by David Belbin
After Prime Minister’s Question Time, she grabbed a ciabatta for lunch then went to get some air on the terrace outside the Strangers’ Bar overlooking the Thames. The panorama of the city beyond the river was one of the best views in London.
‘Sarah!’ It was Gill Temperley, in a linen, flower-patterned dress, looking five years younger than when she left government a year ago. ‘I’m entertaining a friend of yours.’
There was Andrew Saint, having a conversation with the barman. Non-MPs weren’t allowed to buy drinks, but the rule was sometimes relaxed when a guest was with a member.
‘Are you two getting on well?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yes. Andrew’s very generous … and talented,’ Gill said. Then she lowered her voice. ‘And rich. Though how he makes his money is a source of speculation. Is he one of those men who manipulates currencies, do you think?’
‘Anything’s possible.’ Sarah said. When they’d had dinner he’d mentioned currency dealing. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘I’ve tried. Andrew has the politician’s trick of giving you a full and frank answer that leaves you no better informed than before you asked the question.’
Sarah smiled. She remembered that trait in Andrew, too. He joined them, carrying a pint for himself and a white wine for Gill.
‘Sarah!’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘If I’d known you were here I’d … what are you having?’
‘It’s okay, I need to go in a minute,’ Sarah assured him. ‘Good to see you two getting on so well.’ Andrew’s eyes darted to the side for a moment and Gill gave him a calming look. My God, Sarah thought, she’s sleeping with him. Or, at the very least, thinking about it. There had always been rumours about Gill and her frequently rotated ‘research assistants’, generally pretty young men with plenty of blond hair. Yet there must come a time when you valued a loyal guard dog higher than a cute puppy. Maybe now that she was out of power and her husband was practically retirement age, Gill felt the need of a rich protector like Andy. Sarah looked at her watch. ‘Actually, I’m late already. I came out for a breath of fresh air, to wake myself up.’
‘I’m in Nottingham tomorrow,’ Andrew said. ‘Maybe we could meet up for a drink, if you have time.’
‘Sorry. I won’t be in the constituency until Friday,’ Sarah told him. ‘Got to rush.’
She generally caught the train back on Thursday evenings, but this week she was going to the theatre with Paul. It would be only her fourth theatre visit since becoming an MP. She’d wanted to see Marber’s Closer at the National Theatre for ages. Now it was in the West End, which made a visit easier, but still problematic. You couldn’t get back to the Commons in time if your pager went off for a vote, that was the trouble. And staying over on a Thursday cut into constituency time. This week, however, she had nothing on in Nottingham until Friday afternoon. When Paul suggested an outing, their first in weeks, she had agreed at once.
Afterwards, if she could manipulate things that way, they would go back to his, not hers. Because, in the morning, before she caught the train home, she intended to end it. Paul had given her one evasive answer too many and she was convinced that he hadn’t really separated from his wife.
Sarah had met Annette twice. The first time was at a county council social function last year. They had hardly spoken. The second time was at Sainsbury’s on the Castle Marina, last weekend. When Annette said hello, Sarah didn’t recognize her. She’d put on weight. Then, when Paul’s wife reintroduced herself, she’d felt awful. Her face must have gone red, through a combination of guilt and fear that the other woman was about to call her over it. That hadn’t happened, but it wasn’t a feeling that Sarah wanted to repeat. Ever.
Sarah wasn’t in love with Paul, had never come close to feeling that way. She didn’t want to be the one who broke up a marriage. It was time for both of them to move on.
The exams are over and you can’t believe he isn’t returning your calls. He’s usually in Nottingham by Thursday afternoon, so you text him, repeatedly. No response. Fuck this, you think, and take a taxi to the address you got from his wallet, months ago. You tell the cab to wait, then march straight up to the door. You’re wearing a black anorak, have your hair tied back and are holding a large brown envelope.
A kid answers the door. A boy of eleven or so. You say his name.
‘Daddy’s not here.’
The wife comes to the door. Up close, she’s tired, could stand to lose a stone or two. She looks at you suspiciously, but you hold your nerve.
‘This needs to be signed for.’
‘I can sign for it.’
‘In person, sorry.’
‘My husband’s in London at the moment.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘Tomorrow, Saturday, I’m not sure. He lives away a lot of the time.’
You see it in her eyes. He isn’t just working away. He’s gone.
‘Perhaps you’d give me his London address. I’ll get this redirected.’
She writes it down for you.
‘Is that a first-floor flat?’
She shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
You thank her for her time. You stop yourself from skipping up the driveway. For you have just seen a deserted woman. Everything he said was true. He has left her. For you.
You take the taxi back to the hostel and tell it to wait again, then you shove a few things in a bag. You’re getting on the next train to London.
38
Nick’s job had a week and a day to run. There was no prospect of extending his contract. By the end of this week, he would be the only worker left.
When he got in from work, there was a note in the door.
Time you got a mobile, old son. I’ll be waiting in the Red Lion. Andrew.
Nick hadn’t seen his oldest friend in four months. What was he doing in Nottingham? You didn’t come all this way on the off-chance of catching up with a mate.
Andrew wore new, narrower glasses. Every time Nick saw him, he looked a little classier. His beard had shrunk, trimmed around his chin so that it performed only the essential task, detracting from his emerging jowls and wobbling jawline. Andrew bought Nick a pint and a malt whisky chaser.
‘What brings you here?’ Nick asked.
‘A property possibility. Safest place to put your money. Another boom on the way, mark my words.’
They talked about Nick’s housing situation. Andrew thought he ought to get somewhere better.
‘Or maybe you’re waiting for an invite to move in with someone. Who are you seeing at the moment?’
No need for Andrew to ask if Nick was seeing anyone. Prison hadn’t cured him of his need to always have a girlfriend: little matter whether they were suited or not.
‘There was this teacher I used to work with. Bit younger. The sex was great at first, but soon we had nothing to talk about apart from getting wasted. And, after a while, you get tired of getting wasted all the time. You?’
Andrew gave a smile with a trace of smugness. He leaned in, confidentially, although the pub was quiet and nobody sat near them.
‘You know me, don’t like being tied down. I’ve been chasing this married woman. Husband works away. Ever been with an older woman?’
‘Just the once,’ Nick said. ‘We had a good time until she realized that she needed someone more mature.’
Andrew gave a sardonic smile.
‘How did you meet her?’ Nick asked.
‘Work.’
‘What does she do? No, let me guess. An estate agent.’
Andrew shook his head. ‘An MP. You’ve heard of her.’
For a terrible moment, Nick thought that Andrew was seeing Sarah. But no, he’d said that this was an older woman.
‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Tell.’
‘Gill Temperley. She was a Home Office minister in the last government, like Sarah is now.’
The name rang no bells for Nick. ‘So she’s a …’
‘Tory, yes.’
Andrew had never been political, not really. Even so, Nick was surprised that he had no qualms about pursuing a woman who belonged to, what was for him, the enemy. Thinking about it, he could picture Temperley, vaguely, from before he was sent down: pretty, in a posh way, a shrill voice on the BBC’s Question Time.
The conversation moved on. Andy repeated his offer of a place to stay in London while Nick looked for work. He didn’t reveal anything more about his property deal. Nick asked about his other businesses.
‘I’ve got into a bit of currency dealing,’ was all Andrew added to what he had already said. ‘Small margins, but lucrative rewards if you have a high turnover and manage it right.’
Andy had to leave before last orders to catch the London train. Nick hadn’t told him about the failed bust. He wasn’t stupid enough to discuss that in a pub. They went outside, so Andrew could hail a taxi to take him to the station.
‘Seen Sarah lately?’ Andrew asked.
‘Not for months. You?’
‘Had lunch with her a while back. I think she’s got a new boyfriend.’
‘Black guy?’
‘Yeah. Have you met him?’
‘I went round her flat to talk about some work stuff and this guy came round. She said it was Home Office work and I was hungover, took her word for it. Come to think of it, he looked familiar. Have you met him?’
Andrew hesitated. ‘Remember Tall Paul?’
‘Vaguely,’ Nick said. Andrew had introduced them about seven years ago. ‘Never knew his surname.’
‘Paul Morris. Big afro? He’s cut his hair since then, which is probably why you didn’t recognize him. Went into law, then politics. Did quite well for himself, by all accounts. You see, there’s hope for all of us.’ He held out his arm and a taxi pulled up. ‘Stay in touch.’
‘I will.’ They shook hands, for want of a better gesture, and Andrew got into the taxi.
Nick was tempted to go round to Nancy’s, try to sort things out between them. He hadn’t been to hers for a couple of weeks. Since the police raid, things had been strained between them. Then there was that night at Hatch. He’d asked her about it the next time they’d met. She’d said she could handle crack and it was none of his business. She’d hinted that she’d tried it long before he got out of prison. With Carl, presumably.
At least she’d been straight when he saw her last. He’d taken a bottle of wine round. On the third glass, he’d made a tentative enquiry about how she was spending her weekends. Nancy didn’t answer directly.
‘You’re jealous because I’m on the pipe when I could be with you.’
‘I didn’t say that. I worry about you doing too much. Of course I do.’
‘I decide how much too much is, not you. Doing that job’s changed you. You’ve forgotten how good drugs can be.’
She was right. Something had changed him. Nick wasn’t sure if it was the job, the years he’d spent inside, or just time catching up with him.
‘Drugs are good until they aren’t,’ Nick told her. ‘Until you need to take ten times as much and it still doesn’t get you as high as it used to.’
‘Listen to the guy who got his sentence doubled because the police found four and a half grams of coke on top of all those cannabis plants. The guy who swore he wasn’t dealing blow, that he needed that much for personal use. I went to your trial, Nick. Remember?’
That shut him up. They finished their drinks and went to bed. The sex was perfunctory. He hadn’t stayed the night. Come to think of it, she hadn’t asked him to.
Since he’d told Andrew, he could acknowledge it to himself. He and Nancy were on the way out. She’d always said she expected him to get bored with her, and now he was fulfilling her prophecy. Yet, why? Back when she was twenty-two, they had talked about books, drama, art, music, the lot. Since becoming lovers, they hardly talked about anything. They watched trash on TV and used music as a soundtrack to get smashed to.
But if they were going to finish, he didn’t want his last memory of Nancy to be the way it had been the other week, with her grinding her thighs to make him come more quickly.
He’d had three pints and two whiskies, but he wasn’t slaughtered. Nancy was only five minutes’ bus ride away and she might be pleased to see him. Best, he decided, to phone first. She picked up on the second ring. Nick started on his smarmy apology before she could say a word.
‘Nance, sorry I haven’t called for –’
‘Dickhead,’ a male voice interrupted. ‘Call this number again and you’re dead. Didn’t you get the message the first time I gave it you?’
‘Carl?’
‘Fuck off.’ The man hung up and Nick put down his handset. Carl. She’d never stopped seeing Carl. It hadn’t occurred to him that Carl was responsible for the beating he had received back in March. But what other ‘message’ could he have been talking about?
Did Carl do it himself? Hardly mattered. But why hadn’t he let on who it was earlier, if he wanted Nick to stay away? Because the message was more for Nancy than it was for Nick. Carl didn’t want to get arrested. Now Nick knew why Nancy had only come to visit him once while he was laid up in hospital. She was seeing Carl all that time. Still getting drugs off him.
What about the planted bag of crack, was that Carl too? Nancy said she’d seen a black guy, but she could have been covering for him.
One thing was certain. He and Nancy were over.
*
The train gets in at twenty past ten. You bought a London A–Z at Nottingham station and worked out where to go. It’s walking distance. You head out into the streets, pulling the hood up on your anorak. That way, people can’t easily tell your age. But it’s no good. Even before you leave the station, there are approaches.
‘Hey, pretty girl, looking for a place to stay?’
Your hand grips the shaft of the blade you always carry with you, better protection than a rape alarm. So this is London. It could be Hyson Green or the run-down roads leading out of Nottingham, to Mansfield or Alfreton. Only difference is there’s more traffic; the roads are wider. You don’t see the attraction. In the short walk during which St Pancras turns into King’s Cross, you’re twice asked for business. You keep your head down, squeeze the handle of the knife. Soon, you will be with him.
Absence sharpens love, you read somewhere. He won’t be able to turn you away. He said he wants to wait until after the exams before seeing you. Okay, the exams aren’t over yet, not quite. You’ll go along with whatever plans he has. Just as long as, tonight, he lets you be with him.
His building isn’t hard to find. You expected somewhere smarter, like his place in Nottingham, but Pentonville Road is full of gaudy, cheap shops. Girls younger than you are plying their trade. You know your lover wouldn’t be tempted. He’s never paid for it in his life. Men who use prostitutes see women as objects. He loves women. He loves you.
His flat is dark, empty-looking. There are only two doorbells. You try them both, twice. No response. You’ll have to wait. There’s a shop doorway opposite, but that’s too obvious. You’re bound to be moved on. You don’t want anyone to think you’re on the game. You can’t go into a pub, either. Close up, you don’t look anywhere near eighteen.
He’ll be home soon. There’s a phone box. You can see his flat from there. You’ll pretend to be making a call.
There are glossy, coloured cards pasted onto every surface, each decorated with near-naked women and a mobile number. You pick up the phone and pretend to talk to him. He has told you so much about his life. How he was brought up in a home much like yours, went through the whole drugs thing, got married early, then went to university, began to see the world in a new way. He knew he had to make a difference to people who lived like he used to, people like you. If I can make it, you can, he told you. You believe him. But you can only do it with his help.
A taxi pulls up on the corner outside his building. He gets out and your heart leaps. Then someone else gets out of the car. A woman. You recognize her from the TV
news, when she talked about the Power Project. You don’t know what your lover’s London job is. Even so, you tell yourself, the MP’s there for something to do with his work. Because it can’t be what it looks like. It can’t be. They go into the building. A light goes on inside. You stare in disbelief, the situation starting to sink in. Not long afterwards, a light goes out.
A light goes out in you, too.
Nick walked off his anger. After a while, he started to get some perspective. He’d been a fool for a woman, but he’d done that before and doubtless would again. Nancy had cheated on him. That hurt. He wasn’t used to being cheated on, but it wasn’t like when Sarah cheated on him, during their break-up, fifteen years ago. That was cataclysmic and had taken him years to get over. Tonight, by comparison, was a minor insult to his pride.
Three or four weeks ago, he’d told Chantelle that he was disentangling himself from Nancy, but he hadn’t followed through and called her. Why not now? She might be flattered. And he had her number in his wallet, left over from work. He had found it after she gave him that lift home and had written it down.
He focused. It was all right. He’d not had so many drinks that he was likely to make an idiot of himself. He dialled her number.
‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded posher on the phone, almost BBC.
‘Chantelle, it’s Nick. I hope you don’t mind me phoning at this time.’
‘I was wondering if you were ever going to call me.’
‘Sorry it’s been a couple of weeks but… can I come round and see you?’ Nick asked, presumptuously.
‘Are you a little drunk? Is this a booty call?’
‘I guess it is, yes.’
‘No three-course meal and an after-dinner drink first?’
‘Not unless you haven’t already eaten.’
‘I have. And I have an early start. But you can call me another time, when you’re not in such a hurry, boss man.’
