Fabulous

by Lucy Hughes-Hallett

  He found him buyers though, the desirable kind. Single professionals. High net worth individuals. Metro-cosmopolitans. People whose job descriptions – consultant, content-provider, start-up strategist, marketing guru, director of comms – gave nothing away about what they actually did. A shop opened on Wapping High Street selling second-hand spectacle-frames in white Bakelite – the kind that golden-age Hollywood stars wore. You could have them made up to your own prescription, with photo-sensitive lenses. The greasy spoon turned into a cupcake café, and then a tapas bar, and finally settled down to being a gluten-free bakery. They started serving non-alcoholic pink prosecco in the pub. The bike-boys who arrived nightly at Cinnamon Wharf to deliver ready-meals featuring swordfish carpaccio and coriander-roasted salsify would pause if they saw Acton tapping in the security code, a couple of cool youngish people in black nylon jackets at his back, and give him a high-five.

  I liked him, I really did. And not just because he cut me in on a bit of extra for the second-floor flats. I’m solid and he was flash. I like being shaken up a bit. People are always surprised when they meet Sophie. No one expects me to have a wife with teal-striped hair. What they don’t get is that my winter tweeds and summer seersucker are fancy-dress too. Only in my case the artificial persona is Mr Trad. I polish my performance. I have a gift for dullness, for the fusty-musty. It has been useful to me, both professionally and in reconciling me to those aspects of my early life that I have no plans to revisit, not in conversation, not even alone and in silence in the long early-morning hours when I lie rigid, willing myself not to toss and turn. I have made myself into a lump of masonry – safe and sound and durable, no damp patches or shoddy construction. Having done so successfully, I enjoy being around gimcrack and glitter and trompe l’oeil.

  So … the parties. Those Sunday nights. When the weekend’s big push was done, there’d be trays of oysters delivered direct from Whitstable, and iced mint julep and vodka shots in gold-etched Moroccan glasses, all laid out in the empty penthouse at the top of Cinnamon Wharf. A dedicated lift went straight up there. You’d step out and, beyond the roof terrace’s glass balustrade, the river’s darkness would be all around, black water heaving almost imperceptibly, reflecting the hectic orange and magenta of a city at night.

  Eliza came the first time. She was an excellent agent – proactive with sellers, confiding and cosy with buyers – but it’s not always easy being the only woman on a team. I get that. On Tuesday morning (none of us customer-facing lot worked Mondays) she went into the glass box that was Acton’s office, and pulled the blinds down as though what she had to say shouldn’t be seen, let alone heard. After that she transferred to Lettings. Acton always treated her with the most perfect politeness. Behind her back though, especially when Diana was about, he referred more often than was really called for to the Manningtree Road debacle. Maybe Eliza missed a trick there, but I thought it was small-minded of him. It was ages ago and, anyway, let’s face it, we all let slip an opportunity now and then.

  By the time summer kicked in he’d stopped calling us his boys. He called us his dogs. Sundays, he’d invite clients, those he thought would be titillated by it – single men, the sort who wanted dimmer switches in the wet rooms. Mostly though, it was just us. ‘I’m whistling up the pack,’ he’d say to whoever was leaving the office with him.

  To begin with, each time, it was all pretty raucous – everyone feeling that shiver as the pressure came off while the adrenalin was still way up there, and then the giddiness as the alcohol hit. Later, as the first of us started talking about the last train home, the atmosphere would shift and a different lot would be filtering in. Very young, all of them, very thin, female and male and some you couldn’t be sure about. Their English was as uncertain as their immigration status, but they weren’t there to make conversation.

  I knew where they came from. Acton had helped them get access to an old gasworks in the Lea Valley. It was due for repurposing. He had his eye on it. Squatters were useful when you wanted to bring down an asking-price. And a few skinny junkies, once you’d given them the run of the en-suites in the unsold fourth-floor flat so that their hair smelt good again, and their piercings sparkled against pearly skin, lent quite a frisson to a party. The last-train lads stopped looking at their watches and by the time the dancing started the two packs were moving as one, spreading out on to the roof terrace. It looked as though you could dance off the edge and once the kids had started bringing out their pills and powders there were plenty of us there, on that airy dance floor, who weren’t sure of the difference between down and up, between tiger-striped river-water and wine-dark sky.

  It was an illusion of course. Perfectly solid breast-high panels of reinforced glass all around the roof’s perimeter. Acton might play at being Dionysian but he wasn’t about to risk a criminal negligence action. He had the greatest respect for the law of the land, as well as a thorough knowledge of the ways in which it could be circumvented. Besides, he was fully aware of what Rokesmith might do to him if he devalued the man’s property by allowing some stray to die on it.

  I don’t believe he ever laid a finger with sexual intent on any of those hapless, gormless, spineless young things. What he liked was to observe what happened when the two breeds mingled. He’d step out onto the terrace, and sometimes I’d see him standing at ease by the sliding/folding doors – quiet, legs straddled, watching the dancers silhouetted against the luminous river. What was he hunting? Sex had something to do with it. Doesn’t it always? But that wasn’t really his primary interest. Power, I’d say.

  One evening in September I was showing a couple of Russians around the river-view flat on the third floor at Cinnamon when I saw Eliza step out of the lift, look around like she’d got off at the wrong floor and get back into it. A week later, during a viewing with a client who liked to go house-hunting before breakfast, I saw her again in the lobby with someone I didn’t know, hair scraped back, face shiny, wearing yoga pants. My client was going on to work. I was driving back to the office. I offered Eliza a lift.

  I didn’t ask. As far as I was concerned, Eliza could help herself to any set of keys that took her fancy, any time of the day or night. Subject to proper procedure. Provided she checked them out. Perhaps one of the purchasers was sub-letting. I wasn’t sure what Rokers (as Acton had taken to calling the freeholder) would say to that, but it wasn’t for me to interfere. It was she who seemed to feel she owed me some clarification. She jogged every morning from her flat in Limehouse, she said, and she liked to zip up to Cinnamon Wharf’s roof for half an hour’s meditation before taking a shower in the penthouse – we still weren’t showing it – and walking on in to the office. Evenings, same thing in reverse.

  ‘Did you know Eliza is up on the roof at Cinnamon most days?’ I asked Acton in the wine bar a day or two later. We were celebrating the sale of the last of the fourth-floor flats. Acton liked a caipirinha. His drinking was probably a bit out of control but that wasn’t my problem.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ve clocked her in the place a few times.’ He didn’t seem to want to take it any further, so we left it there.

  Acton’s partner William called me one day, and asked if we could talk. I liked him. He was gentle and patient. He lived pretty close – Acton had got him buying into the Kensal Rise golden triangle before it really took off – so we met on a Monday with our dogs in Tiverton Gardens. Sophie’s dog, really, not mine. A graphic designer can carry a photogenic spaniel into work with her. An estate agent not so much: dog hair on a suit doesn’t look good. Anyway, our flossy little beast was running round in large circles with William’s French bulldog when he began to cry. He hadn’t seen Acton for a month he said. He just wanted to know, was he all right?

  People think, because I’m kind of passive socially, that I’m observant and considerate and wise. This isn’t true. I really don’t care much about other people’s emotional lives. I’d had no idea they’d broken up.

/>   ‘Six weeks ago,’ he said. ‘And frankly it doesn’t make much difference. He hadn’t really spoken to me for nearly a year. I mean talking yes, but not really to me. Like I existed. You know?’

  I said something fatuous about going through a bad patch.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s over. But I wanted to know if he was all right. It got so weird. The way he started to stare at me all the time.’

  ‘Staring. Like how?’

  ‘Well, he was entitled, wasn’t he. Lovers are allowed to look at each other. He saw me naked all the time. So I don’t know why it freaked me out. Watching my mouth while I was eating. Watching my arse when I was bent over the dishwasher. Watching my hands when I was ironing. Too interested. There were a few times I was taking a shower and when I’d finished I’d see him there in the bathroom, like he’d sprung from nowhere, and I’m telling you that is one small bathroom. Just standing there. If he’d been waiting to drag me back to bed – no problem. But we didn’t do much of that, the last few months. His choice, not mine.’

  I thought of Acton on the roof, watching a load of mismatched couples with their hands all over each other. I thought of the way, in the office, his eyes followed Diana around.

  Here is Acton’s idea of a party. Oysters, cocktails – yeah yeah yeah. All that. Dancing, naturally – he had a serious pair of speakers. Mac’n’cheese, coming up hot and ready, a jaunty little red-and-white striped trolley trundling out of the lift wheeled by an enormous man whose employer had made enough from party-catering to buy Flat 2 on Floor 3. We ate it from brown cardboard boxes with wooden forks. No plastic – the firm sponsored all sorts of enviro-friendly eco-housing ventures. ‘What for?’ I asked Diana. She looked blank. ‘The built environment,’ she said, ‘and the natural environment are partners, not rivals.’ No flicker of irony. She must have forgotten about … well … things we’d all decided not to talk about any more. Not until someone called us out on them.

  Diana didn’t come to the hunting parties. That would have been unthinkable. Diana is the soul of rectitude. She doesn’t do silly.

  More dancing. Karaoke. Those faun-like waifs drifting through the crowd like they were weightless. One or other of us boys catching one of them, like closing your hand on a will-o’-the-wisp. Couples slinking off into corners. The music dimming. People flat on their backs on the terrace’s decking, heads resting on each other’s shoulders and bellies, telling each other their self-pitying little life stories, or reminiscing about deals they’d done together, or just talking the kind of rubbish that made their bodies shake with laughter until everyone was linked in a communion of shared mirth, and that’s about the time it would become seriously Actonian. Because Acton’s were the only parties I’d ever been to where everyone, every time, ended up sitting in a circle like a pack of cubs. Not the boy-scouty kind of cubs. We weren’t tying knots or memorising Morse code. We were watching those damaged young people, entwined in a kind of circlet of bone-white flesh. And in the centre Acton, fully clad, his thighs straining the cloth of his silky Armani trousers as he sat with his knees up, corralled by skinny limbs, his round eyes (without his specs they looked even rounder) watching us watching the kids and watching Acton watching.

  Did I say he was hunting for power? I’m wrong. It was far more complicated than that.

  I have two tableaux I keep stacked away at the back of my mind. One dates from my childhood, and I’m not taking it out to look at it again now. Put away childish things. There’s a hand down some trousers, and a nauseating smell and a voice saying, ‘Keep going. Keep going. There’s nothing to worry about, boy. I’ve got my eye on you.’ The other scene is set in the penthouse and it’s a lot pleasanter to contemplate. I’m with a gaggle of nymphets, three gawky Bambis with dark eyes and fluttery hands. It’s true the one with her head in my lap seemed to be crying, but they were a snivelly lot. I didn’t see the harm.

  If it had been up to Eliza, it’s unlikely there would have been any kind of stink. She is a very self-contained and self-reliant person and I believe she would have dealt with the issue discreetly. She’d told me once, when another agent got their dirty little mitts on a prime site with planning permission that we should have had exclusive, ‘Not for me to butt in but, just saying … The only way to keep a secret is not to tell people. Not to tell anyone. You boasted about it, didn’t you, to some friend of yours who’s got nothing to do with the biz, so you thought it was safe?’

  It was true. I had.

  ‘Remember,’ she said. ‘No one.’

  So when she noticed the way Acton was hanging around she kept quiet, but one morning, when they were in the penthouse, her personal trainer saw that Acton was out on the roof terrace. Seeing. And Eliza didn’t say ‘Keep your mouth shut’ because that would only have aggravated the thing. And the personal trainer mentioned it to Diana, and that was that.

  ‘One’s not quite enough.

  Two leaves you wanting more.

  Three is a disaster.

  Acton’s on the floor.’

  He’d had his three caipirinhas but he was still upright, chanting that doggerel in the bar we all frequented. I took his arm and got him into the backroom where I’d been sampling a Chablis with a solicitor who shared my interests. Griddled scallops to go with. She was an attractive female solicitor, but there was no need for Sophie to know that. Anyway, she pissed off home as soon as Acton started hollering.

  ‘Get a grip,’ I said.

  ‘What’s to grip?’ he said, subdued now, maudlin. ‘I’ve got nothing to grip onto. I’m lost. All those bitches are coming after me now. View halloo. Tally ho. With super-bitch leading the pack.’

  Diana? Eliza?

  All or any of them. Acton’s self-pity had transformed all women into bloodhounds.

  ‘And which of you rotten curs is going to help me?’

  I took him home. William was waiting by the door. I’d called him. ‘I don’t have a key any more,’ he said, ‘but if he needs me …’ We had to wrestle Acton’s key ring from him while he babbled out his grievances against the ungrateful world. William lifted him over the threshold and begun shushing him as a parent shushes a wailing brat.

  So what had happened? There are, as there always are, several ways of understanding the story. All the variants added up to one thing. Acton had been where he should not have been. He had seen what he should not have seen.

  Bluff no-nonsense version … Woman, imagining herself alone in an empty flat (except for personal trainer of course), takes shower. Man happens by and sees what he shouldn’t. Blushes all round. No harm done.

  But it’s not quite that simple. For one thing, Eliza wasn’t alone in the shower. For another, she and the personal trainer had both seen Acton loitering on the roof terrace a couple of times before, around the time they came back from their evening run, so perhaps happenstance didn’t have that much to do with his being there.

  Other versions were broadcast around the office in a babble of whispers.

  ‘William says they haven’t done it for, like, years.’

  ‘I mean it’s not a crime to like watching.’

  ‘Sex clubs, you have a whole room full of people, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s different. That’s consensual.’

  There was the lubricious version: ‘I wouldn’t have minded an eyeful of that.’ The righteously indignant: ‘We owe it to all our female clients …’ The sheepish: ‘Well, come on – we’ve all had some fun up there.’ The collusive: ‘Best not rock the boat. I mean, good old Acton …’ The prurient: ‘What do you mean, on her knees?’ The legalistic: ‘Strictly speaking, they were all in breach of our agreement with Rokesmith.’ There were many variations on the creeped-out version. For everyone, suddenly, the picture of Acton, gloating over the entangled fauns, had ceased to be funny. And then there was the abject, frankly scared-shitless-of-losing-our-jobs afraid: ‘We have to tell Diana, don’t we?
I mean if she hears and nobody’s spoken up …’

  And then came the twist, ‘Haven’t you heard? Diana knows. Diana was there.’

  There. Where? In the shower too? How? What doing? How positioned? On her knees?

  To start with I imagined the trainer as one of those small-skulled, tremendously muscled, encouraging young men you see moving their clients’ limbs around in a physiotherapeutic kind of way in the park on a Sunday. When someone said, ‘No no, Doris is all-woman,’ the story’s significance suddenly switched. To watch a lusty woman having it off with an ideal embodiment of masculinity – that’s one thing. That’s to be a boy cheering on another boy at play. But to trespass into a women-only get-together, that’s different. That’s a no-no. That’s sweet poison. Imagine it. Three women. My mind swerves away.

  William texted me: ‘Can we meet?’ When we did, he said, ‘I want you to know that Acton wasn’t a voyeur. Not that kind of a one anyway. I don’t think he ever even looked at porn. He didn’t want to watch sex. He just liked looking at bodies. At my feet, my hands, my elbows, the dip in my back, the way my neck meets my shoulders. He liked the look of naked flesh, that’s all.’

  He seemed very agitated. It mattered to him that I understood. But to me peeping is peeping. I respected Diana. If she and Eliza, or she and the trainer, or all three together, were having it away, or not, that was their business. That wasn’t the point. The transgression was Acton’s.

  One of the first things I learnt as a child was not-seeing. Shut your eyes and count to twenty. Shut your eyes and hold out your hands. Shut your eyes while Daddy’s undressing. Shut your eyes while I just … Don’t look until I tell you. Nothing to worry about. I’m just … Don’t look.