Portobello Read Online Free

was 'management
incarnate' and that he trusted her more than he trusted himself.
But he didn't want her knowing his private business.
    The only regular stockists of what he sought were the pharmacy
and cosmetics chain Elixir. They had become his default
store and, like Dorinda, unfailingly reliable, but again their assistants
were human, had eyes and memories, and were also capable
of remarking on his frequent visits. How satisfactory it would be
when you could do all your shopping without benefit of other
human beings and, as you already could in some supermarkets,
put your credit card into a machine, key in various numbers and
hey presto! You had paid for your goods. You had kept your own
secrets. Better not go to Elixir today, then, though he could see
the branch he most often used ahead of him in Kensington High
Street. That was the one where, a few weeks back, he had bought
his second packet of Chocorange, replacement for the one from
Golborne Road. And, as he had intended it should, Chocorange
had admirably fulfilled its purpose. As a between-meals snack it
worked, deadening his hunger and staving off grazing; the result
had been that he had lost those two pounds he had gained and
then one more. If it had a drawback, this was, paradoxically, that
it tasted too delicious. Eugene had never got over how something
synthetic and harmless could taste so good. The result was that
instead of one or two eaten in the morning he tended to take
three or four and, in the late afternoon, once he had started he
found it hard to stop. Sometimes, between three and reaching
home at six, he ate half a packet. Still, it worked and that was
the main thing. The unfortunate thing was that not all pharmacists
stocked them and those that did tended to run out.
    He would try a place further along towards Knightsbridge. This
was a small shop called Bolus, run by a stout Asian man with a
chilly manner. That suited Eugene. He went in and picked up two
packets of tissues and a tube of toothpaste before raising his eyes
to the section on the counter where Mr Prasad presided. The
brown-and-orange design on the small packets always leapt to
Eugene's eyes before any other colours – you might have said that
in this situation there were no other colours – but their absence
was as immediately noticeable. The red and pink of strawberry
flavour were present, the green of mint but not a single pack of
Chocorange. Mr Prasad had sold out. Eugene might have admitted
to himself, but did not, that this was largely due to his own excessive
buying. After all, the inhabitants of this part of west London,
though no strangers to addiction in various forms, weren't prone
to spend their leisure time seeking sugar-free sweets.
    Eugene was paying for his tissues and his toothpaste when Mr
Prasad said in what sounded like sarcastic tones, 'Your favourites
will be in by the end of the week.'
    The unexpectedness of this assault as well as its content brought
the blood rushing into Eugene's cheeks. He muttered, 'Er, yes,
thanks.'
    'Would you like me to put in a double order next time?'
    'Oh, no, thank you. Really, that won't be necessary.'
    He wanted to flee but he made himself saunter out of the shop.
He would never go in there again. That went without saying. This
subtraction reduced the possible Chocorange outlets to ten. And
yet, why couldn't he have looked the man in the eye, laughed
lightly and said, yes, he'd like some ordered specially for him? He
was more or less hooked on the things, as Mr Prasad doubtless
knew, ha-ha. They were so tasty. Why couldn't he say all that? He
doubted if he could actually utter the word 'tasty', just as he couldn't
say 'toilet' or 'kinky'.
    He began to recognise he would have to go further afield, perhaps
to the outer suburbs. Of course, as always happened in these
circumstances, he began to experience a craving for a Chocorange,
the smooth oval shape of it, the rich creamy flavour of milk chocolate
and the sharp sweetness of citrus.