As the cool wine hits my lips again, the tension of the day begins to fade into the background of my mind and the random notes of the tune from Friday evening replace it.
I fight the lonely pang that hits my chest at having no one close to share my down time with. I’ve always promised myself that I don’t need a man in my life and that if it were meant to be, then it will. But a small crevice of my heart longs for someone who will support and love me, and share their life with me.
I gulp a mouthful of wine, bringing a halt to my self-induced pity party.
Every few months the same thoughts and desires seep into my mind and take over like an infection. I think of Mrs Banks and her photos for her husband and laugh. If I were married tomorrow, I’d be pushing eighty before my forty-fifth wedding anniversary. There certainly isn’t a groom in sight. There will have to be a boyfriend first, and that’s proving hard enough.
I shake my head clear, sending my wavy blond hair scattering around my face. Picking myself up, I leave the garden and top up my wine before changing into a pair of slouchy pyjamas.
The song that has rooted itself in my brain begins to play in my mind, and I hum along to a few notes, unsure of where the melody will take me.
The drizzle isn’t what I want to walk through on my way to work, but the weather is perpetually bad in London. It makes it difficult to schedule any outside shoots, and of course, those are some of my best work.
I put the kettle on after opening up and take a seat on the sofa in the reception area. I’m distracted by a race of rain drops sliding down the window pane, a desperate battle to reach the window ledge first.
The jangle of the bell as Jenny breezes in spoils my concentration and I don’t see which droplet wins.
“Good morning,” she chirps. My eyes pop as I watch her tuck herself behind the desk and get set up.
“Good morning,” I reply, stunned that this is the same girl from yesterday.
“Before you say anything, I know. I’m sorry about the way I’ve been treating you. I’ve been a bitch, and you haven’t deserved any of my venom.”
“Well, thank you for saying that. Have you got everything… taken care of? You seem happier today.”
She pauses for a moment, and a ghost of something crosses her features. The creases around her eyes crinkle for a moment before she glosses them back smooth. “I think I have. But I sort of need another favour.” She smiles as she wrings her hands together.
“Excuse me? Aren’t we still in the middle of the last favour I did for you?” I shift back into the sofa and take a sip from my mug of tea.
“This time it’s different. You’ll like this one.” She comes to join me, all excited. “When was the last time you had a date?”
I roll my eyes, horrified she's so blunt. She knows it’s been months. “I can’t remember. A while,” I confirm, not happy about the turn of conversation.
“Well then, this is just what you need. I have a date on Friday evening.”
“Yes?” I follow along with her, wondering what plan she’s designed.
“And I’d love it if you could go in my place. He’s, well, he’s a business type, and there’s this other guy I’ve been seeing.”
“You’ve double booked?”
“Kind of. What do you say?”
“Why can’t you just cancel? It’s a blind date for goodness sake.”
“Yes, I could. But this way you get a date and so do I. We both win. This guy sounds more your type anyway. More sophisticated. He’s taking me to The Regal, so he’s not too shabby. What do you say?”
I stare at her for a moment, reading her face. She’s edgy about something, and dread pools in my stomach that she’s doing this because he’s a total loser.
“Have you met this man before?” I enquire.
“No. It’s through a dating app.”
“So, what’s the problem with cancelling?”
“Fine. I will. It doesn’t matter. I just thought you could do with a night off. You’ve not been with a guy in forever.” My defences shoot up, and Jenny’s warm demeanour from a few moments ago is now frosty
“Don’t be so mean about it, Jenny. Some of us have responsibilities. I’ll find a guy when I’m ready.”
“I was trying to say sorry and get you to have some fun. That’s what friends do, isn't it? Come on, where’s the harm?”
I mull over Jenny’s offer. I have been grumbling about the men, or the lack thereof, in my life. Perhaps this is an opportunity I should take. Jenny’s eyes are wide with anticipation. She shifts, edging closer to me, and I feel the silent pressure from her. She’s more eager for me to go on this date than she is for her own.
“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll go, but if he’s a jerk, I want an escape plan. You call me after half an hour, and if I answer, you’re my excuse. Deal?”
“Okay, drama queen.” She smiles a genuine, happy smile, but relief flecks her eyes. Her arms are around my neck, and she pulls me against her in a quick hug. I reciprocate before she pulls away and stands abruptly.
“You’re going to have fun. I promise. Thank you,” she sings as she claps her hands together.
“It’s just a blind date. It’s not a problem.”
“You might need to pretend to be me. Is that okay?”
“So, I introduce myself as Jenny. Anything else I need to know?”
“No, no. Dress up. Let your hair down. We can sort the finer details during the week.” She bounces back to her desk and seats herself, looking content.
I let the plans percolate and find that despite the odd circumstances, a flutter of excitement wakes in my stomach. Jenny’s right. It has been too long, and I shouldn’t give up just because I’ve been on a losing streak.
Jenny delivers a cup of coffee to my desk mid-morning. The last few days of roller-coaster mood swings are back on an even keel. “Hey, Jenny, is there a profile pic of this guy? And what’s his name?” I’ve found myself imagining him in my mind—tall, ruggedly handsome with intense eyes.
“Sure. His name is Jonathan Hannover.”
“Jonathan. Right. And a picture?” I roll the name over in my mind picturing someone who is much older than me. Maybe he’s a silver fox, greying at the temples?
“Oh, I wouldn’t believe everything people put on their profiles.”
“If he’s a toad then I’ll be excusing myself and running to the bathroom to escape.”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover, Emily. Looks aren’t everything,” she scolds.
“I know. I’ve had a few blind dates in my time. I can handle it.”
Thursday evening finally greets me, but instead of slumping into my chair and curling up with the latest edition of Practical Photographer as I normally would, I’m rifling through my wardrobe, ready for tomorrow.
My hands run along the rainbow of coloured garments hanging in front of me. I’ve never had the problem of what to wear before. Most of my dresses are modest and conceal much of my cleavage, or I team a skirt with a top, my attempt at making my figure look more hourglass than it is.
I pull a dress from the haven’t-worn-in-forever end and study it. A creamy lace material with embroidered flowers, it has a sweetheart neckline which will only draw attention. I don’t want to give the wrong impression on a first date, but the dress is pretty. Cinched in at the waist, it flows down to my knees. It’s a summer dress really, but if I wear a jacket, I could get away with it.
I try it on, wrestling my boobs into position, and take a look in the oval Cheval mirror in the corner of the room.
My mismatched eyes make a quick evaluation. The dress is lovely, and it clings to my silhouette beautifully. I shouldn’t be ashamed of my assets. Some women would be envious of my chest. I just always feel uncomfortable in my own skin. Being teased at school for having boobs didn’t help. And not just small, developing breasts, I had full on D cups by the time I was fourteen. Boys would stare, and girls would call me names behind my back. Until Jenny caught them. It
was just another thing people would tease me about. The self-confidence they knocked from me won’t magically reappear anytime soon. I twirl in front of the mirror and take a breath.
This man, this Jonathan, is a complete stranger. It’s a blind date. It might go horribly wrong, and I’ll never have to see him again. Or, he might be gorgeous, and this could be the start of a whirlwind romance. I should wear something I like and feel good in. I can wear what I like. I’ve seen plenty of women flaunt their assets in public. And in a rare moment of courage, I hang the dress up, ready for tomorrow evening.
Chapter Five
London
It’s cold here, has been since I stepped off the plane this morning, but I can’t suppress my need to amble around taking it all in. The last time I stepped off a plane, other than to get me back to Chicago, was in Columbia.
Hardly the same effect.
I tug my scarf closer and watch the traffic pile up as I cross the road. Fucking cars are never ending in this city. I’d almost forgotten how close it all is, the streets cluttering up on each other, ceaseless noise careering around. It makes me chuckle after a while, memories of my youth coming from somewhere in my mind.
Youth. It seems so long ago. It makes me glance over the women milling around, watching their hustle and bustle, children hanging off their arms as they keep going into the night. I’ve forgotten that, relegated it to a place best kept for the less criminally minded. Youth has no place in my life; neither does the imagery associated with it. Josh still lives in that world. I don’t.
I turn the corner, allowing the cold to creep into my bones and remind me of this city. These back streets are as gritty as I remember them—dirt littering corners, dilapidated buildings crumbling above the whores who patrol their territory. I smile and pull my collar up, shaking my head at another advance from one of them as I keep moving with no destination in mind.
“Come on, baby,” she calls after me. “Hundred quid, anything you want.”
Anything I want. One hundred pounds wouldn’t compensate her for the amount I want. Cheap fucking whore. I’d forgotten how easy they are on the streets. It’s not surprising in this part of town, but they should ramp it up a bit, stay in line with fucking inflation at least.
Another mob of them are hanging on the next corner, ready to pounce, so I cross away from them before I do something I shouldn’t. My dick isn’t meant for pussy that’s tainted. It only goes in high-end cunt with a clean bill of health and a mouth that stays shut after the event. It’s best that way. Safer to my business and my family. No connections. No distractions. No chance of death in the middle of it, apart from that one bitch who was after blood for the bullet hole in her father’s skull. Shame, she was attractive for a whore, enjoyable to fuck with.
My phone rings in my pocket.
“Shifty says the girl’s booked for eight-thirty,” Jonathan says, his tone quivering around the jaw I punched this morning. Cause—effect. He didn’t pick seven when the dice rolled on his desk. “She knows what it’s about.” Fucking right she does. A hundred K is a substantial about of gambling debt for one girl. It’s beyond comprehension how Shifty let her rack it up in the first place.
“She a whore?” It’s the only reason I can see for Shifty allowing it. The idiot’s always been partial to a hooker with the ability to wrap him around her fingers. It’s a trait I’ve let slide ‘til now.
“I’m not sure, Mr Cane. I believe she’s been running the debt up for some time. Clearing some, before getting deeper in. It’s been the least of my concerns lately.”
I end the call and carry on along the streets back towards the Regal, one foot in front of the other as I run numbers around my mind and draw in some of the decaying air. It feels good to be back on this ground. My hands hardly touch it anymore. They’re too busy at a computer, running Cane through accounts and systems rather than hitmen and murder. We’ve still got them. It’s necessary to have that backing, but I no longer participate in that part of the game. I employ people like Shifty for that instead. And I fucking pay them well—well enough that a hundred grand should not have been racked up. Not that I give a fuck about the amount. It’s nothing to me; it’s the principle that counts. This is how it starts. Little backhanders, people forgetting to pay and getting away with it. Lies, manipulations, women taking control with their pretty batting lashes and their deviant little grins. Trouble starts like that. The control gets lost under the mess of who owes what to whom. It’s why I’m here. A damned reminder that Quinn Cane doesn’t miss a damn thing and he doesn’t tolerate inaccuracies and fuck ups. My boys don’t fail me. If they do, they die.
“Mr Cane, Sir,” the doorman says as I walk up, holding his hand out to wave me through into the building. “Nice to see you back again. Have a good stay.”
Good is an exaggeration. Good would have meant Hannover sorting all these problems prior to my arrival—before I even got on the plane would have been better. I nod at the faceless man nonetheless and travel through the apartment building towards the elevator, hitting the button for the eighth-floor restaurant. The Cane apartment is two floors above that, somewhere I’ll be heading the moment I’ve dealt with this bitch.
The doors open and Shaun greets me, his face only remembered because of the whores he organises when I’m here. High-end. Professional. They come out of West London somewhere. Perfected and polished. All with a clean medical record, so I fuck into them bare.
“Your table’s waiting, Mr Cane.”
Of course it is. Everything is always waiting for me. Colbort wasn’t when I arrived at his home, though. He hid at first when he saw the Cane number plate turn into his family’s home. I watched the curtains twitch and smiled. Then he came out with my fucking casino keys in his hand. He begged for ten minutes as I stood in front of his house, my brain considering torching it, and then he pleaded for his family’s lives as he signed paperwork. It amused me. Still does.
“Shaun, a woman’s coming. She’ll ask for Jonathan. Have her sent through when she arrives.”
“Yes, Mr Cane.”
I walk on towards the table, now entertaining myself with the look on Mitch’s face as he came into Hannover’s office and saw me waiting for him. Four threats were all that was needed. One on his wife, one on his son, one on his daughter, and one on his entire fucking portfolio. He folded on that one, knees buckling to the fucking floor as he grovelled, the thought of money more attention-grabbing than his family. I could have fucking shot him for that insult alone, still might if the mood takes me, but at least he’s focused on getting my dirty money clean again rather than making Hannover’s life difficult.
“Sir,” the waitress says as I arrive.
I don’t answer her as she takes my coat and gloves, nor am I interested in the lips she presents. I just take my seat and stare out at the London skyline, trying to remember the last time I was here while my fingers roll my dice. A year? Two? I don’t know. I’ve not been needed for a while, but I do remember the reason. I killed three men that night. Three of London’s finest gangland wisdom makers. They were dense enough to deny us access to a particular deal. It was one Father needed to complete for a debt we owed. I was flown here within three hours of the phone call.
No one has denied Cane a thing in England since that night.
The small room only houses six tables. It’s the place I always eat when I’m here, as do the few other wealthy residents in this building. The main restaurant is behind the shutters, kept for the less well-endowed to discuss their meagre lives. We don’t mix with the masses. Why should we? We’re nothing like them. We expect higher standards. Perfection. There are no half measures. No try. They do, and they do it exceptionally or lose their jobs, if not a limb with the mood I’m in tonight.
“Boss.” Shifty arrives.
I look over my shoulder, watching as his thirty-something bulk wades through the tables, just avoiding knocking two of them over.
“Tell me about my money, Shifty.”
> “Ah shit, boss.” I turn back towards the skyline, tightening my loose smile into a sneer. I know what’s coming now. Fucking distractions. He’s been fucking the woman. Shame, I like Shifty. “She’s special, you know?” No, I don’t. Nothing is special enough for that sort of cash, especially when it’s not your money to give away.
“You’re fucking with my money, Shifty.”
“Nah, boss, you’ll get it tonight. We’ve got plans.”
A waiter arrives as I’m thinking, my usual bottle of Lauquen Artes Water on his tray and a tall glass beside it. He pours, the glug of the liquid reminding me of Hannover’s gurgling throat this afternoon as I squeezed the breath out of it. Perhaps Shifty needs a reminder, too.
“What do you think of debts, Shifty?” He doesn’t answer as I reach for some nuts the waiter sets down and flick one into the air, catching it with my mouth. “They need paying, right?”
“Boss she’s coming with it. She is.” Is she hell? Whores that rack up a hundred grand don’t have a hundred grand to pay back, let alone the interest I’ve now added. I toss another nut and let the ivory dice spin in my fingers some more, wondering how best to play the night and waiting for him to come into my eyeline again. He does, his bulk slowly edging round to block my view. “She won’t let me down, boss.” I snort at him, interested in what he thinks his little bitch will do to repay her debt. “She won’t.” He looks offended, a show of affront glancing his brow.
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why do you think she won’t let you down?” He looks as shifty as his fucking name suggests for a second or two, his feet hitching back and forth.
“We wanna get married.”
The cubes of ivory in my palm crush together, frustration making them grind into each other. I take a sip of my water then toss another nut into the air to give my teeth something to do. My boys don’t get married unless I say it’s alright. Marriage causes problems, certainly a marriage based on a foundation of fucking lies. It makes them weak and reachable, which means I become the same through their flaws.
Innocent Eyes Page 4
