Perfect Day

where I get my tea,’ he says, at the cake counter, pointing at a birthday cake that’s iced to look like a pizza.
    ‘You don’t just eat pizza, do you, Jimmy?’
    Then he’s off, running away from her, dodging through the racks of ties and cufflinks in menswear, and she’s trying to chase him, up the escalator, but she chooses the wrong one and she’s running against steps that are travelling down and she’s puffed out but she’s not going anywhere, and somebody is shouting, ‘Kate? Kate?’

    Kate wakes up. Marie’s perched on the bed next to her, dressed in jeans which have had the waistband ripped off and a tight black T-shirt with a heart motif in silver studs.
    ‘Didn’t know whether I should wake you up or not,’ she says.
    ‘Thanks,’ says Kate, glad that she’s not on her own.
    There’s a draught coming in through the open window. Her left hand is cold.
    ‘You were thrashing around.’
    ‘I was having a dream and it turned into a nightmare.’
    Marie looks round the room.
    ‘Where did he go?’
    ‘Jimmy?’
    ‘Alexander!’
    For a second, Alexander is so distant, she thinks maybe he was part of the dream. How does Marie know about him? He met her. She remembers now. He thought her the bad twin in a fairy tale.
    ‘Home,’ Kate says. ‘He went home.’
    ‘And?’ Marie’s face lights up in anticipation of the details.
    ‘And, nothing.’
    ‘Nothing as in, that’s it, or nothing as in, you’re not going to tell me?’
    ‘Both.’
    ‘Oh.’
    Marie gets up and lights a cigarette, offended that she’s not going to be trusted, and Kate’s filled with remorse.
    ‘He went home to his girlfriend and kid,’ she admits.
    ‘Oh. Sorry.’
    Marie sits down again. Puts her hand over Kate’s. Sighs.
    ‘It’s OK,’ Kate says.
    How weird that she asked God to give her a day, and Marie said it wouldn’t be enough, but it was.
    ‘He left his pants,’ Marie remarks, picking them off the top of the chair. She sniffs them like a wine buff. ‘Persil,’ she pronounces, ‘with a background note of latex, and
    ‘Stop!’ Kate shouts.
    Marie chucks the black cotton briefs at her, and they’re both laughing.
    ‘He was very good-looking,’ Marie concedes, with a certain surprised admiration.
    ‘He was so good-looking I thought I knew him,’ says Kate. ‘ D’you know what I mean?’
    ‘How many good-looking chaps do you know, then?’
    ‘I don’t mean like that. I mean that I thought I knew his character from his looks. I thought he was deep, but I’m not sure he was, really. I thought he was the love of my life, because that’s how I’d like the love of my life to look, but he wasn’t.’
    Kate bunches up his pants in one hand and sniffs. They smell of his skin. The fresh smell that evokes a rush of indefinably pleasant memories she suddenly recognizes as baby soap.
    They probably use baby soap at home because it’s mild for the child. Lucy. Lucy’s probably allergic to too much perfume.
    Kate gets up, goes over to the window, opens it as far as it will go, squeezes her hand through, then opens her fingers to let go of the pants.
    ‘Hey! What are you doing?’ Marie is mid-drag on her cigarette. She puts it down, leaps to the window, trying fruitlessly to grab the pants back, but it’s way too late.
    ‘What will people think if there’s men’s knickers raining down from our window?’ she shouts and the words come out with little clouds of smoke, like signals.
    It sounds as if she’s genuinely outraged by the impropriety, and when she hears herself, she blows out the remaining smoke with her laughter.
    ‘Hey! What’d you get in Selfridges?’ she asks, distracted by the bright yellow plastic carrier bag that’s lying on the sofa on the other side of the room.
    Kate nods, giving her permission to look, even though she’s sure she has already.
    ‘Nice,’ Marie says, taking the velvety soft suede mules out of the bag.
    ‘He bought them for me,’ Kate tells her. ‘So that I looked like the sort of person who could wear expensive clothes.’
    ‘Ninety-nine pounds,’ Marie frowns at the price label that’s stuck to the smooth leather sole of the left shoe. ‘You should have asked for the money, then got a pair in Dolcis .’
    ‘It wasn’t like that,’ says Kate. ‘It was like, I knew that it couldn’t last, but at least I’d have the shoes to remind me.’
    ‘Cinder-bloody- rella !’ says Marie.
    ‘You can borrow them if you like,’ Kate offers. She