The Authenticity Project Read online

  “And I can help with the phone,” interjected Monica. “I upgraded my iPhone recently, so you can have my old one. We’ll get you a pay-as-you-go SIM card.”

  Julian looked at Riley and Monica, now sitting side by side on his sofa. If he wasn’t mistaken, Riley was a little smitten. He’d noticed, with his artist’s eye for postural detail, how he mimicked her gestures and sat just a little closer than one would expect (although that might be the result of the exposed springs and stuffing bursting out of the sofa to his left).

  Oh, the optimism of youth.

  SEVENTEEN

  Monica

  Monica wiped down the counter in preparation for opening. She squirted the bottle of cleaning fluid she was holding, breathing in the satisfying scent of mountain pine. She realized that she was humming. Monica was not a hummer by nature, but recently, and surprisingly, she had quite a lot to hum about.

  Since she’d started the weekly art class, she’d been approached by a knitting circle and a pregnancy yoga class, both looking for local evening venues. Monica’s Café seemed to be turning into a hub of the local community, just as she’d dreamed of ever since she first saw the boarded-up sweet shop. And, even better, when she’d sat down to corral her numbers last night, they had very nearly added up. For the first time, she could see a chink of liquidity at the end of the tunnel of her overdraft.

  Then there was Julian. She genuinely loved his company and his art lessons, but she also had the warm, self-satisfied glow of someone who’s done something good, changed someone’s life for the better. You didn’t get that feeling often when working for a corporate law firm.

  It struck Monica that she’d started the art class as a way of helping someone else, but now it seemed to be helping her even more. She’d never believed in karma until now.

  And the icing on the cake was Riley. Of course, she knew he wasn’t the whole cake. If she delved too deeply into their relationship, or looked too far ahead, she knew it didn’t meet her criteria. So she wasn’t delving. Monica was staying in the moment. She was taking each day as it came and just enjoying herself. Who knew what lay around the next corner or how long Riley would stay in London?

  This obviously did not come naturally. It took a lot of planning and hard work for Monica to be this relaxed. She was getting up half an hour earlier than usual to do her sun salutations and repeat her mantras.

  “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, today is a gift,” she’d chant to herself as she brushed her teeth. “It’s not happy people who are grateful, it’s grateful people who are happy,” she’d say as she brushed her hair.

  Monica was rather proud of her new, almost-on-the-verge-of-being-chill attitude. Usually by this stage, she would have fast-forwarded the movie of her life in her head to the point where she’d have worked out where and when she and Riley would get married, what their children’s names would be, and the color of the towels in the guest bathroom (white).

  Monica thought of all the self-help books she’d bought, the mindfulness course she’d attended, and the meditation apps cluttering up her iPhone. All that effort spent trying to stop worrying about the future, when all she’d really needed was someone like Riley, because she was sure her attitude change was down to him.

  Most of the men Monica knew had hang-ups. They felt inadequate about the school they’d been to, the house they’d grown up in, their lack of sculpted abdominal muscles, or the number of notches on their bedpost. Riley, however, seemed totally comfortable in his own skin. He was so straightforward, easygoing, and uncomplicated. He was not a man of mystery or hidden depths, but—on the upside—he was completely honest and transparent. Riley never stressed himself out by thinking too far ahead. Actually, he didn’t seem to spend much time thinking at all, but nobody was perfect. And his attitude seemed to be infectious. For once, Monica didn’t feel she needed to play games or to build any protective walls around herself.

  Yesterday, they’d gone to Julian’s extraordinary time warp of a house for tea. Monica had loved it, despite it being an obvious health hazard. She’d not been able to stop herself screaming when she first went into the kitchen and practically walked into a gruesome strip of yellow, hanging from the ceiling covered in the tiny desiccated corpses of hundreds of insects. Julian had been completely unperturbed by her horror, telling her it “was only flypaper.” Flypaper? Was that really a thing? Surely even Julian realized that dead bodies were not generally advised in food preparation areas?

  They’d actually toasted crumpets over a real fire (she’d tried not to think of the impact on climate change and all those poor baby polar bears, separated from their mothers by the melting ice floes) with proper toasting forks. She’d sat next to Riley on the sofa, and when no one was looking, he’d squeezed her hand.

  After tea, Riley had come back to her apartment. They hadn’t discussed it; she hadn’t invited him and he hadn’t asked. It had just happened. Spontaneously. She’d made them supper with whatever she could find in her fridge and cupboards—pasta with pesto and a tomato, mozzarella, and basil salad. He’d said it was the best meal he’d had in weeks. She smiled at the memory of the elaborately planned and executed meals she’d provided for men in the past—the soufflés, flambés, and reductions, most of which had gotten nothing like as enthusiastic a reception.

  There had been a tense moment when she noticed Riley examining her bookcase. Had she anticipated this romantic dinner à deux, she’d have removed some of the books in advance. She cringed particularly at the idea of him noticing He’s Just Not That into You, Ignore the Guy, Get the Guy, The Rules, and Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. Monica saw all this reading as sensible groundwork. She approached dating in the same way as she would any project: do your background research, make a plan, set your goals. Riley, however, would probably see it as obsessive. Neither of them had mentioned the self-help books, and the awkward moment had passed quickly.

  He hadn’t stayed the night. They’d watched a movie on Netflix, curled up on the sofa together, sharing a bowl of tortilla chips. They spent much of the time kissing and joking about having missed most of the overly complicated plotlines. She’d been trying to work out how to let him down gently if he tried to push it too far, and then had been rather disappointed when he didn’t.

  EIGHTEEN

  Julian

  Julian was not at all used to his intercom buzzing at 7:30 A.M. But then, many strange, new things had happened since he launched The Authenticity Project. He was still dressed in his pajamas, so he threw on the nearest jacket he could find (Alexander McQueen circa 1995, wonderful epaulets and gold frogging) and a pair of the Wellingtons that had sprung from the understairs cupboard, and he walked out to the gate.

  Julian had to look down a couple of feet from his six-foot vantage point to see his visitor. She was a tiny, birdlike Chinese lady, face like a walnut, eyes like raisins, and a wild thatch of short gray hair. She was, quite possibly, even older than himself. He was so busy staring at her that he quite forgot to speak.

  “I am Betty Wu,” she said, in a voice much bigger than she was, seemingly undaunted by the appearance of a man dressed in a combination of haute couture, threadbare nightwear, and wet-weather gear. “I come for tai chi.”

  “Tai chi?” echoed Julian, aware he was sounding rather gormless.

  “My grandson, Biming, he says you want to learn tai chi,” she replied slowly, in a tone one might use if talking to an idiot, or a very young child.

  “Biming?” echoed Julian, sounding like an idiot, or a very young child. “Oh, do you mean Baz?”

  “I do not know why he does not like Chinese name. Is he ashamed?” huffed the lady called Betty. “He says you want me to teach you tai chi.”

  Julian had said nothing of the sort, but realized that there was no point in arguing with this force of nature.

  “Er, I wasn’t expecting you, so I’m not exactly dressed for t
he occasion,” protested Julian, who knew, far better than most, how important it was to wear the right outfit. “Perhaps we should start another time?”

  “No time like present,” said Mrs. Wu, narrowing her narrow eyes at him. “Take off the coat and big boots.” She glared at his Wellies as if they’d badly offended her. “You have big socks?” Julian, who was wearing his warmest woolen bed socks, nodded silently.

  Mrs. Wu walked into the center of the paved courtyard, shrugging off her black wool coat, which she placed on the wrought-iron bench, to reveal loose black trousers, tied in a drawstring, and a pale-gray smock top. Although it was cold, the sheltered courtyard was lit by the pale winter sunshine. A light frost glittered like fairy dust.

  “I talk, you copy,” instructed Mrs. Wu as she planted her feet some distance apart, bent her knees, and raised her arms in an extravagant swooping motion above her head, like a giant heron, breathing in through her nose in an exaggerated fashion.

  “Tai chi is good for posture, circulation, and flexibility. Makes you live longer. I have one hundred and five years old.” Julian stared at her, not sure how to respond politely, then she grinned broadly, revealing small, spaced-out teeth, not big enough for her mouth. “It is only joke! Tai chi good, but not that good.”

  Mrs. Wu bent her knees again, then turned sideways, bending one arm behind her and pushing the other forward, palm first, as if to ward off an intruder. “Tai chi is about the balance of yin and yang. If you use hardness to resist force, then both sides will break. Tai chi meets hardness with softness, so incoming force exhausts itself. It is philosophy for life also. You understand?”

  Julian nodded, although he was finding it very hard to take in everything Mrs. Wu was telling him, while simultaneously following her movements. Multitasking had never been his forte. That’s why he’d never mastered the piano. He couldn’t get his two hands to do different things concurrently. Right now, he was trying to balance on one foot with his right elbow touching his right knee.

  “When we first come here in 1973, two men came to restaurant and say, ‘Go back to China and take your filthy, foreign food with you.’ I say, ‘You are angry. Anger comes from stomach. Sit. I bring you soup. For free. It will make you feel better.’ They ate my wonton soup. Recipe from my grandmother. They have been customers of restaurant for forty years. Meet force with softness. Recipe for life. Now you understand.” And, strangely, he did.

  As Julian continued to mimic Mrs. Wu’s wide, sweeping movements, a robin flew down, reminding him of Monica’s description of his Secret Garden. The bird perched on the edge of the stone fountain, cocked his head, and looked at Julian, as if wondering what he was doing. You may well ask, thought Julian, wobbling on one foot.

  After about half an hour, Mrs. Wu put her hands together in prayer position and bowed toward Julian, who, still copying her, lowered his head toward hers.

  “It is good for first lesson,” she said. “In China, we say one meal won’t make a fat man. You need to do little and often. I see you tomorrow. Same time.” She picked up her coat and shrugged it on, in one fluid motion.

  “How much do I owe you for the lesson?” Julian asked.

  Betty inhaled through her nose so sharply that her nostrils went white. “No pay! You are friend of Biming. You are artist, yes? You teach me to paint.”

  “OK,” Julian called after her as she bustled out of the gate. “I’ll see you at my art class on Monday. Come with Baz. I mean Biming.”

  Without turning around, Mrs. Wu raised her hand in acknowledgment and was gone, leaving the courtyard feeling emptier than before she’d arrived, as if she’d sucked up some of its energy and taken it with her.

  Julian picked up his jacket and his Wellingtons and walked back into the cottage, with more of a spring in his step than he’d had for a long time.

  * * *

  • • •

  FRIDAYS SEEMED TO be coming around faster, thought Julian, as he walked toward the Admiral. It seemed like no time at all since he was last here. This time he was less surprised to see some figures already resting against the marble vault, bundled up in coats and scarves. As he got closer he could make out Riley, Baz, and Mrs. Wu.

  “I told Granny I was coming here,” said Baz, “and she insisted on bringing some of her wonton soup.”

  “It’s cold today. My soup warms the body, warms the soul,” said Mrs. Wu, pouring soup from a huge thermos into four mugs that Baz had been carrying in a wicker basket.

  “Do sit down, Mrs. Wu!” said Julian, gesturing at the marble slab over the Admiral. He wasn’t actually worried about her comfort, but she was standing on Keith.

  “To Mary!” said Riley, raising his mug. Mrs. Wu raised her eyebrows into two curious caterpillars.

  His wife. Dead, mouthed Baz to his grandmother.

  “To Mary!” they all replied.

  NINETEEN

  Riley

  Riley was sorting through Julian’s understairs cupboard. It was like the TARDIS from Doctor Who—far bigger on the inside than you could possibly imagine from the outside. He wondered whether, when he finally reached the back of it, he’d find himself in another universe. Or Narnia perhaps. He certainly wouldn’t be surprised if it was snowing back there. It was freezing in here without a fire in the grate.

  He’d spent one day last week photographing some of his discoveries and uploading them to eBay, and he’d already made more than seventy-five pounds in commission. If Julian would only let him have a rummage around in that dressing room, they could make a fortune. He’d suggested as much to Julian. “You are not selling one single sock,” Julian had growled at him. Just to make sure he’d been clear enough, he’d stood in the doorway, spreading out his gangly arms to bar entry, like a giant mutant stick insect.

  Riley was surrounded by three large piles. One pile was for items he thought would sell well, one was things to throw away, and one was things to keep.

  Today, he’d arrived just before ten a.m., knowing that Julian would be going out for his walk. Julian slowed the process down significantly. He would hover over Riley like a hawk, then swoop down, pulling a broken vase from the “dustbin” pile, exclaiming “Charlie gave that to me after my 1975 exhibition on New Bond Street. Sold out in two days! Princess Margaret came, you know. I think she rather fancied me.” Theatrical gaze into the distance. “Mary did not like her. Not one little bit. Filled with pink peonies, if I remember correctly! Can’t possibly let go of that one, young Riley. No, no, no. That wouldn’t do at all.”

  This morning, after an hour to himself, Riley had made significant progress. As soon as Julian was back, they’d start the long and torturous negotiation process, made bearable by being interspersed with Julian’s wonderfully colorful and ribald anecdotes from the sixties, seventies, and eighties.

  He would pick up one of the vinyl albums from the pile, dust it off, and place it on the old record player, regaling Riley with stories of how he’d partied with Sid Vicious and Nancy, or who he’d seduced to the soundtrack of Blondie’s “Heart of Glass.” Riley wasn’t sure how much he believed. Julian seemed to have been present at every significant social event in recent history, from dinners with Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies to the party where Mick Jagger and Marianne Faithfull were arrested for possession of marijuana.

  Yesterday, Julian had introduced Riley to the Sex Pistols, Talking Heads, and Frankie Goes to Hollywood. When he’d sat on the beach in Perth, imagining his trip to London, he had not thought that he’d spend his time playing air guitar while a geriatric belted out the lyrics of “Anarchy in the UK” into an empty beer bottle masquerading as a microphone. He’d realized with some alarm, as the song (if you could call it that) came to an end, that Julian’s eyes had welled up.

  “Are you OK, Julian?” he’d asked.

  “I’m fine,” he’d replied, flapping a hand in front of his face like a dying moth. “It’s j
ust that when I listen to songs like this, it comes rushing back so vividly. I’m surrounded again by all those extraordinary people, my friends, in that incredible era. Then the track ends, and I remember I’m just an old man left with a dusty stylus bobbing up and down on smooth vinyl and too many regrets.” Riley hadn’t known what to say to that. What was a stylus?

  Riley’s trip to London was proving to be the best of times and the worst of times. He loved the city, despite the tooth-numbing cold. He’d made some wonderful friends. The only problem was Monica. The more time Riley spent with her, the more he admired her. He loved her determination, her feistiness, and her fierce intellect. He loved the way she’d picked up Julian and so elegantly pulled him into her circle, making him feel wanted and useful, not pitied. He loved her passion for her café and its customers. Just being with Monica made him feel more brave, energetic, and adventurous.

  But Riley hated the fact that their whole relationship was founded on a lie. Or, at least, a lack of truth. And the longer he left it, the harder it was to come clean. How was she going to react when she discovered that she was an ex-cokehead’s pity project? She’d be furious. Or devastated. Or humiliated. Or all three.

  Riley kept trying to forget about The Authenticity Project, but the information he’d read couldn’t be unread. Usually, he’d just relax and enjoy the time he had with a potential lover, going with the flow and seeing where it led. But with Monica, he was too conscious of what she’d written in the book. He knew she wanted a long-term relationship, marriage, babies, the works, but he was just looking to have fun on his way through Europe. Wasn’t he?

  The spirit of Hazard had even haunted the lovely evening he’d spent in her apartment. Remembering Hazard’s hypothesis about Monica alphabetizing her bookcase, he hadn’t been able to resist checking it out. It turned out she didn’t sort her books by alphabet; she color-coded them. More visually satisfying, she’d said.