
His enthusiasm was infectious. “Hey there Lin, I’m Lim. We’re a named pair made in heaven. I’m here to write you a schedule that’ll take you straight into the next half-century.”
The interview quickly became alarming. Three minutes of questions led to a forceful proposal that a stud wall be removed in order to integrate the kitchen with part of the dining room.
“Part of…?” Lindsay asked, eyebrows arched.
“Indeed”, said Lim, almost primly. “It’s all about utilisation. The remainder becomes a study area based on furnishings that are custom-manufactured for folding; thus you could quickly adapt should you ever sit down to dine with more than five guests.”
Eyebrows arched again when a five-figure sum was casually mooted to cover these costs.
More alarming still, given Lindsay’s longstanding preference, was Lim’s insistence that the bath must disappear. “But it’s one of life’s luxuries,” she protested. Lim transfixed her: “Tell me why?” And Lindsay found herself unconvincingly defending an indulgence, then being blown away with a list of overwhelming advantages provided by a tiled shower room.
On the point of resisting Lindsay found herself fixed yet again by Lim’s look of oriental superiority. She spread her hands: “But then they say one shouldn’t bark when sharing space with a dog.”
“Woof, woof,” said Lim.
As to the storage of crockery, the interlinking of information systems (in their broadest sense), the automated sequencing of clothing, the coding and accessing of published material… Lindsay listened, sighed, drew in breath and interrupted quite noisily. “Give me a round figure to the nearest five thou.” Lim did so. She stood up. “It’s in your hands. When necessary I’ll use a hotel.”
That was two months ago and now, having restored the Porsche to its stable, Lindsay took the lift to resume exploring a new world where she was both sovereign and citizen.
The flat door opened on a command from her phone.
Concealed light sources began glowing in the hallway.
Soon she was sipping from an unfamiliar bottle of champagne ordered by an algorithm which had analysed her own oenological needs.
She could, had she wished, switch on the main TV screen and surprise herself with a readout, automatically updated, of the contents of her own fridge. Or some other invisible and unexpected process
Adult toys to amuse a single person. But was the word “single” the salutary key to it all. Just suppose Alec’s timetable had been more flexible and that he too was sharing her playthings. Would the evening be more fun? Was she missing out in this area? Even if one discounted the daily work which absorbed so much of life, and regularly left her wearied, too tired even to think about sharing the recessed bed which she’d optimistically specified as king-sized.