‘I am. It does.’ She extended her arm, which sported a big, brass bangle. ‘Too much?’
‘No. Show me your shoes.’
The camera wobbled downwards to show a pair of beige and black Valentino Rockstuds.
‘You’re walking to the subway in them?’
Apologetically, she said, ‘They send a car for me now.’
I was so proud of Anna. She managed to thrive in the bruising US corporate world but she was still her own sweet self. It was a matter of great personal pride that she’d never sacked anyone. If an underling wasn’t flourishing in their role, she either reassigned them to something more suitable or sat them down for a genuine chat which usually ended with the employee unilaterally deciding to change careers and thanking her for her insight.
‘How’s Angelo?’ I wanted to keep her talking.
With his long, lank hair, gaunt face, dark clothing and multiplicity of tats, Anna’s partner wasn’t exactly Mum’s idea of the perfect son-in-law. （‘You wouldn’t want to meet that fella down an alley on a dark night.’） But he was great: compassionate, interested, sure of himself without being obnoxious. And no matter what Mum might mutter to herself, hot in an intriguingly ugly-beautiful way.
At first glance you might think, No. No way. But after two seconds of talking to him, you’d go, Waaaait a minute. Then you’d be full-on, Right! I get it! He’s far from typical and I love it!
Spacey but grounded was the best way to describe his unusual outlook on life. His energy （and he spoke a lot about ‘energy’） was wise and calming, which meant he was skilled at talking people down from ledges.
Now, he meditated – and, unlike me, he actually did. Twice a day, every day, for at least a decade and it seemed obvious that he didn’t spend each twenty-minute session worrying because he’d forgotten to take the curry out of the freezer for that evening’s dinner.
Considering he was the most non-pushy person you could imagine, it was a surprise that he worked as an art agent. New York art sellers tended to be total sharks. But instead of harrying people into buying things they couldn’t afford by inventing other fictional purchasers who were right outside, flinging handfuls of money at the door, Angelo was full-on ‘if it’s meant to be’。 If a client was dithering over a painting, he’d say, ‘Why don’t you guys take it home, see if it works in your space? Nah, no need for a surety, you’ve good energy – honest energy.’
When Mum heard, she declared that Angelo was a complete fool who deserved to have dozens of paintings stolen.
‘Never happened,’ Angelo said. ‘Not once.’
‘Not yet,’ riposted Mum, who launched an immediate enquiry into his income, interrogating him until he admitted he earned ‘a fortune’。 （Her words.） （He’d never be so crass.）
As Anna was an ex-spacer who had infiltrated mainstream society but still had floaty tendencies, she and Angelo made perfect sense.
‘He’s great,’ Anna said. ‘He’s always great.’
22
‘Roxy,’ I said. ‘As you’re leaving on Thursday –’
‘AWWW!’ Dennis bellowed.
I gave him a stare that abruptly shut him up.
He was looking better today, a lot cleaner and neater – because last night he’d persuaded several women to launder his clothes, to sew missing buttons back onto his shirts and to dab away the worst stains on his suit. He’d outsourced all the labour and it was a metaphor for his life – there would always be someone to save him.
‘Roxy,’ I said again. ‘In light of your upcoming departure, would you like to say something to each person here? Perhaps some advice or …？’
‘Sure!’ A music executive in her late thirties, cross-addicted to alcohol and marijuana, Roxy had undergone a huge transformation in the last six weeks. My hopes for her were high.
‘Trassa.’ Roxy studied her and nodded slowly. ‘You’re getting there.’
‘Getting where?’ Trassa asked, tremulously.
‘To where you need to be.’ As the most senior member of the group, Roxy was heady with wisdom. In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed woman is queen.
Chalkie was next. ‘Everyone loves Chalkie.’ Her smile was warm. ‘You’re talking the talk, my friend, but are you walking the walk?’
She was spot-on. Chalkie was so generous with the sordid details of his drugging that it could fool you into thinking he’d embraced recovery. But his war stories were deflections to keep me from probing too deeply. Buried in Chalkie was either a bottomless sorrow or a burning rage – I didn’t know which – that accounted for his relapses. His partner, Skye, had already been into group but her tearful testimony hadn’t brought about the breakthrough I’d hoped for.