Her Name Was Lola

15 The Scent of Lula Mae Flowers

February 1997. Another Sunday, Hyde Park. Max and Lola at the Round Pond, watching the model boatmen and their model boats. ‘Models are mysterious things,’ says Lola.

‘How so?’ says Max. He enjoys the sight of the sail models tacking, the steam models chugging.

‘Look at that Thames sailing barge,’ says Lola. ‘Totally realistic, and because it believes in itself there comes into being a model Thames running down to a model sea bounded by model continents on a whole model planet. Are you a model, Max?’

‘What do you mean, Lola?’

‘Is there a model Max-world extending outward from the realistic details of you?’

‘Lola, I don’t know what you’re getting at.’

‘No matter. Sometimes I talk crazy.’ Her profile is needle-sharp in the lens of the chilly afternoon.

‘Are you OK?’ says Max.

‘Do you mean, am I an OK person or are things OK with me?’ She’s looking past the boats and boatmen into the distance. The wind is blowing her hair in a way that goes to Max’s heart.

‘Are things OK with you?’ he says.

‘I don’t know, Max. I can’t help noticing that you’re different today.’

‘How am I different?’

‘Do I smell Lula Mae on you?’

‘You can’t,’ says Max. ‘There’s nothing to smell on me but me.’ It’s been a couple of days since he was with Lula Mae and he’s had a shower this morning.

‘I can smell her on your mind,’ says Lola. ‘It’s something I wasn’t expecting. I suppose I flattered myself that you’d have no interest left over for anyone else. When you came into the shop that December evening and said out loud that I was your destiny woman it was embarrassing but not dishonourable. It never occurred to me that you’d have a wandering eye.’

‘Lola,’ says Max, ‘most men have a wandering eye. It’s part of a genetic urge to spread one’s seed as widely as possible. We’re programmed that way.’

‘Men are programmed to leave the toilet seat up too,’ says Lola, ‘but they can remember not to.’

Silence. Max and Lola both watching the model boats and noticing that the Round Pond has become as deep and wide as an ocean. The wind is raising little wavelets. The Thames barge, approaching a lee shore, comes about and bears away. The model boatmen are intent on their radio controls. Some of them have full-size wives and children with them. The sky grows darker, the afternoon is gathering in.

‘It’s getting colder,’ says Lola. Max puts his arm around her but she doesn’t press against him. She turns to look directly at him. Her eyes are unfathomable. Max waits for what she’ll say next but she doesn’t say anything.