Summer in Mayfair

by Susannah Constantine

  Aware she was going to have to make her pay packet last, she decided against coughing up for a bus or Tube fare, and so Esme walked to Buckingham Palace Road and started for Battersea.

  The pavements were hot enough to have shimmering heat hazes in patches. The unrelenting heat had been absorbed by the roads and buildings and now it felt like they were pumping it back out. The tar was like poured liquorice in the streets. In the distance, she heard the growl of thunder rise up over a bank of building cloud. The parched stony soil in the park showed through the thin grass which was balding in great swathes that had been exploited by too many picnic rugs and sunbathers. Gold-crested bins were overflowing with waste. City dwellers had no respect, she thought, chucking their rubbish wherever they felt inclined, be it out of a car window or here in Her Majesty’s garden.

  As she eventually approached Battersea, Esme thought it must be close to feeding time as she could hear the dogs barking and howling across the rooftops. The closer she got to the refuge the more intense the noise became so she had to shout at the lady in reception.

  ‘I’m here to meet the journalist from the Camden Journal; Dan is his name.’

  The young woman played with a piercing in her nose. Her face was set in a mean expression of confrontation. A woman not to be charmed by anything unless they had four legs and a tail. The woman – ‘Tricia’ it said on her name badge – looked at Esme with unsympathetic eyes.

  ‘He’s in the canine block. Sign in,’ she said pointing at a form.

  ‘May I borrow a pen?’

  Tricia sighed heavily and took a biro from the bun at the back of her head.

  Esme squiggled a signature and asked directions.

  ‘Out the door, through the green gates and left. Ring the buzzer and someone will let you in. We close at five thirty sharp.’

  The flagstones in the dog run were slippery and wet with undertones of ammonia that had been mixed to disinfect the compound. As a child Esme had harboured a dream to work here, inspired by her own dog Digger, himself a Battersea boy. The chemical residue made her eyes sting, adding to the combined misery of messing up her career and losing the roof over her head.

  Suddenly, all was peace and stillness, as though the elements were obeying that sacred law of calm before the storm. For a moment, the birds had stopped singing, the dogs barking; just the clanking of metal grilles and the distant hum of traffic.

  She pressed the buzzer which sounded off someway in the internal workings of the pound and she soon heard the soft pad of rubber-soled shoes. Then the click of a switch and the door unlocked.

  The corridor was pleasantly cool and bright with a bank of cages along each side. As soon as she passed the first kennel it set off an alarm of barking, whining and yapping. Every dog had its own stark kennel with a bowl of water and a solitary toy. Some leapt snarling in terror wrapped up in aggression, others sat quivering in a corner with uncomplaining acceptance of past suffering. Snarling dogs had been owned by snarling people and dangerous people had dangerous dogs. A dog was never sad in a happy family and so many of these dogs carried the trauma of beatings or abandonment. It was terribly sad to think there was such cruelty and for a moment Esme understood Tricia’s distrust of people. After all, Esme had never had a human relationship that was as free from strife, disagreement or frustration as the one she had had with Digger. Bending down to make eye contact with a scruffy cross-breed possibly of spaniel/beagle heritage, the skewbald mongrel crept towards her, his tail wagging timidly and head down in submission. He sniffed her hand and gave it a small lick.

  Just then, Dan appeared and sat down on his haunches next to her, putting his own hand through the grille to stroke the dog.

  ‘He’s adorable, isn’t he? Frisky is his name.’

  ‘Yes, he is. He’s the only one not barking or whining,’ said Esme.

  ‘I’m glad you came. I didn’t see you leave the party the other night. Did you have fun?’ he asked with a knowing smile.

  ‘Well…’ Esme didn’t know where to begin.

  ‘I did. A lot,’ he said with a look that was coy but persistent, as if to show that they could be candid with each other.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t remember much about it,’ she said in an attempt at diplomacy. She didn’t know how good a friend David was to Dan so she felt she could hardly say how ghastly she’d found the whole night. And that would only draw attention back to her antics.

  ‘I can reassure you that you were magnificent.’ He laughed salaciously. ‘I tried to find you after the poker game but you had disappeared.’

  ‘What about Cece?’

  ‘She was a mess. I don’t know what she’d drunk or snorted but I saw a different side to her. All her jealousy came out as a kind of disdain for what she longs for: class, breeding. She’s so envious of everything we have and coming from her background she can’t bear to see inherited wealth or people enjoying it.’

  She was glad the memory of her own conduct was still fuzzy. She’d been so busy thinking about her mistakes that she’d forgotten how off Cece had been with her.

  ‘All I ask of a friend is loyalty and she kicked off on one, accusing me of things she has no right to concern herself with. It was embarrassing,’ continued Dan. ‘There’s no place in my life for chippiness and envy. I told her if she felt like that we should probably cool things off. I want a girl who loves me and loves a good time.’

  Esme nodded, glad the focus was on Cece rather than her own drunken striptease.

  ‘She told me to bring all this vodka and stuff and then proceeded to ignore me all night,’ Esme said, and then felt the guilt of disloyalty as a snapshot memory of Cece covering her up with her dress and taking her to the bathroom flashed before her. She struggled to remember at which point of the night it was.

  ‘When did you leave?’

  ‘Too late.’ She wondered if he didn’t realize they had slept in the same bed, with Cece between them. Did she pass out after him and Cece? She tried to recall going to bed but had no memory of anything after being kissed by Scumbag. She shuddered.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, running a finger down her cheek.

  ‘I only meant to drop in at the party. I was meant to be going to a work thing. Bill went fucking berserk when he found out I’d missed it.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘It was with this photographer. Bill asked me to buy some of his work but it had all sold when I finally got there. Bill shouldn’t have trusted me. I’ve let him down. No wonder he went mad. It’s entirely my fault and I missed a golden opportunity for him. He’s done so much for me.’

  ‘Sounds like he seriously overreacted. And what was he thinking in giving you so much responsibility? I’d say he’s the one at fault for asking so much of you. Bit like putting an anemone in a tank with circling sharks. I’m sure he’ll calm down and see it was a big ask. It’s not your fault.’

  Esme steadied. She felt the relief of being supported by someone who had walked into her life when the rest of the world had walked out; a sense that someone strong was on her side. Under the warmth of Dan’s opinion, a seed of resentment towards Bill sprouted.

  ‘And he gave me all this cash which I had to carry around like a human piggy bank. I was a walking target for muggers but in the end it was someone at the party who took it. You didn’t see anything, did you?’

  Dan shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’ He gave her a concerned glance and Esme felt encouraged to go on.

  ‘When I told him the money had been stolen he drove off in a huff. For all he knew, I might have been attacked or beaten up but he was only concerned about his sodding pictures.’ Esme stopped, aware how self-pitying she sounded and tried to backpedal. ‘But I still can’t believe I let all this happen. Honestly, I’m more furious with myself than poor Bill.’

  Dan assessed her as though her welfare, her fearful heart, had long been his concern. His idling gaze was hypnotic, the huge dark pupils seemed to fill his eyes like he was working on a sc
heme of imminent gratification. There was something confidently patient about him, neither lecherous nor rushed but predatory all the same.

  ‘Why don’t we go and meet some more canine friends?’

  He put his arm through hers and they continued along the corridor.

  ‘Want one?’ he said, offering a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘We can’t smoke in here.’

  ‘The dogs won’t tell,’ said Dan with a conspiratorial grin.

  ‘But it’s not good for them.’

  ‘Do you remember that scandal about the smoking beagles a few years ago?’

  ‘Smoking dogs?’

  ‘Yes. An undercover journalist took pictures of beagles being forced to smoke in an experiment to test a new cigarette. The scientists trussed the dogs up, attached the cigarettes to their muzzles so they couldn’t move.’

  ‘Oh my God, that’s horrendous,’ said Esme, not wanting to imagine such brutality.

  ‘Truly shocking, no? But it shows you what good journalism can reveal.’

  ‘It’s an appalling story. Have you ever had a dog?’

  ‘No. I’m too selfish but I do love them. You?’

  Esme told him about Digger; how he had shared in her sorrows and stuck by her through thick and thin.

  ‘I think a dog is the only thing on Earth that loves you more than he loves himself.’

  ‘That’s so true,’ said Esme. Digger had been the only creature who understood. Tears welled in her eyes.

  ‘I’ve upset you. Come on, let’s go and have a smoke outside.’

  The storm was rolling in now, heralded by claps of thunder and lightning and dark clouds that held a well of tears far greater than Esme’s own. There was an ominous majesty in the sky that managed to overshadow her brooding self-pity. The temperature had dropped at long last and the wind increased. The dogs began to howl from within. A boom of thunder crumpled the sky, nearer than before.

  ‘’Scuse me, can’t you read?’ It was Tricia, pointing a ring-laden finger at the ‘No Smoking’ sign. ‘If you’re going to do that, I suggest you scram before I throw you out.’

  She wore a high visibility jacket with the hood pulled over her head. Every time a flash of lightning streaked across the sky she lit up like a beacon.

  ‘We were going anyway but thank you for your time and co-operation. I’d like you to know that you will be the headline of my feature,’ said Dan. ‘There is only one Bitch at Battersea.’ And with that he grabbed Esme’s hand and they ran out the gates, not stopping until they reached the park.

  ‘I can’t believe you said that!’ said Esme, laughing and out of breath.

  A plop of water hit her on the face, one of those early raindrops that turns up a few seconds before a deluge. And then it came. The rain thundered down so heavily that she could imagine that the park itself was made of water and an ocean had come to wash away the angry summer heat. Within moments she was wet through. Her shirt clung to her and hair streaked around her face. She felt unsteady and held on to Dan as they took cover under a tree. Water collected in the ossified leaves like sinking boats and spilled out as the wind tugged at its branches.

  Hauling in a breath to steady her thumping heart, Esme held it, then turning to Dan, she found him standing so close they were touching. Shutting her eyes, she let her head tip back and fleetingly she felt Dan’s lips brush hers. Sensation flared at the brief contact and Dan’s mouth curved upward, as she heard a low teasing laugh. A small part of her mind tried to warn her that this was not a good idea but she was past listening. His mouth met hers again, slowly this time, with an assured arrogance that it would not be rejected.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dan looked down at her, his eyes as dark as the thunderclouds.

  ‘We need to get out of here before lightning strikes. We don’t want to burn to a crisp and ruin this magical moment,’ he laughed.

  By the time they found a cab, the rain had drenched Dan’s jacket, which he had given her in a futile attempt to protect her from the storm. As he cast aside the now heavy denim, Esme didn’t question where they were going. The heat of her desire and strength of the rain washed all caution from her.

  They tumbled into the back of the taxi and Dan chucked his jacket on the rubber matting, still branded with a previous passenger’s footprints. The windows steamed up so Esme only had a vague notion that they were headed north. She could see from the glow of the driver’s dashboard that he had had to put his headlights on. The rain hammered on the roof, skittering across metal, then tipped onto the windscreen as the wipers tick-tocked frantically in a frenzied bid to swipe away the water. Visibility was murky at best and every now and the wheels tugged through surface water already overflowing from drains.

  Esme shivered.

  ‘I need to get you into a hot shower,’ said Dan, pulling her into him. ‘’Scuse me – it’s just here on the left.’

  The driver pulled over and Esme and Dan made a mad sprint down a dicey stairwell. Dan rummaged in his pocket and fumbled with the lock.

  Inside, the flat was dark and smelt musty and dank with a pinch of dust – a little acrid, as if it were haunted by the ghosts of long-dead hops.

  Assorted coats and shoes lay in a pile at the end of the narrow entrance hall to which Dan added his wet jacket and cowboy boots with white stitching. Esme followed suit and took off her own shoes, placing them neatly against the skirting.

  He turned on a naked lightbulb that hung from the ceiling and shone its prying beam over the dilapidated state of his home. There was nothing to be proud of here, thought Esme. Nothing that represented the ego-driven polish of the man who presented himself as a quasi-intellectual. It was filthy and unappealing in every possible way.

  ‘There are towels in the bathroom,’ he said, picking up a shirt that had been flung over the back of a worn sofa. ‘Here. Take this to change into.’

  ‘Thanks. I won’t be long.’

  The shower room was like the rest of the flat – small, dingy and cluttered. Clothes filled bin liners, empty bottles lay discarded and the place reeked of damp. She turned on the shower, took off her clothes and stepped into the cubicle, careful not to brush the plastic curtain speckled with mildew. So much for hot water. The tepid dribble did little to warm her up but she was able to wash her hands and face.

  Still shivering, she gingerly dabbed herself with a towel that hadn’t had a chance to dry since it was last used. The shirt Dan had given her to wear was scarcely large enough to do up over her chest. Was it Cece’s? She told her conscience to be quiet and dried her feet with whatever was hanging over the towel rail. Too late she realized it was a pair of boxer shorts – but her phobia of walking on a dirty floor with wet feet required desperate measures. At least he didn’t wear Y-fronts.

  Once dry and semi-dressed, she inspected herself in the smeared mirror. It still showed bloodshot eyes and her mouth was dry and claggy. She found some toothpaste poking out amongst aftershave (Vetiver), deodorant, hair gel, an incongruous lip-gloss and a stash of condoms carelessly chucked into a shoe box at the foot of the sink. The toothpaste was Signal (not Colgate, which was more expensive), and had a bead of dry stripy paste at its opening which she wiped off, then squeezed onto a finger. She put her mouth to the tap but changed her mind when she saw the limescale. Taking one last look in the mirror, she smoothed back her hair and took a deep breath.

  When she came out, she found Dan had done a speedy clean-up. The flat no longer looked as though it had been inhabited by a pack of wild cats – with books hastily stacked and rubbish dispatched away from view, it was still squalid.

  ‘Dan?’

  She saw a note on the kitchen counter.

  ‘Gone to get a cure. Back in 10. D x’

  A cure for what? Looking at the table, it could be for any number of things, with food poisoning getting top billing. A half-eaten tin of baked beans, topped with a crusty coating had obviously been opened for a very long time. The fork used to eat the beans had oxid
ized to a lethal shade of green. Was it the fork that had done that to the beans or the beans that had done it to the fork? She opened the tiny fridge to find nothing but Heinz Salad Cream and a wedge of mouldy pork pie. Esme was starving but even the butter was she found on the worktop was rancid and the sliced bread next to it was flecked with mould. There was a smell of decay that must have intensified during the heat wave and Esme lifted the venetian blind to open the window. The slats were covered in grease and most were bent at sharp right angles so that it couldn’t be raised. Outside the downpour had strengthened and Mother Nature was doing her best to douse the heat. It was dark and raging. A storm where diabolical deeds are done. She saw a figure moving down the street holding their coat over their head with one hand and carrying something in the other. Despite the rain, he walked in long unhurried strides.

  Esme sprang back from the window as Dan approached his front door.

  He shook himself, tossed his jacket on the ground and used his shirttails to dry his face. His curls hung straight with the weight of the rain. All that was missing was an ark and his pairs of animals.

  ‘I mean, we needed the rain but this is insane. The canal looks close to bursting its banks,’ he said, grinning. ‘But it meant there was no queue in the wine shop.’

  He hand-opened a bottle and handed her a shot of something black that smelt of fermented mouthwash. She gagged.