Three Lives of Tomomi Ishikawa by Benjamin Constable

Author:Benjamin Constable
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books

16

Beatrice’s Good Mood Starts to Seem Strained

The gears ground, cogs spun and the world clicked forwards a notch. In a dizzying instant of motion, or lack of motion, afternoon became evening.

From somewhere behind me, Cat slinked over and smelt Beatrice’s shoes, then turned his head and smelt her ankles. Cat! He had no shame.

‘What’s your thesis about?’ I asked.

‘Food.’

‘Oh yes, you said. People and food.’

‘It’s about how we relate to food, from packaging and shopping to eating behaviour, rituals, tastes, that kind of thing. I’m trying to question whether food works for us as a species and whether there are alternative ways of thinking about it that might be more practical on planetary, cultural and even individual levels.’

‘Is that a rehearsed line that you say whenever people ask you about it?’

‘Er, kind of.’

‘I’m not sure I know what it means.’

‘OK, here’s an example: A lot of food that we think of as being bad for our health, we consume as “treats”. And then, to make us feel like we’re successful, we eat treats all the time and we get these confused messages, like success equals unhealthy food. And there are loads of these strange ideas, like good food needs more packaging. Our eating habits often don’t make much sense when you give them a closer look.’

‘It sounds interesting.’

‘It is. Complicated too. It’s such a big subject. I have to narrow it down.’

‘And where are you studying?’

‘The New School.’

‘What new school?’

‘It’s a school near here called the New School.’

‘And is it new?’

‘Er, newish.’

‘Are you from New York?’

‘Mostly.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’ve lived lots of places, most of them near to, or in New York. I went to high school not far from here. What about you? Are you from London?’

‘No. I grew up in the Midlands.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘In the middle of England.’

‘I guess it’s all in the name.’

‘Postindustrial. Strange. I don’t miss it. I grew up in a poor, multicultural neighbourhood, though, and I’m proud of that. I’ve got happy memories of running round in tiny terraced streets in the seventies.’

‘The seventies? How old are you?’

‘Thirty-eight and three-quarters.’

‘You’re older than I thought,’ she said.

‘Why, how old did you think I was?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Oh, maybe thirty-seven and a quarter or something,’ she said, and I deflated. ‘Sorry, I’m not fooled by youthful looks. Are you married or divorced or anything interesting like that?’

‘No. I haven’t got any of the things you should have at my age.’

‘What should you have at your age?’

‘Oh, you know, a house, a car, a career that you feel doesn’t reflect your capabilities or interests, a wife and/or ex-wife, kids . . .’

‘Yes.’ She pretended to think about it. ‘You haven’t really lived.’

‘What I’d give to be divorced.’

‘You shouldn’t joke about that,’ she said. ‘Divorce is hell.’

‘All sorts of things are hell. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t joke about them; all the more reason to joke about them, perhaps.’

‘Hmmm. Maybe.’

‘Shall we get another drink?’ I said. ‘Or shall we go and find your New York treasure, and maybe get something to eat?’

She smiled.

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