by Angela Dyson
“Great, yes if you really think it would be OK?”
Melanie turned to me. “Will you come too Clarry?”
Before I could answer, Tim added with a grin, “I’ve been trying to get Clarry back to my room for months.”
Ian gave me a sharp dig in the ribs but I ignored him. “Thanks for the invite but I’m beat. Long day,” I yawned suddenly feeling incredibly tired.
Alec got to his feet. “Come on let’s get this lot cleared away. If I’m home before half one there’s a slight chance that Cheryl may still be awake and I might get some tonight!”
Ian laced the six empty wine glasses between his fingers. “Right! You know perfectly well she’ll have fallen asleep over Fifty Shades… and you won’t get a look in.”
“Thanks so much Clarry,” Melanie whispered as we all said our goodbyes. “You’ve been so kind. Is it OK to stay in touch?”
“Sure. Take my number and let me know how you get on at Tim’s.”
She and Ted left with Tim. Two kittens and a puppy unleashed.
“Night night love,” said Ian pulling a scarf around his throat as we left the restaurant. “You should have taken Not-So-Tiny up on his offer. I know I would have.” And laughing to himself he disappeared off into the night.
When I got home I checked my messages.
“Hi hun.” Laura’s voice was happy and relaxed. “It’s after ten and I’m holed up in my hotel bedroom after a ghastly dinner with the Trustees. I’m so glad to be coming home. I’m leaving tomorrow morning and then I’m out with Simon so probably won’t get a chance to speak to you until Sunday or Monday. I’ll call you and we’ll arrange to meet up. I don’t suppose you have found anything out but can’t wait to see you and catch up. Anyway, better go I suppose. I’m just about to hit the minibar. Well it’s compulsory, isn’t it? Bye.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I slept fitfully. At six o’clock, after nearly an hour of trying to get back to sleep, I gave up and stomped off to the bathroom. I splashed cold water in my face and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. Not a pretty sight. My skin looked puffy from lack of sleep and my hair looked like Godzilla had been running his big furry fingers through it. Perhaps at some point in my warped dream-landscape, he had been.
Reaching hastily for a brush, I decided on an early jog to shrug off the phantoms of the night. I could always go back to bed later if I felt like it. I’d got nothing planned today, nothing I absolutely had to do. I would tear my mind away from the whole bloody house/Simon affair and chill out. And, I resolved, as I pulled on my running gear, I would not try to contact Laura until after the weekend. Why shouldn’t she enjoy a hot night with Simon without me having to put her off with the details of his nasty little moneymaking scheme? She’s a grown up. It’s not like going to bed with a guy commits you to a relationship.
Jog over and about to head home for a shower, I realised I was no longer tired. I was feeling buoyed up and restless, needing action and coffee. I checked my watch, only seven thirty. There’d be no harm in just driving past Simon’s house I told myself, so why not? I had nothing better to do and who knows I might learn something new? I set off towards Southfields and at the next garage I spotted, nipped in for a take-out latte.
I pulled up close to the house in Elborough Street and spotted his car. Reaching for my baseball hat I realised that this surveillance business was beginning to feel natural to me and what was more, I liked it. I waited for nearly an hour. Simon would probably be going off to work soon. Estate agents were obviously open for business on Saturdays; in fact it was likely to be their best day of the week for viewings. And if he wouldn’t be heading for the office, he’d be having a lie-in like any normal person.
I was almost certainly wasting my time here, I decided, when I heard voices and looked up to see Simon coming out from behind his front gate dressed in a pair of jeans and a casual shirt. He also had something draped about his arms and it wasn’t a sweater. Well, well, well, I thought, hunkering down in my seat. That settles that. I had him already pegged as a con man and now I could add two-timing bastard to his rap sheet, because the girl in the micro-mini dress and with the big hair was certainly not his sister. I watched them. No, I thought, as the two of them engaged in a serious goodbye snog, she’s definitely not his sister. At last they disentangled themselves. Simon then disappeared back through his garden gate and the girl sashayed off in a killer pair of follow-me-fuck-me heels to a white Fiat parked on the other side of the road and let herself into the driving seat. And me? Well I followed the Fiat of course.
I nearly lost her in the Wandsworth one-way system. She was an even worse driver than me. By the time we pulled up in a side street in the wrong end of Pimlico, my hair under my cap was matted with sweat. I looked about me. I was guessing that this was the kind of area where an MP might set up a cosy little love nest for his mistress, close enough to “The House” and far enough away from the country seat where his unsuspecting wife brought up the children and where she would, one day when the scandal hit, devotedly stand by him.
Killer Heels was now getting out of the car. I watched as she picked her way along the street, past a greengrocers, a newsagent, an internet café, and finally turned in to Bella’s Beauty Salon. Was she a customer in for a top up to her tan? Or did she work there? There was only one way to find out. I left it five minutes, and then followed her inside.
“Good morning,” I said brightly to the woman behind the counter. Heavily made-up, she was somewhere in her late fifties wearing a pale pink nursey type overall with the logo Bella’s straining across a huge bosom, and a pair of plastic clip-on pearl earrings the size of hard boiled eggs.
“I haven’t got an appointment but…” I trailed off as she minutely and with obvious amusement inspected me from top to toe. “I was hoping,” I began again but she held up a restraining hand and in the gravelly voice of a forty-ciggies-a-day woman, called out behind her to the hidden recess of the shop.
“Karen, you’re free, aren’t you? It looks like we’ve got ourselves an emergency case out here!”
Killer Heels, now revealed as Karen, stood before me. She was wearing the same pale pink uniform as her colleague although several sizes smaller and she had changed her heels for the comfort of a pair of flip-flops.
“Hi, I’m Karen.” Her voice was flat and with a nasal quality but was friendly enough.
“Oh Hi, I’m Clarry. Well…I was passing and I thought that I should maybe get a facial or something? What kind of treatments do you do?”
“Love, you need whatever we’ve got,” snorted Clip-Ons.
Karen grinned. “Don’t mind her. It’s a quiet start this morning, so she’s bored and getting a bit cheeky.”
Cheeky was putting it mildly. And no wonder they’re quiet I thought, taking in for the first time the tired décor with its faded paintwork, and frayed carpet. The Ladies-Who-Lunch set of neighbouring Belgravia would not find this at all to their taste. And I had a feeling that Clip-Ons’ particular line in wise cracking repartee might not go down too well either.
Karen picked up a leaflet from the desk and handed it to me. It listed the various treatments and prices. I scanned it and made up my mind. Well why not, I hadn’t splurged on myself for ages and maybe a bit of pampering was just what I needed.
“Right, OK yes. I think I’ll go for a facial and maybe an eyebrow shape and tint.”
Karen nodded. “Any waxing? Legs? Bikini line?”
I shook my head. “No thanks. I had a very bad experience once and thought it would never…”
“Oh yes?” put in a deadpan Clip-Ons. “A touch of mange in the minge? That can be very nasty.”
“It wasn’t mange. It was…” I was wasting my breath. The telephone was ringing and Clip-Ons had picked up the receiver, ready no doubt to launch her charm offensive upon somebody else.
“Right,” said Karen. “Le
t’s take you through.” She whisked me out into a distinctly shabby corridor and then ushered me into a small windowless cubicle. The pink paintwork was drastically in need of a touch-up, but some effort had been made to create a suitably calming atmosphere. On one wall were a couple of framed posters of alpine scenes and, when Karen pressed a button on a console, a bland tinkly-bell style of music started up.
“OK,” said Karen picking up a robe from a stack on a shelf and handing it to me. “It’s probably best to take your top off and pull down your bra straps because I’ll be cleansing your neck and on to your collar bones.”
She turned away as I shrugged off my sweatshirt and pulled on the robe.
“And then when you’re ready hop up on to the table. Is that alright for you? Comfy?” she asked as I stretched myself flat out on the consulting bed.
“Yes, fine thanks.”
“Good. Right, let’s have a look at you.” She clipped back my hair and proceeded to inspect my skin.
Whilst she examined the state of my pores, I took a good look at her. Up close she looked somewhere in her mid-twenties with regular features, a pair of lustreless eyes of an indeterminate green, and the too-yellow tan of a spray tan addict. She was undeniably pretty, but her hair was too light for her complexion. She’d gone for the platinum to champagne range on the colour spectrum when the honey to gold shades would have suited her more. It was very long and with what looked like extensions and was scooped into one of those sexy, half-up half-down dos that look like you’ve just got out of bed. Which, in fact, she just had. Not particularly tall, she had a slight frame and a pair of Double Es which may or may not have been part of the original biological hand of cards she’d been dealt. I was guessing not.
Mutual examination over she was ready to begin. “First we open the pores by steam cleaning. Not too hot or it breaks the delicate veins.” This said as she applied hot cloths over my face. “And then we deep cleanse. London’s a very dirty place you know.” She gave the statement an air of surprise as if it was the first time that she had noticed the grime and pollution of the capital.
Still swaddled in the flannels, a nod and a grunt were the only contribution to the conversation that I was capable of.
“And now I’m going to boost the circulation.”
That’s when the slapping began. My eyes watered as she continued to make slicing movements to my cheeks. “Um you’re hurting me.”
“Ooops! Sorry,” she said with a laugh. “I get carried away. So now we’re ready for moisturising.”
She smeared a thick film of cream over my face and neck as I asked, “Does my skin look OK?”
“Not bad,” she gave a professional nod. “Your elasticity’s good but you’re a bit dehydrated and that can lead to the development of fine lines.”
“Oh?” I said not liking the sound of this. “Anything I can do about that?”
“Drink less alcohol.”
“Ah.”
“And up, your water intake.”
“I can do that.”
As she massaged various unguents into my skin she switched to conversational mode. “So, going out tonight?”
“Yes, big date,” I instantly lied because I wanted to get her onto the subject of men.
“Lucky you,” she replied. “Taking you somewhere nice, is he?”
“Out to a restaurant,” I improvised. “What about you? Are you out with your mates or have you got a cosy night in with your man?”
She paused in the kneading of my temples and shrugged. “I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. Well there is someone but…” I waited and she carried on. “He’s not really a boyfriend more a…”
“Fuck buddy?” I suggested.
“Something like that.”
“Every girl should have one,” I said assuming she was referring to Simon. And then, to tease out a little more info, I remarked, “I used to have a scene like that, but I found that in the end it was always only a late-night booty call he wanted and that didn’t make me feel very good about myself.”
“I know what you mean about that. What did you do?”
“I dumped him.”
“What did he say when you told him?”
“He didn’t. I texted.”
She laughed and as she gave her head a little shake one of the looped-up strands of hair disengaged itself and fell across her face. Absently she pushed it away but it was clear that our discussion was over.
“I’m going to leave this on for about five minutes or so to let you relax and to give the cream a chance to really work its way into your upper dermis.”
And she left the room.
I closed my eyes. Those tinkly bells were starting to grate, but after a few more minutes Karen was back and wiping the residue of gunk off my face.
“How does it feel?”
“Great.” And it did.
Next, she tweezed out a few stray eyebrows and then applied the dark dye and allowed it to develop. “OK you’re done.”
I raised myself up to a sitting position and looked into the magnified mirror she handed me. “Thanks, so much Karen.” I swung my legs down off the bed and peeled off the robe.
“Better,” observed Clip-Ons as I came out into reception to pay. “Almost human.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In the car, I picked up a message. It was Melanie, her voice brimming with happiness.
“It’s so great. Tim’s landlord Barney is really nice and he’s offered us a room. It’s quite big with a double bed, a proper wardrobe, and everything. It’s at the back of the house on the second floor and it looks out over the garden and he said we can move in as soon as we like.”
There was a pause and I could make out Ted’s voice in the background. “Ted says hi. The thing is we just wanted to say thank you. We wouldn’t have met Tim or Barney without you, so thanks again. We’re planning to move across this afternoon. Gary does his rent rounds tonight and we’d rather not see him. We haven’t got much stuff, especially now I’ve got hardly any clothes. Anyway Tim says that he and Barney want to throw a bit of a party to celebrate. Not sure when, probably next week some time but I’ll phone you. You’ll be guest of honour. Right. Got to go. Bye.”
I smiled to myself. At least one good thing had come out of all this. Now for the call I dreaded. Before discovering the existence of Karen I’d decided to delay telling Laura about Simon. Now it couldn’t wait. If I was in her position I’d want to know. I tried her mobile but it went straight to voicemail. She was probably on her way back from Norwich.
“Hi hun, just me. Give me a call when you can.”
I shouldn’t have felt relieved that I’d not got hold of her because it only put off the inevitable, but I was.
When I got home I updated Flan on my doings.
“How much?” she cried on hearing the sum demanded by Simon. “That’s appalling. Well, of course it’s utterly despicable whatever the price of the bribe but really, £50,000 is just too greedy. Well at least we needn’t feel quite so guilty about breaking into his house I suppose.” When I reached the part about Karen, she listened in silence and then said, “Dear me. Poor Laura. When are you going to tell her?”
“I’ve left her a message asking her to call me.”
Just before she rang off she asked, “And so how does your skin feel after your facial?”
“Rehydrated. She told me to drink more water.”
“And less alcohol?”
“Never mentioned a word about it,” I replied crisply and hung up to the sound of her wry laughter.
Saturday night and there were places I could have been. Fun places. So, what was I doing sitting in my car opposite the Alwyn Road house waiting for Scary Bloke Gary to show up? It was mostly curiosity, and a desire to provide an answer to the question of how he had come to pick on that particular house at just that particul
ar time. Melanie’s words about Gary’s rent collections had been buzzing around my head all afternoon and somewhere around six o’clock I’d realised that I wanted to witness his operations for myself.
I didn’t have long to wait. Just after seven, a motorbike with a noisy exhaust rattled its way into the street and pulled up outside No 29. The figure once divested of helmet and revealing itself as Gary, made his way up the garden path and disappeared from view. He was in there for less than ten minutes and when he returned I could see from the way he kicked savagely at the gate that Melanie and Ted having done a bunk, had not gone down well. But maybe he was always in a bad temper?
Trailing a car was one thing but giving chase to a motorbike was quite another. Gary dodged and weaved his way through the evening traffic and I would have lost him almost straightaway if it hadn’t been for the roar of his exhaust. As it was, with both my windows wound fully down, I just followed the fanfare.
Trailing him up Wimbledon Hill, past the Common, through Raynes Park and into New Malden I kept a distance of three or four cars behind, but was on the alert when he turned into a residential street off the Kingston Road. Then I had no choice but to drive past him as he stopped and turned off his engine. I executed a hasty U-turn at the top of the road and crawled back, spotting him as he entered a house.
No 67 looked much like its neighbours except that the garden was very overgrown and even in the fading light I could see that the curtains were hung crooked. Perhaps this was where he lived or was it another one of his deluxe rentals? A 1930’s semi, it wasn’t as large as Alwyn Road but big enough, I figured, to accommodate up to eight or ten people if the downstairs was used as bedrooms. That would bring a hefty weekly rent. I wondered how many other houses he had illegally commandeered and how many other vulnerable people he was screwing money out of. And did he work alone or was he just a small part of some larger organisation? More questions. I slid down in the seat as Gary exited the house and clambered on to his motorbike. We were on the move again.
