An ironing board filled up the tiny space on the other side of the bed, with an expensive iron on the floor beside it. Not the cat this time, as it had been carefully placed to cool out of harm’s way. For all the chaos in the room, an expensive jacket in dark blue hung impeccably on the back of the door. A matching skirt had been hanging in the shower room, obviously left to steam out its wrinkles. The tiny fragrance bottle by the bed was pricey but affordable enough to have been a present to herself. A secretary, the report had said. The flat screeched up and coming PA at him; with three daughters of his own, he was wise enough to know the difference. The probationer sniffed around after him as he called in the details, heeding his warning to touch nothing. She crumpled her nose in disdain at the mess, and smell. She’d learn. She’d learn bloody fast. A double duty of nights in the riot months of summer and her no doubt currently pristine room back at the police house would look the same. He logged the time and complete lack of evidence in any direction. Her suitcases were on top of the wardrobe, and the drawers filled with underwear, clothing and two sex toys. A vibrating egg and slim finger sized vibrator. This made it extremely unlikely she’d just walked away. He finished his report and sighed: this didn’t feel a good one, not at all.
A week of searching saw Joanne Maitland’s neatly typed details logged and filed, the case unofficially closed. She was lost somewhere in the mystery that the city became at these times, her disappearance overshadowed by a sensational libel case and another marital dispute over at the House of Windsor. Mrs Maitland, crumpled and creased from the jostled and chaotic trip South, shed her tears for the camera, wailing a little at Fleet Street’s seeming indifference. Had a paparazzo photograph of a distraught Princess of Wales not stolen the morning headlines, a little more might have been made of her one shot appearance on the evening news. As it was, London lifted its head in grief for a split second, returning to business as usual by close of trading. Jo, oblivious to the future of her good name, left behind a less than fitting epitaph in the form of her last confirmed sighting. Breathless, half in her jacket, red from the run, she had stood and watched the tube she had just missed hurtle down into the depths of Archway station.
“Shit!” is what she had said, loudly, as she stalked up and down the platform. “Shit!”
It had been another vile day. Too much work, not enough time. Fridays were always her worst day, not the usual Blue Monday of office worker fame. Friday was the day she’d be in such a rush that she would skip breakfast completely, her Monday good intentions on sensible eating abandoned sometime around Wednesday. Friday breakfast usually joined Thursday dinner as a non-event. Friday break would find her stuffing chocolate biscuits down her throat as quickly as she could, her now up and running body desperate for anything that looked and acted remotely like a calorie. If she was lucky, and this Friday she hadn’t been, lunch was a sandwich and a doughnut, washed down with lukewarm coffee. Every Monday she began a perfect routine of fruit for breakfast and break, with peppermint tea to wash her virtue down. She would smile sweetly at the others as they moaned about the coffee machine being broken again, as she waited for her tea bag to infuse. By Wednesday she was beginning to think maybe she should phone through for a new machine herself, as she waited for the damn thing to gurgle out more tepid caffeine. Friday always found her deciding that she’d damn well put the order through as urgent as soon as she had a minute on Monday, as she sent out an order for a massive triple mocha from the coffee shop on the high street.
Minutes were Friday’s real problem: there were not enough of them. Work that had not seemed too important and could be put back for a day or two, suddenly had to be cleared and logged out of the office before the weekend. Logged and cleared by her, for she’d learnt, as had her boss, that if she didn’t do it personally, it sometimes wasn’t done. Friday nights usually saw her pegged on the couch, having missed the soaps again, picking the topping off an extra large pizza, a bottle of plonk for company and a tub of ice cream melting in the sink, awaiting her pleasure. Fridays she was fit for nothing but collapse and retreat.
This Friday had been a Friday from hell. The end of financial year accounts about to be closed and set. She hadn’t even got to the chocolate biscuits ‘til after 2. The phone never stopped, the fax machine had over spilled twice and her boss had looked at her with one of those looks. The ‘I know you are so very busy and you are so very competent, but can I please have the report on my desk now’ looks. Yes, she loved the bustle. Yes, she was good enough to do everything well, no matter how busy it got. Yes, it was great fun. Sometimes. But it wasn’t really her job to do all of it and it was about time someone recognised that. They’d almost had words, Jo backing down at the last moment when the phone had rung once more, embroiling her in another minor crisis in the photocopying room. She had sent out for coffee and a sandwich, but either they had never arrived, or she hadn’t noticed them in the mêlée.
She had felt defeated when it was all sorted out, not exultant so, when the usual shout had gone up about where and when the office was congregating for party mode, she’d listened. She rarely joined in with the Friday night extravaganza that the bosses actively encouraged the staff into. She was always late, always tired, and found getting it down and boogying with the others a waste of time. Today, however, had been different. All she wanted to do was go out and get absolutely smashed out of her skull. Forget it all and start the weekend in bed, too past it to care about anything. She may even get laid, or try to. The safety of getting drunk in the company of her fellow workers stood against her managing a little horizontal jogging. Embarrassed encounters over work areas on Monday mornings were not her idea of fun. Not that she’d ever had such an encounter, but it might happen yet. There was a Northern chill to her backbone that usually saw to it that nothing squidgy happened, despite her fantasies. Perhaps tonight, she’d shuck off the puritanical streak she hadn’t realised was part of her until she moved to London.
Unprepared for a night out, she’d made the decision to leave some of the work undone and rush back home to change. With luck and the right connections, she would meet up with the others as they made their way across London to catch a boat that was going to let them drink themselves sick as it drifted along the Thames. Experience had shown that this was very convenient, both for throwing up discreetly, and for controlling who had access to you in a ‘fragile’ state. With the train now hurtling away from her into the darkness, there was a good chance she was going to be late. Thankfully, the next train popped up quickly, although she was going to have to change at Leicester Square, which suited her well enough as she didn’t have that much cash on her. Her temper had cooled as she stopped off to pick up money from the hole in the wall. Folding the notes into her purse, she allowed the chiming of the nearby Swiss Centre to register the time with her, bursting the bubble of her self-delusion. It was too late. She had missed the launch, they’d be heading downstream by the time she got there. She didn’t have one jot of a clue as to where it was picking up along the route, should have listened better as they all chattered about who was wearing what, who was gunning for whom.
She fought back the irrational prick of tears that threatened to engulf her, concentrating on what she wanted to do now. She was dressed for fun, she was in the right part of town. She had money in her purse and the night, if not the evening, was still young. She couldn’t face returning to her flat so soon after rushing out of it, all caught up with the idea that she had somewhere to go. Unnoticed by the crowds she slipped into the first decent looking pub she found. A quick glass of wine, some time to calm down. A meal, maybe a movie. Something of the evening would be salvaged. Besides, she’d be so much safer on her own.
Restlessness had brought him out onto the streets earlier than usual. The day had been hot; sticky and close. There was a fine drawing of his nerves building; a faint twitch. He cruised the bars from Soho down to the Square, scanning the eager young faces he passed. It was too early for the true desperates to
be abroad. He wondered where they went in the city centre bustle between the hours of the commuter’s rush and the emptying of the bars. The young and helpless, tricking the night away to fill their bellies and their veins. The air was grey and stale, not heavy enough to call with it rain. Deep and dark enough that it lay in layers around him. The scents caught by each step forward drummed the sense of city into his bones. Sweat, concrete, cheap perfume. The sharp and noxious odour of urine, splashed carelessly behind bins and crates. Dark alleyways completely overlooked by the tourists. Rotting vegetables and rubbish caught in the trap of the gutter, wind brushing all to the corners of the streets. Noise assailed him from the edges of Chinatown, ancient spices and herbs drifted out to him from the apothecary’s shelves. Tonight was not a night for easy prey, swift endings. Tonight, he was in the mood for fun.
The pub was packed and she’d found her way to both the bar, and an empty table, with a lot of pushing and jostling. The table was crowded with bottles and had an overflowing ashtray. She edged it away, wrinkling her nose in distaste. The table was tiny, a fake hardboard top over a fake beer barrel. There was only one stool but she’d be nearer the door where there was a sense of fresher air to be found. Squeezing into a gap in the heaving bodies around her she settled into the seat, ruefully reflecting that the fresher air from outside was just as cloying, if somewhat drier than the sweat and lager laden fug around her. She scanned her somewhat sketchy memory of the area for rememberings of a good restaurant. One with air conditioning.
The street was a small one, lined with pubs and wine bars. The prices in each varied greatly. He’d learnt that such a range offered interesting possibilities. He took his time, savouring the appearance and demeanour of everyone around him. There was a tow-headed young man, a boy really, sitting on one of the cheap plastic seats outside a cafe. He looked as if he’d just been jilted, his eyes staring intently at the label of the bottle he held. He almost didn’t fit the new jeans he was wearing, his shoes scuffed and rather more worn than looked cool. Promising. Next door, a wine bar with pretensions of glamour. The woman taking advantage of the dim light of an alcove was in her late forties. High quality make up sought to cover the lines and wrinkles of excess, powder clogging her pores, eye shadow making pretence of much younger looks. Good clothing, bag and matching shoes. Expensive perfume barely masking stale body odour. Dark roots just peeping into view. There was a harshness, a nervousness about her. Eyes constantly roaming, searching, eager. Her hands were never still, the rings surrounding her fingers twisted and turned this way and that. She brought her hand up to her face regularly, hiding, entreating. He savoured her plight, how easily she would be caught. He shook his head, not for this evening, although he may return at a later date, not doubting that this was a favourite haunt.
The boy had gone when he returned to the street, his place taken by three giggling girls, their almost skirts not quite matching their almost tops. Make up applied with more enthusiasm than skill, their flesh tones lost in a jumble of clashing shades and colours. Long gangling limbs embraced in cheap bangles and bracelets, shoes all bought in a sale. A vestige of some shared shopping spree no doubt. He smiled at them as he passed, evoking shrieks of delight and raucous comment on his intentions. The smile was genuine as he savoured the raw scents they spread around him. Musk, heat, and the fresh tang of just washed flesh exerting its own perfume over that of soap and deodorant. He mellowed into the chase, thoroughly enjoying the pace and selection the evening had so far offered. He tipped them a wink and moved on, relishing the sounds as he passed them by.
Jo found her glass of wine soothing. It had a sour taste, kept overlong in a bottle behind the bar, but the alcohol warmed her blood. It was a stupid thing to do, get so frazzled, just for another pointless office party. She studied those around her, making guesses at who they were and what they did for a living. The main performer in a tightly woven pack of young men looked over at her and winked. She smiled, dropping her head to look at her glass. When she looked up he was engaged in another tall tale, his mates well on the road to joining him in a night of excess. A small part of her was disappointed that she’d been dismissed so easily, laughing the slight off with a quick toss of her head. A gesture for a mythical companion who was at the bar buying the next round, or weaving his way back from the Gents. A clear signal for the one who’d passed her over so quickly. It didn’t make her feel better; it made her feel worse, more aware of how vulnerable she was feeling. It was stupid to take it to heart, she was alone after all. No matter the attraction, the guy who had winked would have only broken ranks to approach her if she had been surrounded by her mates. Something for them all to get their teeth into. Shares for everyone, that was the pack rule. As she drained the glass her stomach announced its immediate rebellion. She must eat, must fill the void. Collecting her jacket and bag, she rose to leave.
The glimpse of white caught his eyes as he scanned the packed pub from outside. Too many people was as dangerous as too few. He preferred to analyse the opportunities from the large display windows theme pubs were beginning to build into their decor. She was in her early twenties, fading tan bought from a machine. Hair an untidy mop of curls, a better perm than it looked, dried with less care than the style demanded. She’d had it trapped up all day, released it without washing, the ridges from the clasps still evident. Her hair and eyes were the same warm colour of earth. Nothing too exciting, but a nice complement to her facial skin, which was paler than the rest of her. She read the magazines, this one. Knew to keep sun away from her face, even as she allowed it domain over her body. Make up had been hastily applied, the dress showed signs of a recent hanging in a crowded wardrobe. The single ring on her right hand was no more than a cheap silver memento of a Greek package tour. There was a drowsiness around her: fatigue. Her head came up and eyes made contact with someone else in the crowd, her smile warm and inviting. The movement of dropping her head to coyly study her glass entranced him. She was both naive and aware, testing her way along the path of the evening. Her face hardened as she realised she’d been overlooked, her head shaking away the slight. Look what you’ve missed, she was saying, look what you passed up. He smiled.
The air was slightly clearer as she left the bar, although it was still too warm, too old. As if it had been used too much that day, been dragged in and out of many sets of lungs. The greying light was losing its unequal battle with the electric lights all around, the street leached of its colour. It left a chill on her, made her feel transient, transparent. She really had to get some food. She perused a series of windows, ostensibly checking prices, really having a good look inside to see who was sitting down, what sort of feel the place had. Too many places were packed, overflowing with good cheer and heated bodies. Almost in desperation she headed for the Steak House on the other side of the Square. It was a tourist place, overpriced and stuffy. It would not be cool to have admitted eating there from choice but the green velvet booths would give her some space, the air conditioning respite from the now expected early summer. There was a small queue, which she didn’t mind. Other places had far larger queues and she quite enjoyed the wait, watching the life and colour return to the Square as natural light retreated and the neon took over. As she reached the head of the queue the maitre’d raised his head and smiled to the right of her.
“For two, sir?”
Startled, she turned to find a man standing slightly to one side. His face registered his own confusion at the question. Flustered, he looked first to Joanne, then back to the maitre’d.
“The lady is not with me.” He caught her gaze again and smiled at her. “Unfortunately.”
She grinned back at him in thanks for the compliment. He raised his arm, to allow her full access to the head of the queue and the now impatient staff.
“A single, madam?”
The voice betrayed his feelings on one of his precious tables being given over to a single occupant on a Friday night. She nodded. He looked past her again, to the gentlema
n whom he’d mistaken for her companion.
“And you, sir, a single also?”
The second nod of the head sent him in a scurry of disdain as he searched through the room for evidence of two small tables about to come free.
“It may be some time... unless...?”
The maitre’d allowed the word to hang in the air, hoping the two dim and sad people cast upon his restaurant on a busy evening would come to their senses. Joanne started to fidget, unprepared to deal with such complications. The man stepped into the breach, silencing the sighs of exasperation that were beginning to make their way up the ever lengthening queue. He stood forward, side by side with her, acting as if both the maitre’d and the queue had disappeared.
Fragments Page 15
