Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  Even as Maltese issued a death sentence to a long-held dream, Jack marvelled at how beautiful the words sounded in that sing-song Italian accent. Even so, the man didn’t know when to stop. Enough, already. You made your point. Jesus Christ though. He was furious with himself. He would never, ever make a mistake like this again.

  ‘I understand, sir,’ he replied. ‘And I am extremely sorry. Thank you for your time.’ He nodded – courteously, he hoped – to the old witch, and sauntered out of the room. Once he was in the lift, he stared at his shocked, sober face in the gilt mirror, and … burst out laughing. You idiot, he muttered. You berk. Wait till Felicia heard this! He couldn’t wait to tell her! She’d want to comfort him …

  ‘Darling! Darling! It’s me!’

  There was no answer. She was probably in the bath. He let himself in to the suite. He could hear the bath running.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he shouted, ripping off his tie. ‘I think you should know. As of today, a blow job from you is worth ten million quid! The old cow who saw us in the lift, she’s only the hotel-owner’s wife! Freaked out when she saw me, and that was it! No deal!’ He was being so cool about it. It was, actually, a disaster. But there were other, better hotels. He’d learned a harsh lesson, that was all. He wondered why Felicia wasn’t answering. She sometimes ignored him (‘Jack, I will not be hollered at from another room!’).

  He shrugged off his jacket and peered in the mirror. And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He whirled around. Water was seeping out of the bathroom, a sly pool of it oozing on to the bedroom floor. He ran, skidding, and time seemed to stand still. She was lying, motionless, in the bath, like a beautiful sculpture. Her still soft red lips were slightly parted, and her thick blond hair tumbled gently over the sides of the marble tub. Her big brown eyes stared at nothing. He could see that she was dead.

  That unspeakable moment seemed to yawn on for ever. He turned off the taps. He lifted her out of the bath and on to the bed. He heard himself sobbing loudly, out of control, like a child. ‘Oh my darling, my darling, Felicia, don’t leave me, oh God, please, no, oh God, I love you so much.’ He dialled Nanny’s room. Immediately, she took over, dialled reception, ordered an ambulance. And, out of nowhere, caught in a sudden hell, he had one shameful spark of a good thought. In the worst, most punishing way possible, his request for a miracle had been answered: the Adoption Agency could not surrender a child to a family with no mother.

  Baby Nathan was out of his life.

  BEDFORDSHIRE, 1970 – 4

  Sharon

  Earl Grey tea was disgusting, like licking the inside of an old lady’s handbag. In fact, loads of English upper-class habits were disgusting. They were a filthy lot, these royals. The Princess might wear earrings that dripped with pearls as big as gobstoppers but she didn’t wash behind her ears. The old geezer was all right; bit of a twit, though. He’d asked where she was from. She said an estate in the East End.

  ‘Marvellous,’ he’d replied. ‘Do you keep horses there?’

  The toffs had no clue about ordinary life. It wasn’t surprising. They lived in a beautiful fairy tale. Sharon had never travelled outside of London before. Her eyes nearly fell out of her head the first time she saw a sheep, alive, in a field – a whole bloody pack of them, just standing there. She’d only ever seen a dead one on a hook in the butcher’s. And where were all the houses? The countryside was empty; there was nothing in it except trees!

  She kept her eyes open and her mouth shut: it was a good rule to live by. If you didn’t speak much, people told you more than they meant to. And you didn’t reveal yourself as ignorant. Besides, she was curious to listen to the Princess talk. She’d expected her to sound like Queen Elizabeth, gargling plums, but she didn’t. Her voice hypnotized you: it was gentle perfection, each word pronounced with the clarity of a silver fork striking crystal.

  At night, she’d lie on her thin bed and mouth the words to herself. Splendid. Vulgar show. A livery lunch. Life in a stately home she could get used to. Of course, she wasn’t living it, although a lady’s maid was a very important role. For now, it was enough to press her face against the window of splendour. Yes, she was a servant, but at home she’d been a servant also, only unpaid. It was a laugh to look after her mistress’s wardrobe; the dresses were sumptuous, spectacular – in a Cinderella-goes-to-the-ball way. Sometimes she’d giggle to herself, imagining how the Princess would react if she laid out a pair of jeans. Her best mate from school, Cheryl, said it was luck – the hell it was. It had taken Sharon years to reach this point. She’d written to the Careers Expert on Woman & Home with her question. She’d put Cheryl’s address on the SAE. She didn’t trust her own family; they had no respect. The response was bloody depressing:

  A lady’s maid has usually worked as a dressmaker. She has to know how to iron and look after special materials. When her employer is to attend a function, the lady’s maid must lay the correct clothes ready on the bed: gloves, handbag, hat. Often, they do their mistress’s hair and make-up. Also they travel with their mistress; they must know the proper clothes to pack and unpack. They fold silk paper between the clothes, it is quite a talent …

  She’d travelled to the King’s Road on the bus and spent two months’ wages on a white floral brocade mini-dress, a pair of white sheer Wolsey tights, and a pair of white patent shoes with kitten heels and ankle straps – very Twiggy, she thought as she surveyed herself in the mirror. And, thanks to her diet of poverty, she was very much the same shape. She accessorized with a cheap leather handbag; the outfit was so dear, she prayed that they’d assume the same of the bag.

  She planned to march into Bazaar and ask for a job. But as she approached 138a King’s Road that Saturday afternoon, she saw the two most chic young women in the window display tweaking an exquisitely attired mannequin, and her courage drained away. She walked home, hating herself. ‘My uncle’s a tailor,’ said Cheryl doubtfully. ‘He works in a factory in Farringdon. He might help you.’

  The man’s name was Mr Kroll; he was Polish and wore his hair slicked back, like a fifties matinee idol. He earned fifteen pounds a week making skirts, coats, jackets, by hand, for Harrods and Selfridges. He took pity on her. He made his own clothes at home; she could come and watch. It took him two days to make a coat; he didn’t have the equipment. He pinched the patterns from the workshop. Every evening, she sat in his tiny basement flat. The room was hot and smelled of burnt fabric, because of the iron, but she liked the peace. He worked fast; his mouth full of needles, a tape measure round his neck and square bars of white wax in his pocket for marking the material. After a while, he let her cut; the cloth was soft to the touch.

  She’d taken along samples of her work to the agency – she died when she thought about it. The woman (her platinum hair was blown back from her face as if she lived in a wind tunnel) said, ‘How charming, but I’m afraid you’re twenty years behind. Certainly, once a lady’s maid would require the skills of a dressmaker. Now it’s all so different, of course.’

  Of course.

  She couldn’t just breeze into a top-level household as a lady’s maid!

  ‘There is a vacancy for a parlourmaid at the London residence of Lady Home,’ said the old cow. ‘You’ll have to be vetted.’

  Like a dog! She hadn’t the foggiest who Lady Home might be, and was pleasantly surprised when she turned out to be the wife of the Foreign Secretary. It would make scrubbing shit pots worth her while.

  The first time she’d stepped inside the elegant Nash house, with its curling stairway, gold embossed ceilings and glittering candelabra, she had to fight to keep her jaw shut. There were marble busts on pedestals in the State Dining Room, and beautiful portraits of ladies in flowing dresses on the panelled walls (no eyelashes, though, why did those olden-days artists never paint in eyelashes?). There were magnificent fireplaces, filled with logs – an arse to clean; she was relieved to see a two-bar electric fire standing primly before each one.

  She didn’t s
ee as much of the toffs as she would have liked. They travelled, and she spent too much time in the kitchen, polishing brass. But it was a busy house, guests always dropping in, more work for her. She didn’t care, as long as she could watch and listen. Once, she heard Lord Home shouting about ‘the lights left blazing all night in every cupboard and room!’ But it was the only time she heard him raise his voice. And the wife was jolly, laughing on the telephone: ‘I never do know, when I go to bed, how many are actually sleeping in the house!’

  That’s because you don’t have to skivvy after them, she thought, but the woman was kind to her. They had dogs, Labradors and a funny-looking thing, a cut ‘n’ shut called Muddle. The Mistress caught her petting it. She thought she was for it, but Lady Home (that dreadful blue tweed twin set did nothing for her round shoulders; she needed a lady’s maid, someone who read Honey, at least) said, ‘She’s half corgi, half poodle. She’s an odd-looking thing, but much loved.’

  Lady Home was a proper lady, and he was a gent, and she noted exactly how. Lady Home was unflappable, she put people at their ease, never said the wrong thing. He was the same. There was a copper, supposed to ‘tail’ Lord Home the short walk to Parliament, but each day, she saw him invite the man to walk beside him; they always seemed to be deep in conversation. It was a fine education but she couldn’t hang around. She did her time then returned to the agency with her golden ticket: a personal recommendation from Lady Home herself.

  ‘As this is royalty,’ said the old bat, greed shining in her eyes, ‘you will be interviewed by the House Manager.’

  This time, she took no chances. She saw the way he leered at her, and moistened her lips. Then she got down on her knees, unzipped his stiffly starched trousers – not quite as stiff as their contents – and gave him the Rolls-Royce of blow jobs. His cock was fresh at least; it smelt of Pears’ soap.

  She was enjoying herself when, to her annoyance, she found herself yanked upwards by her hair and bent roughly over the seventeenth-century mahogany and tulipwood desk (where a priceless blue and yellow porcelain parrot looked her dead in the eye). One hand forced her head down while what felt like a large cucumber prodded urgently round the back of her knickers. She stamped on his foot, and freed herself. Then, batting her eyelashes, she said, ‘When I get the position, sir, I’ll be at your beck and call, won’t I?’

  She waited as he called the agency, and watched him write the letter of engagement. Then she slowly leaned forwards over the mahogany desk, and gazed, for quite a while, at the porcelain parrot.

  The Princess was a total bitch. She’d sit in the Morning Room, an extravaganza of marble and gold, resting her big feet on a gilt chair covered in antique tapestry, dropping cake crumbs on a carpet originally made for Louis XIV, and she’d moan. Once, she complained about ‘the lower classes’ taking part in a gymkhana in the field across the road from her front gates, mimicking their voices, not caring that she, the servant, was standing two yards away like a lemon! The woman had royal blood, money and privilege – and an inferiority complex!

  The old guy was different. He’d come into the kitchen after a meal to tell Cook, ‘That was wonderful.’ It was more than her dad ever said to her mum! Mind you, everything had to be just so, or he couldn’t cope. When his breakfast table was set, if something wasn’t exactly as it should be – if a pot of jam was too far to the left – he’d call you in. He’d take half an hour to tell you how sorry he was, but it had to be put right. At first, she wondered if he was a bit slow, then it occurred to her that he’d never done anything – anything – for himself, ever.

  The Queen was the nicest of the whole lousy bunch. She was lovely, like a very posh nan. Sharon worried about the Queen. She saw the people who worked for her and thought: God help you, not one of them gives a damn. She did the Queen’s visits, and Her Majesty always asked after her family. Of course, Sharon only spoke when she was spoken to, she didn’t like to chatter on – the Queen had a lot on her mind. Once, the Queen had come with her jewellery safe, and left the whole box with her for the night – that was how much she trusted her! Whereas day after day, she ran the Princess a bath, picked her stinky knickers off the floor, did up the clasp of her emerald and marquise-cut diamond necklace – ‘That’s two million, be careful with it!’ – pinned the Vladimir sapphires on straight – ‘That’s an eight-million-pound tiara, please do mind!’ – and there was sod-all intimacy, for the whole three years. She didn’t care. She learned what was proper – and not. She sucked up etiquette like spaghetti.

  She got to travel with the woman – when they stayed at the George V in Paris (before they sold off all the antiques) and the Princess left for the State Banquet at the Élysée Palace, she let herself go, for once, and danced on the balcony in the rain. She got to fuck the House Manager (it was a diversion) until he was sacked for sticking his hand down a parlourmaid’s dress. The Princess was stalking down the pink marble staircase, saw them, and went mad; she wasn’t getting any and didn’t see why anyone else should.

  He left, sour. ‘They’ve got money,’ he said. ‘But they’ve got nothing else.’

  She couldn’t see the problem.

  By the time Sharon Marshall met Jack Kent, she was quite the lady.

  LONDON, 1978-82

  Nathan

  ‘Walk!’ screamed Stockley. ‘Walk!’

  The trouble was that Nathan was eleven months old, and try as he might, he couldn’t walk.

  Stockley ripped off his leather belt.

  When Clare put Nathan in the bath that night, the water turned red.

  Stockley was passed out cold on the bed. Clare glanced at her watch – ten past midnight – and sighed. She’d get a few hours’ peace now and, God knew, she deserved it, after the evening she’d had. Stockley had been in an evil mood. She’d cringed at the noise, then she’d had to leave the room. No mother wants to see her kid suffer.

  It was Nathan’s fault. He always had such a face on him, bloody miserable child. Always cringed when Stockley came in the room – why did he do that? It made it worse. Stockley would get more and more tense – no one likes to be hated. You could hardly blame him. The snivelling would drive a saint insane.

  All the same, she couldn’t bear to see the kid hit. She loved kids, although boys, huh, boys were difficult, all that testosterone. She preferred girls. But she couldn’t say no. Fostering was her only income – if you could call it that. The allowances were pitiful, barely enough for a pack of smokes.

  She was a good foster mother all in all; it was the kids that were difficult. She was doing a good thing here, taking in these unwanted kids. She had to have something for herself. And Stockley made her feel good … when he made her feel good. He was a good man – all those muscles, from being a mechanic.

  She’d treat herself. She deserved a treat. She nipped downstairs – a nice can of McEwan’s, pack of B&H, read of the Sun and, ooh, there were some Quality Street in her bag, she was sure of it. You got to spoil yourself! She crept back upstairs, holding her breath past Nathan’s room. Sometimes she’d hear him grizzling but tonight he was as silent as the grave. She shut her bedroom door. Something felt different. No, she was jumpy, that was all. She wasn’t sure when she dozed off, but she woke with a start. Her first instinct was to hide the empty can; Stockley didn’t approve of women drinking. Bloody hell, how many fags had she smoked? It reeked worse than the boozer on a Friday night!

  She must be coming down with something, she was sweltering. She coughed. Christ, some nutcase was having a bonfire. At this hour? There was a crackle, a loud bang and the light went off. She hated the dark! Shit, what was going on – it was like, fucking hell, the house was on fire – it was on fucking fire!

  She screamed, ‘Stockley, wake up!’ but he was like a dead man. She staggered, whimpering, to the bedroom door, her hands stretched out against the blackness, stumbling over a sharp object on the floor. She was gasping, gibbering with fear. She turned the doorknob. It was locked.

  ‘Sto
ckley!’ she shouted. ‘Where’d you put the fucking key! The house is burning!’ She dropped to her knees, shaking, feeling blindly around the floor – don’t panic, don’t panic – the key must have dropped out. Nothing. But it didn’t make sense. She’d gone downstairs a few hours ago, the door had opened then. She was choking now, thick, acrid smoke was filling her lungs and burning her eyes, and the heat was terrible. She grabbed the doorknob again and screamed. It was as if she’d pressed her hands to the inside of a hot oven.

  ‘Oh God,’ she cried. The skin on her right hand felt wet and loose, and the pain shot up her arm; it felt as if a wild animal was eating her alive. Sobbing, retching, she crawled to the window. There was a hissing, crackling sound, and the edges of the bedroom door were lit up orange, as in The Exorcist. Hell was coming for her. She rattled the window, but it was stuck fast: Stockley, painting it over in the early days, slamming it shut before the paint had dried.

  ‘Help me!’ she tried to shout, but she could barely breathe. Only a thin whisper of sound escaped.

  Her eyes stung, but she could make out a crowd of people standing on the pavement. Some had their hands over their mouths; a woman in a dressing gown was crying, pointing. A fire engine – oh for the love of heaven, hurry, hurry – and the pigs, and, and … Oh why didn’t they get a fucking ladder up to her, and … ‘Oh Christ, the flames,’ she screamed as the bedroom door seemed to explode, and a great red ball of fire sucked into the room, or sucked the room into it. She felt the hair singe on the back of her neck—

  Stockley was awake now, screaming. Penny for the Guy, she thought blankly, here is a man burning alive. He smelled like bacon. She was an animal now, she didn’t care about him, his pain was white noise.