The Bride's Trail

by AA Abbott

  “She would have taken you back if you hadn’t shacked up with your long-term lover.”

  “I doubt it,” Charles said. “She made it clear our marriage was over.” He stared at her, seeing Rachel in the graceful oval shape of her face, then his own long-lashed eyes mirrored in hers. Since she’d been born, he’d been besotted with her, fascinated by this person who was a blend of her parents and yet very much herself. He added, “And Deirdre’s not my long-term lover. I hadn’t seen her since I left school. It was pure chance that we met after the split.” He shivered at the word, his memory still raw.

  Amy appeared to soften. “I know none of this is your fault,” she said.

  “There’s no chance of going back, I’m afraid,” Charles said gently.

  “I wish you’d kept your old car, though,” she said. “I was going to ask if you could help me with the deposit for a flat.”

  “I took out a huge loan to buy the car. Anyway, what kind of flat could you afford?” On her salary, even a studio in Fitzrovia was a stretch. Property was so pricy now. At Amy’s age, he’d been able to buy a semi in Brockenhurst. He’d needed it, with Rachel suddenly pregnant and a registry office wedding hastily arranged. Young people wanted everything on a plate these days, of course. Take Alex, his boss who’d recently had a lavish stag weekend in Berlin with lederhosen and lager all round. Charles had counted himself lucky to have a pub crawl in Chislehurst, at the end of which he’d legged it home to avoid being handcuffed to a lamppost.

  “Perhaps when you sell the house, our house,” she emphasised the last two words, “then you can help me buy somewhere.”

  “Your mother rather expects me to pay for a cottage for her.”

  “But you’ll have money left over?”

  “For myself. I’d like a place of my own.”

  “Dad,” she wheedled, “you don’t need one. You’re living in luxury with Deirdre.”

  “I may not always want to live out of a suitcase at her flat.” He didn’t want to be dependent on a woman, or his divorce would have been pointless.

  “Deirdre’s loaded. Do you think she’d lend me money for a deposit, if I asked her nicely?”

  “Deirdre has helped you enough. She got you into a job that most marketing graduates would kill for.”

  “I can’t stand it.”

  “Welcome to my world.” She was spoiled, of course; his precious only child. He laid the blame at Rachel’s door. What kind of role model was she for a child: flitting in and out of part-time jobs, and now her marriage too, whining about self-fulfilment? Commuter trains at the crack of dawn, labouring long hours to please unreasonable bosses, being inconvenienced by your work – these were the necessary evils that had paid for a roof over his family’s heads in an idyllic village. His daughter seemed to want a central London flat and a fabulous social life without lifting a finger for it. Of course, Deirdre had all that, but she’d worked hard to achieve it. Her online fitness programme hadn’t grown into a multi-million pound business by itself. She’d put decades of hard graft into it.

  His new relationship was serving its purpose. Slowly, he was recovering from the devastation Rachel had wrought by ending their marriage. More and more, though, he wondered if he’d been too quick to become part of a couple again. While he adored her Mayfair flat, the parties and holidays, he wasn’t ready yet to let Deirdre lock him up with golden chains.

  For one thing, although smoking had brought them together, she didn’t really approve of it. He’d never given up his adolescent habit, and didn’t intend to now. “Just going outside for some fresh air,” he told Amy. She rolled her eyes.

  Chapter 5 Amy

  Amy received two texts on Saturday night: one from Kat, inviting her to a party in Bloomsbury, and another from her mother, Rachel. Would Amy like to come down on the train for Sunday lunch, Rachel wanted to know. The dog was pining for her.

  Amy responded coolly to Rachel’s blatant attempt at emotional blackmail, with a text explaining she was out later and would use Sunday to catch up on sleep. She thought, but didn’t say, that the dog probably missed Charles even more. That hadn’t stopped Rachel discarding him, having decided after twenty years that marriage and domesticity were boring.

  The dog, Captain, was a sweet old thing and Amy felt a pang of regret. Concerns about his future nagged at her. Rachel, her hair newly cut and dyed, was starting to wear miniskirts and dip into internet dating. She would downsize when the house was sold. It was conceivable there would be no place for Captain in her smaller, trendier new life, and what then? Two girls in a shoebox couldn’t keep a dog. Nor could Charles, an uneasy lodger in another woman’s flat.

  Amy’s worries were soon forgotten when Kat arrived home with another young woman in tow.

  “We thought we’d get changed here,” Kat said. “This is Jenny, by the way.”

  Jenny, a leggy brunette with an extremely short haircut, tutted. “Call me January,” she said peevishly. “That’s my professional name.”

  “Sorry, January.” Kat was trying, and failing, to stifle a chuckle.

  “Didn’t your hair catch fire this week?” Amy asked.

  “Oh yes, I’m newly-shorn. It was all extensions anyway,” January said. “Like my new dress? I bought it for the party.” She shook out a silky black number from a Vivienne Westwood carrier bag.

  Amy tried not to gasp at the price tag: seven hundred pounds. “How did you know there was a party?” she asked. “Kat only just told me.”

  January grinned. “I always party on a Saturday night,” she said. “We have to turn the invitations away. Kat, where can I go to put this dress on?”

  “You either share with me, or it’s the bathroom,” Kat replied.

  January chose the latter. “My goodness, this place is minute!” she exclaimed. “My flat in Covent Garden is much bigger.”

  “How can you afford it?” Amy asked.

  “My friends help,” January’s muffled voice said from the bathroom.

  “We’d better get going,” Kat said. “You’re ready, aren’t you, Amy? Can you zip me up, please?”

  “Marc Jacobs, I see,” Amy said, admiring Kat’s tight green frock. Where did Kat find the money for designer labels like that? Amy’s own garment, from the high street’s finest, felt drab, even though she’d chosen blue to match her eyes and a short hemline to show off her legs. “We’re a bit late. It’s after midnight.”

  “That’s when the party starts.” January had emerged looking like a film star in her new outfit. “Anyway, we already had to beg to leave work early.”

  Their destination was just the other side of Tottenham Court Road. Kat had booked a cab already and it was waiting in the car park as they left.

  “Just so you know,” Kat said, “our host tonight is Ali, who’s a student from the Gulf. He was playing blackjack and baccarat earlier with his uncle. They’re not allowed to gamble or drink back home, so they like to do it here. He says their house is amazing.”

  “It is,” January said. “They showed me pictures earlier. Ali won big at baccarat, so he’s in a good mood.”

  They were welcomed to the tall Georgian townhouse in Gordon Square by a butler with a guest list. “Look, here we are,” Kat said, pointing to the list. “January plus two.”

  “Very good,” the flunky sniffed, crossing out the name with a fountain pen. “Please ascend to the first floor, to the drawing room at the front.”

  The party was in full swing. An effete, tuxedoed young man was playing a white baby grand. Waiters handed out cocktails to the guests, a group of good-looking girls in long dresses and mostly young and handsome men. Even so, heads turned as Kat and January entered the room in their designer dresses.

  “Look, that’s Craig Miller, the soap star,” January cried. “Listen, girls, would you like a snort before we start?”

  “Not for me,” Kat said. Craig Miller had caught her eye, and she headed to his side for a chat.

  Amy declined as well, grabbing a drin
k and downing it as quickly as possible. She’d never had the money or inclination to touch drugs. In a huff, January left her in search of a bathroom, saying acidly she hoped it would be larger than Amy’s.

  As champagne cocktails flowed freely, Amy relaxed. Ali, an attractive long-haired youth in his twenties, greeted her briefly and made some introductions to put her at ease. Most of the guests, she learned, were medical students like Ali or artist friends of his uncle. None of them seemed remotely interested in a date, but were willing to chat. In time, Kat joined her again.

  “No luck with Craig?” Amy asked.

  Kat pulled a face. “I could have gone home with him if I wanted to.”

  “I would have,” Amy said, admiring Craig’s regular features and the athletic figure revealed by his taut T-shirt. He was talking to January now, his arm around her waist. “Looks like January’s about to.”

  “No,” Kat replied. “That’s who she’s after.” She pointed to Ali, a pretty girl hanging on each arm, and his podgy, balding uncle.

  “Ali? He’s surely taken already.”

  “His uncle,” Kat said, as January disengaged from Craig and made a beeline for their hosts. “He’s loaded, which is the single quality January seeks in a man. She told you her friends helped her, didn’t she? I bet she didn’t admit how she chooses them.”

  Chapter 6 Shaun

  A few ghostly traces of mist clung to the Tottenham Marshes. Soon, the blazing sun would vanquish all the freshness of morning. Shaun left the main road and drove into the trading estate. He guided his Merc to the last unit in the cul-de-sac, a low, brown brick oblong surrounded by a car park. A sign below the eaves proclaimed AKD TRADING in bright yellow capitals. They were illuminated at night. The initials held no meaning for Shaun; he had simply chosen a bland, commercial-sounding name.

  Shaun parked outside the front door in a space labelled ‘Reserved for Directors’. Smoked glass windows revealed a man and woman sitting behind a reception desk, certificates framed on the wall behind them. Shaun pressed the buzzer.

  “Come in, Mr Halloran.”

  The door clicked open, and he entered, wiping his shoes carefully before treading on the grey striped carpet tiles. With its light wood furniture, cheese plant and muted colours, the reception area had the appearance of a nondescript commercial premises. That was the whole point.

  The twenty-something woman, her obviously augmented breasts straining within a trim black trouser suit, smiled. “Your big day today,” she said, her voice betraying origins not far from Shaun’s birthplace in Barking.

  “Indeed. We’ll be busy, Kelly,” Shaun said. His excitement was rising. He had spread the word about his speakeasy within both his own milieu and the more broadminded end of the traditional business community.

  Kelly made the place look even more like a conventional establishment, but she couldn’t man the reception desk alone. Shaun needed a heavy, a man to spot trouble as it came through the door, and deter it with his bulk.

  That man was Jeb, at least for now. While he was too valuable to be spared for long, Shaun wanted him there for the first week. Jeb knew everyone in the East End, and everyone knew him. His presence sent the right message to visitors.

  “All right, boss?” Jeb said.

  Shaun gave him a curt nod and allowed Kelly to buzz him through a door to the left of a certificate for the Queen’s Award for Exports. Shaun enjoyed the irony. His business affairs were more geared towards imports, and the only award Her Majesty might be inclined to grant him would be detention at her pleasure.

  A casual visitor would have anticipated a factory or warehouse beyond that door. Nothing could have been further from the sight that greeted Shaun, and his heart swelled with pride as he surveyed it. The cavernous space was lined with red velvet drapes. Backlit shelves held bottles of spirits above a carved wood bar, which had disappeared from an East End boozer closed for refurbishment. That pub, owned by a man who had borrowed from Shaun and refused to repay him, had unaccountably burned down.

  Although the bar was surrounded by leather chesterfields, as if several sets of lounge furniture had clustered together, it was the gaming tables that took centre stage. Roulette, blackjack and poker were all on offer. Like a flock of butterflies, buxom young women in filmy dresses stood by, awaiting the gamblers who would appear within the hour.

  Shaun clapped his hands to gain their attention. “Good morning. We officially open at twelve, and then I hope we never close!” He scanned the young, brightly made-up faces and leered approvingly at the croupiers’ skimpy dresses. There was no uniform as such; this was more hedonistic than Diamonds and the stuffy casinos of the West End. He’d just told them to look appealing. “Don’t forget. It’s your job to keep the punters gambling, drinking and smoking. When they stop, get them to gamble, drink and smoke some more! Who cares what they do, as long as they’re spending money. If they want to shag you, be my guest. There’s a room out the back for that. Just stick to the house rules when you do it: it’s half for me, half for you. Cash goes to Vince at the bar. At the slightest hint that you’re ripping me off, Jeb will search you. Understood?” That was threat enough for anyone; Jeb wasn’t renowned for being gentle. Shaun paused as the girls nodded. “Good. Have fun.”

  He relaxed on one of the chesterfields. “Vince, get me an Old Fashioned.”

  The mixologist, a young, ginger-haired man sporting a leather waistcoat and extravagant sideburns, used tiny tongs to pick up a sugar lump. Placing it in a whisky glass, he sloshed in Angostura bitters with a flourish. Nothing in his delicate manner indicated he’d recently been released from a stretch for GBH.

  Kat glided towards Shaun from one of the blackjack tables. “I take it the staff may smoke?” she said, a glint in her eye.

  “Of course, on your breaks,” Shaun said. He motioned to her to sit next to him. “Join me for one.”

  Kat removed a packet of Sobranie Cocktails from her pocket. She held out a long, thin lilac stick for him to light.

  Shaun obliged, suddenly aware as he bent towards her that this was the closest he’d ever been to her. Smelling her scent and feeling her presence, sparky and alive, he was seized by the urge to take her to the back room. He lit a cigarette for himself and smoked it silently until the feeling passed.

  Kat was wearing a long red dress which covered her completely while revealing her shape. She drew daintily on the cigarette as she said, “I didn’t think you needed to say everything you did. These girls aren’t Jeb’s professionals.”

  “Oh?” Shaun tried not to show his surprise.

  “He wouldn’t release them from their normal duties. That’s far more lucrative than working here. These ladies are his credit card team, the women who go shopping with stolen cards. They’re good at maths. That’s why he chose them.”

  No doubt with some prompting from her, Shaun thought. Jeb would never be that smart. “You seem to know a lot about Jeb’s business,” he said.

  Kat flashed a smile. “He can be indiscreet when he’s drunk. Or high.”

  “And in the bedroom?” he ventured.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  He’d been right, then. “These girls,” he said cautiously, “can they deal?”

  “Can they do the job? Yes. I went to college for my training, but the basics don’t take long to learn. I’ll be on hand to help them until four, then I have to go back home and get changed for Diamonds.” She drew on the lilac stick. “I don’t suppose I’ll see you there again.”

  “You might,” he said. “But not Jeb.”

  Kat laughed lightly.

  “How do you like my little speakeasy, by the way?” Shaun said, gesturing around the room.

  “You really want to know?” Her green eyes looked into his.

  Shaun felt an involuntary shiver sweep through him and hoped Kat hadn’t noticed. “Yes. How does it compare to Diamonds?”

  “You’re aiming for a different clientele,” Kat said tactfully. She blew out a smoke ring,
a technique Shaun had never been able to master. “I think you have everything you need except a woman’s touch.”

  He was tempted to say she could read his mind. “What do you mean?” he asked instead.

  “The ambience is laddish. Dark leather, strip lights, sports on TV, a single tiny mirror in the ladies.”

  “I see,” Shaun said, adding, “My wife would have spotted all that if she was still alive. She died of breast cancer three years ago.” Of course, with Meg in his life, he wouldn’t have needed this project. His time would have been filled with family parties, picnics in the forest, football coaching for the boys. He might even be retired now, on a private beach in Marbella, watching Meg’s ample bosom burst out of a bikini.

  “I’m sorry,” Kat said. She must have seen his eyes mist.

  “It’s in the past,” he said, although really he was grieving for the future that had been taken away. “Anyhow, thanks for the advice.” He had no intention of following it. In his world, men controlled the purse strings; they were the stars around which women orbited.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, stubbing out the cigarette. “See you around.”

  “Just one thing,” Shaun said. “I’d like you back next week, in case we have any issues. Can you do that?”

  “You mean I may need to train replacements?” Kat asked. “Sure. You’re wise to ask. The girls mostly have habits, and I don’t mean like these.” She pointed to the Sobranies. “You’ll need to watch the cash round here like a hawk.”

  “Oh, I shall,” Shaun said grimly.

  “By the way,” Kat said, “I guess you couldn’t get Snow Mountain.”

  His eyes narrowed, flicking up to the pink-lit shelf where six other vodkas were on display. He had quite forgotten his laughing promise to stock the brand. Without considering why she should care, he resolved to keep his word. “I’ll see to it,” he said.

  “High five,” Kat said, holding up her hand.