The Sunday Girl

by Pip Drysdale

  ‘But my coat …’ I said.

  ‘Oh fuck, where is it?’ he asked.

  ‘The hostess took it.’ We were standing outside the kitchen and I could smell garlic and hear sizzling.

  A young, timid-looking waiter walked past us and David touched his arm: ‘Please would you get the lady’s coat and meet us out the back with it?’ he asked, his tone polite and kind.

  ‘Which one is it?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘Darling, what does your coat look like?’ David asked me. All conspiracy and secrets.

  Darling.

  ‘Navy. Size 8. Big gold buttons,’ I replied, tracing the pattern of the buttons with my hand.

  The waiter nodded and we parted ways: him to the coat rack, us to the emergency exit marked by the dark green sign that hung from the ceiling, suspended by a rusty chain. David was leading me by the hand.

  We got to the end of the hallway, pushed through the heavy metal door, and out into an alley lined with rubbish. The air was cold and clung to my skin, and it had been raining.

  To our right lay a smelly darkness just beyond a noisy pub. In front of us lay a red and yellow intermingling of lights, and the tyres and horns that spoke of a main road. The waiter emerged from the back door behind us, my coat held out nervously in front of him.

  ‘Is this it?’ asked the waiter.

  I nodded. And as David handed the waiter £10, took the coat and opened it for me to put on, I saw Walter through the window, sitting under dimmed lights, waiting for my return. I should have said goodbye. But then David took me by the hand again, and led me to Brompton Road.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked me. He was hailing a cab. The streets were full and a car alarm sounded in the distance.

  ‘Anywhere,’ I replied. ‘Anywhere else.’ I was breathing fog and doing up the buttons on my coat.

  ‘Good answer,’ he said, pulling out his phone.

  ‘Why?’ I laughed suspiciously.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said, dialling a number on his phone: ‘Hello, I need a room.’

  My ears pricked up. A room?

  ‘What?’ I asked and he shushed me. Forefinger to lips again.

  ‘Turner. Thank you, see you in five minutes,’ he said.

  ‘David, I’m not going to a hotel with you,’ I said, warning bells ringing loudly in my ears.

  ‘Relax, I just need a shower,’ he said. ‘I’ve been on the go since 5am. Then we’ll go to a bar or something.’

  A cab approached and pulled up beside us on the kerb. And the driver, about sixty with a tight mesh of pink veins glowing from his cheeks, rolled down the window. ‘Where you going?’ he asked.

  ‘South Kensington,’ David said, leaning forward to speak through the open window. ‘The Ampersand.’ The driver nodded, rolled the window up again, and David opened the door for me.

  I stood there on the curb, my blood pumping fast. Am I about to make another bad decision?

  ‘Are you always this difficult?’ he laughed, threading his arm around my waist and scooping me into movement. ‘Really, I just need a shower. That’s all.’

  So I got inside, then he climbed in after me and slammed the door shut. The car pulled away from the kerb and I could feel him beside me, the warmth of his hand on my knee. Raindrops clung to the window, gathering in streams, and I looked through them at pedestrians running across the street, holding hands and hopping over puddles. It was four days from Valentine’s Day, so most of the shop windows boasted some sort of red-love-hearts-and-roses display, matched perfectly by the glistening wet tar of the road: red tail-lights reflecting off it in long and jagged lines. As we approached Harrods, all grandeur and white globes marking its structure in the dark, we pulled to a stop at the traffic lights. I could make out a homeless man asleep in a doorway, lying beneath a cardboard box and a pile of clothes. Then the lights turned green. I lay my head back and squinted slightly so the images and lights all blurred together. It was prettiest that way. Like a photograph taken with the shutter speed low.

  Before long I could see the National History Museum up in the distance but we turned left before we got there, heading down a small street lined with thick white pillars and Victorian houses.

  ‘It’s just up ahead,’ David said to the driver, ‘on the right.’ My heart sped up as we pulled up. ‘Great, thanks,’ David said as he passed him a £20 note through the small opening in the glass.

  It was a grand, white building with a black number ten on the pillars either side of the entrance. There were manicured garden boxes, all white and green, sitting outside the ground-floor windows, a lit-up British flag above the entrance, and the type of ornate black railing one usually associates with Paris running along the edge of each balcony. I looked inside: small yellow lights glowed back at me and it looked warm.

  David put his hand on my lower back and we moved inside.

  The lady behind the small front desk eyed me from beneath bronzed lids, judgement in her eyes. It made me uncomfortable.

  ‘Hi, I just called for a room? The name is Turner,’ he said.

  She tapped away on the keyboard and handed him a keycard. ‘Room 303,’ she said.

  ‘Could I get a toothbrush?’ he asked, and she handed him two.

  ‘Oh, I don’t need one,’ I said to her.

  ‘Don’t be so selfish,’ David said, turning his head to grin at me. ‘Maybe I want to give the other one to my mother for Christmas.’

  ‘Third floor,’ said the woman behind the desk. But he was already guiding me towards the elevator, the warmth of his hand on my lower back.

  ‘Where are your things?’ I asked, as the elevator pinged open and we stepped inside.

  ‘I don’t have any. I was planning on heading home to the country tonight,’ he said.

  I watched the lights flicker as we ascended in silence. Second floor. Third floor. The doors opened: burgundy carpet with an ornate gold-and-black pattern running through it. Paintings on the walls: landscapes, horses. And series of doors on either side of that hallway. All containing people with secrets I would never know.

  He led me to the room: 303.

  As he pushed open the door, the lights – warm and low – switched on and he moved to the side so I could enter. There were two big windows behind heavy navy curtains, drawn to the side with ornate gold ropes. To the right lay a huge dark-wood four-poster bed covered in crisp white linen and a single mustard throw pillow. In the middle of the room sat a neutral leather sofa with a coffee table in front of it and a small chandelier overhead. And to the left was a mustard-and-gold King Henry style chair.

  ‘Welcome, madam,’ he said, following me inside and closing the door behind him. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’ He took off his coat and threw it onto the bed. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’ He walked towards the bathroom. ‘But there’s the phone next to the bed, order some champagne or something,’ he said with a smile. And then he closed the bathroom door and I was left alone.

  Picking up the receiver, I pressed 0 and a woman’s voice, presumably belonging to the one who checked us in, answered.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Hello, this is reception,’ said the bronzed lids and judgemental stare.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m in room 303. Could I get a bottle of champagne, please.’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said, her tone clipped. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Veuve?’ I suggested.

  ‘Of course. Anything else?’

  ‘Do you have some sort of chocolate cake?’ I asked. I could hear her tapping on that keyboard.

  ‘Certainly,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks.’ And then I hung the heavy receiver back on its cradle and looked around.

  It was beautiful. Magazine worthy. But the more I drank it in with my eyes, the faster my thoughts became. What was I doing? A low hum of panic started to rise from my belly. I shouldn’t be here. What if it goes badly? I could lose my job. And if it goes well, it will look like I was trying to sleep my way to succes
s … Val’s face flashed before me, her grey head shaking, her lips pursed.

  But my head was fuzzy and my brain too soft to make a decision. I needed water. So I moved towards the minibar, opened it, and grabbed a bottle of Evian from the top shelf.

  I could hear David in the shower. Water hitting tiles. He’ll be out soon. I sat on the sofa with my water, one of my legs folded demurely beneath me – I didn’t want him to think going to a hotel with a client was business-as-usual for me – and reached into my handbag for my phone.

  It was 9pm.

  The prostitutes would have arrived.

  Electricity stormed through my stomach, my lungs clenched and my hands ached.

  There’s no going back now.

  I took a sip of water – it was wonderfully cold – and imagined the scene. The girls, the ribbons, Angus’s face. What would he do? What would Candice do when she saw the bill? Would she tell his boss, Henry, immediately?

  Then the shower faucet turned off. I heard David moving out of the shower and onto the tiled floor, so I dropped my phone back into my handbag, covered my knees with my dress, and waited for him to emerge.

  His hair was wet and stuck to his head and he was wearing a hotel robe. Thick and white. Steam trailed out from behind him as he stood in the bathroom doorway, his feet bare and his legs hairy. I looked up at him and smiled as he moved towards me, his arms to the side in a ‘ta-da’ gesture.

  ‘Seduced yet?’ he asked. He was using a second towel to dry his hair, and as he sat down next to me, the sofa moved with his weight.

  ‘So, Taylor Bishop,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘So, David Turner,’ I replied. I was trying to act cool but the air between us was thick.

  ‘Truth or dare?’ he asked.

  ‘Truth,’ I said with a laugh.

  ‘Perfect,’ he laughed. ‘How the fuck are you still single?’

  I’ve always hated that question. It sounds like a compliment but it feels like an accusation of either psychological imbalance or bad fellatio technique. For all its faults, my relationship with Angus had shielded me from those sorts of questions for the past eighteen months, and in that moment I missed the protection he’d offered.

  So I answered a question with a question: ‘Why are you?’ Then I took another sip of my water.

  His eyes shifted, his forehead creased and he said: ‘How old are you, anyway? Twenty-six?’

  ‘Jesus,’ I laughed, ‘that’s more than one shitty question. But I’ll be thirty in June, if you must know.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ he replied. ‘You look much younger than that.’

  ‘What about you? How old are you?’ I asked. His dressing gown had fallen open and I could see his chest hair peeking through.

  ‘Why don’t you guess?’ He was still drying his hair with the towel.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I cocked my head to the side and took a sip of my water. ‘Forty-six?’

  He stopped dead. ‘Are you fucking serious?’

  ‘Why?’ I laughed.

  ‘I’m fucking thirty-eight,’ he said.

  ‘No way,’ I said, grinning. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  He walked over to the bed, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his wallet: old black leather. Creases from overuse. Then he handed me a small plastic card with an expressionless photo and proof of his ability to operate a motor vehicle.

  I looked at the birth date. He was telling the truth.

  ‘Right, your turn,’ he said, hand outstretched. ‘I want to see yours.’

  I reached into my bag, looked down and searched for my wallet in the darkness. I could see my phone. The screen was lit up. And there was one missed call: Angus.

  The blood drained from my heart.

  ‘Oh, just show me,’ David said, his hand reaching out for my licence. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  I handed it to him and tried to breathe. It was impossible.

  Why is he calling?

  ‘Shit,’ he said, looking at it, ‘this photo does not do you justice at all.’

  I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. I just sat there smiling, watching as David scanned my licence for details. ‘Bolton Gardens? How the hell can you afford to live in SW5?’ he asked.

  ‘Give it back,’ I said, reaching for my licence, but he pulled it away like it was a game.

  ‘I live in a shoebox that’s falling apart, that’s how,’ I said. The truth was I’d moved there for Angus. It was closer to him and more in line with the version of me he wanted me to be than my previous flat allowed. And all I ever wanted was to be the version of me he needed. The well-heeled version. The one that slotted easily into his picture-perfect life. And so I maxed out my credit card to cover the deposit and moved from my affordable, sensible, spacious flat in Greenwich – just 30 metres from the Welcome to Lewisham sign, with a cutlery drawer that didn’t fall apart if I tugged too hard – to my studio flat in Bolton Gardens that cost me 65 per cent of my salary and required me to dislocate my shoulder just to fit into the ‘bathroom’.

  I reached for my licence again. David went to move it but I caught it this time and yanked it from his fingers with a laugh. We were close and he was looking at me. I could smell his hair, feel his heat, and I was smiling. But it was dangerous to be there with him, so I pulled back and sat deeper into the seat.

  I slid my licence back into my wallet and then looked up at him. He was holding his phone. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Just a second,’ he replied, eyes down and smiling, ‘I’m looking for something.’

  ‘Are you texting?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said with a grin. And then a Latin version of ‘Sexual Healing’ started to play, all rhythm and cymbals and brass. It sounded like summer on an island. I started to laugh and he reached out his hand. He was looking at me with happy eyes and laughing one of those wide-mouthed, can-see-your-bottom-teeth kind of laughs.

  He reached for my hand.

  ‘I can’t dance, I’m drunk, David. I’ll fall over,’ I said.

  ‘Rubbish,’ he said, his fingers grabbing hold of mine and helping me up. He twirled me once, twice and then again. And a beautiful dizziness fell over me, blurring all the lines and taking away all the pain. He pulled me to him and we swayed, I could smell his cologne on his neck, his body warm and pressed against mine. Then he flicked me away, I laughed, turned, and he drew me back towards him. Our faces were close, his hands on my waist and his breath smelled of metal, wine and man. And I was laughing.

  ‘Room service,’ came a voice from the door. It was loud, as though they were already inside.

  I fell back onto the sofa as I watched him move towards the door. All business. All grown up. Everything he wasn’t.

  A small man with a big tray walked into the room. He placed the champagne in a bucket on the table along with two glasses and the cake. He opened the champagne with a loud pop and poured two glasses.

  ‘Chocolate cake?’ David asked as soon as the door closed behind the waiter.

  ‘One always needs chocolate cake, David,’ I replied.

  ‘Very true,’ he said as he handed me a glass of champagne, sat next to me and raised his glass to mine. ‘To one of those rare fun nights you don’t see coming.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, then we clinked our glasses and sipped.

  I could feel his heat beside me – he was sitting so close, naked beneath his bathrobe – and the music was still playing in the background. And I thought: He’s right, it is one of those nights.

  ‘So,’ he said, his voice low and rough, ‘truth or dare?’

  ‘Truth.’ I smiled back at him.

  His eyes had gone pink around the edges from the booze. ‘Now, you can’t lie …’ he said, leaning in. ‘Did you plan on using that cake for something specific later?’

  I started to laugh. ‘Oh shut up, David, we’re going to a bar, remember. Get dressed.’ But that was the last thing I wanted him to do. I just didn’t want to make it too easy. Then he w
ouldn’t take me seriously.

  ‘Well, that’s disappointing,’ he said, wandering over to the window. I watched him open it. Imagined his arms straining under that dressing gown.

  ‘Do you smoke?’ he asked over his shoulder as the window released and a gush of cool air flew in.

  ‘Sometimes,’ I said, as I walked towards him.

  He moved over to his coat, still lying on the bed, and pulled out a small packet of cigarettes – Camels – and one of those cheap transparent lighters you can buy at any corner store. It was a dark red. Then he leaned out the window, lit a cigarette, took a drag and then handed it to me. I leaned out with him and there we were: both leaning on the rough windowsill, smoking one cigarette between us, and in that moment there was nowhere else I wanted to be. I looked down onto the street. Rubbish bins. Couples stumbling home hand in hand from the noisy pub down the street. And everything bathed in silver light.

  ‘Okay, one more,’ he said.

  ‘One more then it’s my turn.’ I smiled.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Truth or dare?’

  ‘Well, as I’m hanging out a window I’m going to go for truth again,’ I laughed. My hands were resting on the rough stone of the windowsill. It was cold.

  ‘Did you know you fancied me the very moment you met me?’ He exhaled and handed me the cigarette, all the while watching me. ‘You have to answer truthfully, remember.’

  ‘Who says I fancy you?’ I asked, inhaling and looking away from him towards the road below.

  ‘I knew I fancied you,’ he said, reaching for the cigarette. ‘But that’s how it is with love, I guess: it’s either there, or it’s not.’

  I felt my mouth turn up at the edges as the smoke escaped.

  ‘So, you love me?’ I teased. ‘Wow, that was fast.’ I grinned at the road.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he said and he looked down at the road too.

  And I did know what he meant. It was there with Angus from the first time I heard his voice.

  It was getting cold, so I pulled my head back in through the window and David stubbed out the cigarette on the windowsill and followed me. I was facing inside, looking around, but I heard the window slide down, felt the breeze cut off, and then his hand was on my lower back, the heat from his fingertips. Then I was turning to look at him. Feeling his chest as it moved towards me, then his breath was on my neck, on my chin, beside my mouth.