by Mark Timlin
‘It’s the wrong time for a film. Too early for a club. How about a drink?’
‘Good idea, but the pubs’ll be packed and I hate that. How about my place? It’s just round the corner and I’ve got a bottle of very good brandy and a coffee machine, and a pound of cap colombie.’
‘Sounds perfect. As long as you think I’m house-trained enough to be trusted there.’
‘Of course I do. It’s just that I don’t usually mix business and pleasure.’
‘And which am I?’
‘Both. That’s why I made an exception in your case.’
‘Now I’m flattered.’
‘And so you should be.’
I called for the bill and paid with plastic, and we left to effusive farewells from Pavarotti and his chorus, and many promises to return soonest. Her flat was only a few minutes’ walk away, back past the garage where I’d left the car, by a men’s shop in Brewer Street. The entrance was at the back, and we reached it through a dark and smelly little entry.
‘This isn’t too clever,’ I said.
‘I know. I’m always stepping over drunks sleeping it off.’
‘Doesn’t that worry you?’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
She used three keys to get through the solid-looking black-painted door at the back of the building. Once inside, with the door double-locked behind us, we were standing in a tiny, dimly-lit passage with a flight of narrow stairs at the far end. Our footsteps clattered on the uncarpeted wood as we climbed the first flight, then a second which brought us to another door. Two more keys opened it and we went into a short hall with two doors off it: one to the left, one straight ahead. She pointed to the one on the side. ‘That’s the loo,’ she said, then opened the other, which led into the sitting room, with an open-plan kitchen on the left. Opposite was another door that I assumed led into the bedroom. This was confirmed when she took off her coat, then collected mine from me and took them both through. I saw a dressing table in front of a curtained window and the foot of a double bed. She dropped the coats on it and came back.
‘Sit down,’ she invited.
I chose the flower-patterned sofa that looked like it pulled out into a bed. She went into the kitchen and plugged in the coffee machine and filled the jug with water, and a filter paper with dark roast ground coffee. When it started to gurgle nicely, she took two small balloon glasses and an unopened bottle of brandy out of a cupboard above her head. She opened the bottle. ‘Ice?’ she asked.
‘As it is,’ I said.
‘Me too.’ She poured two generous measures into the glasses and brought them through. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the armchair opposite me. ‘Got a cigarette?’ she asked.
I brought out my Silk Cut and she took one and I lit it for her. ‘Nice place,’ I said.
‘It suits me.’
‘Rented?’
‘Yes. I like to move around.’
‘Where were you before?’
She didn’t reply to this, just stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table next to her chair, then said, ‘The coffee’ll be ready.’ She got up and went back to the kitchen, where she poured two cups and brought them through on a tray with sugar and cream. ‘Just like home,’ she said.
‘Better,’ I said. ‘I don’t get treatment like this at home.’
‘Aren’t you married?’
I nearly choked on my coffee. ‘Do I look married?’
‘I don’t know what married looks like.’
‘Not like me, that’s for sure.’
‘You might be lying.’
‘I might be, but I’m not. I was married, but not anymore. She’s in Scotland now with hubby number two.’
‘Was that your idea? A divorce, I mean.’
‘No. My fault, but not my idea.’
‘You don’t sound too happy about it.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with happiness or anything else. It’s unfinished business. Something that’s never been sorted. After a bit people stop listening when you say you’re sorry. They get apology fatigue, I suppose. So even when it’s true they don’t care.’
She nodded. ‘Any children?’
‘One. Judith. She’s with her mother.’
‘How old?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Do you see her?’
I shook my head. ‘I haven’t seen her since last year. It’s my fault. But I think it’s probably better that I don’t. For her, I mean.’
‘Do you miss her a lot?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a shame.’
I nodded.
‘Don’t you have a girlfriend?’
I shook my head.
‘A loner, eh?’
‘I suppose so. Not exactly by choice. More circumstance. How about you?’
She looked round. ‘There’s no one here.’
‘Is there anyone anywhere?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Another loner.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Two loners in Soho.’
‘Sounds like a song,’ she said.
‘A pretty sad one.’
‘Talking of songs, shall I put on some music?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Not much. I don’t have much of anything. It weighs me down.’ She got up and went over to the stereo system and started going through the pile of tapes. ‘Genesis?’ she asked.
‘I could live without them.’
‘Dire Straits?’
‘No.’
‘Elton John, The Police, Madonna, The Beatles?’
‘Give me a break. Let’s take a look.’
I put down my cup and went and joined her. I could smell her perfume again, and she rested her hip against mine. It felt solid and warm. I looked through the cassettes and found a Motown compilation and the latest Neville Brothers album. The stereo had twin tape decks and I put in the two cassettes and pushed both play buttons. The first track was Tears Of A Clown by The Miracles which I think I’ve only heard about a million times, but it still beat Phil Collins and Sting every way up. Kylie set the volume control and we went back and sat down again.
‘Why did you ask me out?’ she said.
‘Who knows? We just seemed to hit it off.’
‘Literally,’ she said, and laughed.
‘That’s a strange place.’
‘What, Sonny’s?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Very.’
‘Have you worked there long?’
‘No. Just a few months.’
I almost asked her if she liked it. What a dumb question. Next only to what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like that? I think she was half expecting me to. When I didn’t say anything, she added, ‘I’ve got to pay the rent.’
‘Don’t we all.’
‘Is that why you work in a bar?’
‘Partly. There’s not that many jobs open to an ex-copper caught with his fingers in the till.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I think you gave Pat Hughes a fright when you told him.’
‘I know. I’m sorry about that. It just slipped out. I thought he knew.’
‘I told you I’d just met them.’
‘I know. I could have kicked myself. Too much champagne.’
‘No harm done. It’s no secret.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Both of them. Yesterday.’
‘Business?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose I shouldn’t ask what kind?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Don’t get into trouble.’
‘Would you care if I did?’
> She nodded.
‘Why?’
‘I like you.’
‘And I like you too, Kylie.’
‘Does that mean a fuck’s not out of the question, then?’
She was right. It wasn’t.
25
I woke up in the middle of a dream that I was a British POW digging my way to freedom, when the roof of the tunnel collapsed, trapping me under a ton of earth. I couldn’t move my arms or legs and I could hardly breathe. When I opened my eyes, Kylie was sprawled on top of me, her face two inches from mine. I couldn’t move my arms or legs and I could hardly breathe. I lay there for a second, trying to remember where I was, who she was, and who I was. Suddenly it all came back in a reassuring flood, and I managed to get some purchase on the sheet with one elbow and pushed her off me. As she moved away she opened one eye and looked at me.
‘Morning,’ I said.
‘Hello there,’ she replied. She looked a mess. Her thick blonde hair was tangled, and she hadn’t removed her make-up when we’d come to bed, and the remains of it was smeared all over her face. ‘I must look a mess.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You look great.’ I lied about the former, but not the latter. She did look great. Tangled hair and smudged make-up, or no tangled hair and smudged make-up.
‘I’ve got to pee. I’m bursting,’ she said. Pushing back the bed clothes, she found a towelling robe on the dressing-table stool, pulled it on and left the room. As she went, I saw enough bed-warm, slightly damp, pneumatic flesh jiggling around to get me interested. More than interested in fact. I looked at the clock on the table by the bed. Eight-o’five it read. I rolled out of bed myself, and pulled back the curtain at the window just enough to check what was going on outside, but not enough for anyone to see in. I didn’t want to get done for indecent exposure, after all. And I certainly was. Indecent, that is.
Two storeys below me, Brewer Street was thronged with fresh-faced citizens heading for work. I scratched the stubble on my chin and went back to bed.
Kylie returned a minute or so later, shrugged out of the robe, and joined me. ‘Coffee’s on.’ And slid her hand down to my groin. ‘Interesting,’ she said when she’d found what she was looking for. ‘You should get up.’
‘I’ve been up,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t like it.’
She took my hand with her other hand, and put it between her legs. It was hot and sticky down there. ‘I meant up me, silly.’ And she climbed on top of me again, and manipulated me inside her, and started to rub herself up and down. By that time I was so horny that I only lasted a minute or so, but it was worth it.
When it was all over, she said, ‘There’s nothing like a quick one in the morning. And that was a very quick one indeed.’
‘Are you casting aspersions on my staying power, or what?’ I asked. ‘Because if you are, too bad. I think the earth moved for me that time.’
‘Me too, darling,’ she said and kissed me. ‘I’m not complaining. At least I know I turn you on.’
‘You do,’ I said. ‘Now, did someone mention coffee or was I mistaken?’
‘Oh Christ, it’ll be ready.’ She was off me, out of bed again, into her robe and out the bedroom in a second. I got up after her, pulled on my shorts and T-shirt, and went to the loo. The living room smelled deliciously of fresh coffee. When I got back, she stuck a cup under my nose.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘So what are you doing today?’ she asked.
‘Working. I’m due to open the bar at half-ten. I’d better get going soon.’
‘Shame.’
‘I know.’
‘Will you drop me off?’
‘Where?’
‘The Embankment. I’m going to the gym. There’s a session at nine-thirty.’
‘Christ,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you get enough exercise last night?’
‘No… well, yes. But I wasn’t working on the right muscles.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘It’s your funeral. But I warn you I’m going as soon as I’m dressed.’
‘I love a masterful man. Don’t worry. It’ll only take me a second to get ready.’
‘I’ve heard that one before.’
We finished our coffee and went back into the bedroom. Whilst I put on the rest of last night’s clothes, she put on a pink leotard over black lycra leggings, a sweat-suit, towelling socks and trainers, pulled a sports bag out of the cupboard and put in a towel and a bottle of shampoo, and picked up her handbag.
‘Ready,’ she said.
‘Let’s go, then.’
‘Just a minute,’ she said, and rooted round for a pen and a piece of paper. She scribbled something on it and gave it to me. ‘My number here,’ she said.
‘I’m honoured.’
‘You should be. Use it.’
‘I will. I promise.’ I put the piece of paper carefully in my pocket. ‘Come on, then,’ I said. ‘Otherwise you’ll miss your torture session.’
She smiled and kissed me. It could have got steamy again, but we both had other things to do. Pity.
We went downstairs to the street, unlocking and re-locking the doors as we went, walked the couple of hundred yards to the car park and found the Cosworth.
‘Nice car,’ she said appreciatively, and started opening and closing the glove compartment, fiddling with the seat and playing with the electric windows. ‘Will you take me out for a drive soon?’
‘Sure,’ I said as I drove down the ramps from level to level towards the exit. I paid the overnight fee, negotiated my way through Soho, round Piccadilly Circus and down to the Embankment. The gym faced the gardens next to the Houses of Parliament. I pulled up at the kerb opposite.
‘Thanks for the ride, Nick,’ she said.
‘I think it’s me who should be thanking you, if my memories of last night are correct.’
‘You’re such a disgusting man, I don’t know why I like you so much. But I do. When am I going to see you?’
‘I’ll call you,’ I said. ‘Before the weekend. We’ll get together.’
‘Make sure you do. I’m looking forward to it already.’ And she leaned over and kissed me, grabbed her bags and jumped out of the car. The last I saw of her she was dodging the traffic to get over the road.
26
I drove home, got changed and went to work. The phone in the bar rang around two. I answered it. ‘Nick. Brady.’
‘Hello, Brady,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I need to see you.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I say so.’
‘Give me a clue.’
‘Not on the phone.’
Paranoia strikes deep. I sighed. ‘I’m through at six-thirty,’ I said.
‘We’ll go out for a drink, right?’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ll pick you up at your place at nine.’
‘You’re the boss.’
‘You said it.’
‘How could I forget.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. Nine o’clock then. Be ready. Dress smart.’ And he hung up in my ear.
At the appointed hour, I was standing at my flat window with the curtains open and the light out, smoking a cigarette and watching the street, when Brady’s car roared up and squealed to a halt outside. I went downstairs and met him on the doorstep. In the light from the hall I saw that he was dressed in a dark suit, shirt and tie. It was the first time I’d seen him without his leather jacket. I’d put on my old standby navy Armani, a pale blue Paul Smith baggy shirt, and a dark blue silk tie with a predominantly mustard-yellow Paisley pattern, and highly-polished, black Bass Weejuns.
‘Am I smart enough for you?’ I asked.
‘Very nice.’
‘I’m so glad you approve. S
o, where are we going that I need sartorial advice from you?’
‘The Dealing Floor. Know it?’
Course I knew it. A couple of years before, it had been the club. The hottest ticket in town for every city whizz-kid determined to make a splash and his fortune and retire before the age of thirty. Without a membership card you were scum. With one, you were king. But that was then, and this is now.
‘I thought it had closed down,’ I said.
‘No, it’s still there. It’s not what it used to be, but then what is? You ever been there?’
‘No. Not my scene.’
‘Well, you’re going tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought I’d show you where the money you’ll be giving Hughes and Seeley will end up.’
‘Come again?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Come on, let’s go.’
We got into his car and headed towards the city. We crossed Tower Bridge and turned east, and followed the river to Venice Wharf and the Venice Tower, one of the tallest buildings in London. It was lit up like a birthday cake, burning enough energy to supply a small town. It loomed above the adjoining cityscape like a pink and white and yellow colossus, and was visible ten minutes before we got there.
The Dealing Floor was on the top floor of the tower, forty storeys above London. The other thirty-nine floors belonged to a merchant bank whose head office was registered in Liechtenstein, and which had subsidiaries in Luxembourg, the Cayman Islands and Delaware. Interest on deposits was a couple of percentage points over base rate. A fine investment. But you shouldn’t blink too often or you might just find your life savings floating offshore somewhere with a school of silk-suited sharks taking tasty chunks out of the old pension fund.
A few years ago you couldn’t have got a parking space closer than half a mile away for jammed-up Porsches, Ferraris, Mercedes and Golf GTI cabriolets; the queue at the special lift that went straight up to the club was ten deep, with paparazzi firing off flash-guns like automatic weapons; and you could have bottled the perfume the air-conditioning pulled out of the place, and sold it for forty pounds an ounce.
But as the icy fingers of the recession crept up the river, freezing it into white caps, it even left its dirty fingerprints up there, so close to the gods.
So now you could park outside, have the lift all to yourself, and get the best table in the place any time, any night of the week.
