Prep for Saturday is less about what dress to wear, and more about making sure the wine I buy is in a screw-top bottle and that I have some discreet gloves. Both of which I procure by Monday. Then I endure five days of jittery feet, racing thoughts and an image of a smiling Andrew inserting itself into my brain at inopportune moments. Honestly, I don’t remember Patrick Bateman ever having fleeting moments of guilt or a gnawing feeling of moral transgression. It’s much harder to carry out this plan with a truly blithe spirit than I thought it would be.
Nevertheless, Saturday comes, and instead of taking the train to the centre as I normally do, I walk the entire way, hoping to calm my nerves with the rhythm of my feet. It works fairly well actually, and I arrive with a smile, able to start work on painting the accessible toilet door as Roger had directed. Andrew arrives late, and for a stressful thirty minutes, I worry that he isn’t going to show. But then there he is, hair tied up with a strip of old T-shirt, and wearing a pair of patchwork shorts which look suspiciously like they’re made of old flannels. His father would have an account at a tailor on Jermyn Street, I think, wincing. What a tragic waste. I wave at him, but don’t stop painting. No need to be too eager, especially if he’s feeling uneasy about later. As the day wears on, it gets hotter. Roger, Lucy, and the old lady who is escaping her decrepit vegetable of a husband sit in the equally decrepit deckchairs just outside the welcome centre and write names of plants on sticks to put in the earth, as if we were at a National Trust property. Thank God for the sun. Rain would surely keep us indoors, and the plan I have in mind would crumble.
I don’t think I’ve ever worked as hard as I did today. Two coats of weatherproof paint and a good scrub down of the internal walls to boot. Nothing like the promise of a murder to boost one’s productivity, it turns out. At 5 p.m., Roger brews tea, and we all down tools and drink it on the deck. It feels nice actually. Like I’m part of something. Something mundane and totally pointless, but that’s not nothing when you’ve never really experienced it. There have been a few moments like that on my journey – times when I’ve wondered if God is telling me to get off this road and embrace a different life. But then I remember that I don’t believe in God and that if he does exist, then he gave me this life to begin with. What would he know?
We head off to the pub at 6 p.m., Roger and Lucy tagging along. Lucy has really come out of herself in the time we’ve been at the centre. Gone is the slightly nervy rabbit vibe. Today she wears a bandana and dungarees, her face brown from the outdoor work. Is Roger a father figure to her? I can’t quite work it out. Given the alternative, I fervently hope so.
The pub is fairly quiet, just a few tables of misfits, and one young man sipping a pint alone with a book, looking faintly out of place. This is not really the kind of establishment you come to to read and ponder. Andrew and I down a bottle of rancid white, while Lucy and Roger sip shandies. Talk is stilted. It’s not a natural group at the best of times, especially not now we’re counting down the clock like lovers desperate to get home and to bed. Eager to push on, I order another bottle and make a show of saying that I need Dutch courage for a date I have later on. Roger is tickled by this, telling me to ‘make the chap pay’ and offering advice on conversation starters. One of which, and I kid you not, is to ask which board game was the best.
‘My favourite is … and it’s controversial … Monopoly!’ Nobody asks why it’s controversial, and his look of disappointment is a reward in itself.
Andrew starts tapping his feet and I begin to worry he’ll back out if we linger here for too long. So I decide to be bold. Draining my glass, I stand up and smile brightly.
‘Well wish me luck. I’ve got to be in Angel at 8.30, let’s hope he’s worth it.’ I sling my bag over my shoulder and clap Andrew on the back with gusto. Roger lifts his glass to me and Lucy waves halfheartedly. I walk out of the pub and turn off the main road and back towards the centre. I decide not to text him, allowing him the chance to take the reins himself. Instead, I sit on the kerb, drinking from a flask of wine I’ve brought with me.
I don’t tend to drink out of a vessel which so obviously screams ‘cry for help’， but I have to carry my own wine separately. The stuff I’ve chosen for Andrew is now heavily fortified with vodka and I need a clear head. Now you see why I need the screw-top bottle, no tampering with trusty corks. One third of the bottle went into my flask, and I topped up the rest with the finest spirit I could find. Not that he’ll have a hangover tomorrow, but it just feels more respectful not to give him the complete paint stripper variety. Last meal and all that. Although apparently America doesn’t give last meals anymore. One guy ordered hundreds of pounds’ worth of food and then refused to eat any of it. The guards were so furious at this display of independence that nobody gets that final treat now. His fellow prisoners will curse his name, but I admire that man’s determination to piss off everyone to the last.