Katie In Love: full length erotic romance novel

by Thurlow, Chloe

  She put her arms around my waist.

  'You know I love you,' she said.

  'Of course I do.'

  'Send me your novel when it's finished.'

  'That's going to be a while…'

  'I'll wait.' She paused. 'You do know I know you better than anyone else in the world, better than you know yourself.'

  'Probably,' I said, and we laughed.

  She squeezed me tight and I felt, as she let go, like a soap bubble being blown out through a metal ring.

  I made my way back along the passage, through the pounding beat inside the silver tube and out into the snow-grey night. I turned right and left into Wardour Street. I passed the girls in doorways, the girls with gooseflesh outside the strip joints, the dispossessed men sipping from bottles of meths, and turned towards Piccadilly where I could catch the night bus back to Hackney.

  In Regent Street a man in a ragged tee-shirt with dead eyes approached selling the Big Issue. He was shivering, my age, perhaps younger, the streets are aging.

  'Please,' he said. 'Please. I just need to sell two more and I can get a hostel for the night.'

  'I've heard that one before,' I said.

  He bounced along at my side. 'It's true, darling, honest. I'm freezing.'

  'What happened to your clothes?'

  'Robbed, weren't I? At knifepoint. Talk about scary.'

  We reached the bus stop. I was going to save £20 getting the bus instead of a taxi. I took the money from my purse and his dead eyes lit up when I gave it to him.

  'Twenty quid, amazing. Listen, there's an all-night burger bar round the corner. Want to have some nosh, you know, the two of us?'

  'I thought you were going to a hostel?'

  'It's alright, I'll stay at your place,' he said.

  'You've got an answer for everything.'

  'Got to try it on, darling. One day my luck's going to change.'

  'I think it already has.'

  'Does that mean you're going to take me home with you?'

  'Sorry, boyfriend,' I told him; the word sounded silly to me.

  'What you doing on your own then?'

  'He's abroad, working.'

  'And you're gallivanting around the West End. I dunno.'

  The white light from a sign that said English Classes gave him the bleached look of someone needing a blood transfusion. He gave me a copy of the magazine and I watched him wander off. He had invented himself as a man robbed of his clothes at knifepoint. Even beggars need a business plan.

  I sat at the front upstairs on the bus and watched the lights grow dimmer as we moved west to east. Like the Underground early mornings, I had never used buses at night and felt the sort of weariness I imagine refugees feel as they cross borders with their belongings on their backs.

  I flicked through the Big Issue. There was an article about an actress who loved smoking; her picture reminded me of Bella, the same engaging smile, the same wilful look in her eyes. The first time I had gone to Pink was with Bella and Tara Scott-Wallace ten years ago. Ten years that had melted like Salvador Dali's soft clock. I had remained in the same skin, the same costumes, reordered the same doubts and desires in my novels. The book I was redrafting was flat, tired, insipid. Art is about breaking down internal structures and presenting the world from a different angle. Artists have to remake themselves or their work becomes formulaic, a product.

  The cold when I stepped off the bus bit into my cheeks. I struggled with the door key, the wood had swelled, and ran up the stairs as if being pursued. I warmed my hands on the iron radiator, then opened my laptop. It was my writing time, but I didn't feel like writing. Emails tumbled in from the ether. I didn't feel like reading emails. White light pulsed in my head, the beginnings of migraine. I clicked on the Dancer file, keyed cmd+a and, without a pause, pressed delete. I glanced at the smoking man.

  'Bet you didn't think I'd do it.'

  He peered back with a weary look in his porcelain eyes. He was tired of waiting.

  In an ironed black skirt, fitted blouse and low heels, I stepped into The Shard and rose interminably floor after floor to a bland open area with round tables and a view of the sun sinking into the outcrops of lower building. Of all the tall glass Towers of Babel in London, the elongated, pyramid-shaped Shard was the tallest with the most glass.

  I could see in the lift's shiny fittings that my eyes had that hurt look that comes from lack of sleep and appeals to some men, those same men who like prostitutes, and for the same reason, I suppose. I had slept badly, my dreams twisted images of the night before, Lisa ice-white with blood running down the insides of her legs, Lizzie in a surgeon's mask; the pianist at the Cadogan Hall staring from the shadows like the Phantom of the Opera. The tree branch tapped out the rhythm of Bach's Concerto in C Minor as Marie-France sliced through the strings of her cello with the scalpel she had taken from the hand of a surgeon who I realised on second glance was Lizzie. I was looking round for something lost. My laptop, on the seat beside me, was covered in ants, and Ray Fowles was in the distance, the man under the lamppost lighting a cigarette.

  When I woke, the first thing that popped into my head was Lizzie sitting across the table at Colbert: There's nothing wrong with a touch of jealousy, she says. You could say it's a sign of love. Jealousy and love. They were emotions I had avoided and considered irrational, another word that had passed across the table as we drank champagne. My big bed felt like a wasteland, a cold empty tundra, the wind moving through the window frames and shaking the blinds. The tree branch was building to a crescendo. I had a thought on the edge of my mind, like a word on the tip of your tongue, a funfair balloon that flew away before I could reach it. I slept again and woke restlessly from another dream where I was standing naked before a large mirror ironing a black skirt.

  Evelyn was in full flow, a general reminding the other ranks how important it is to be 'on your toes as if you are wearing six-inch heels.' Always say yes, whatever the question. 'Remember we are in a service industry. The people who come to our events expect the best service.' She raised her fist.

  'Team Talbot,' she cried.

  'Team Talbot,' the girls echoed.

  She had noticed me coming in, Evelyn noticed everything, and approached when the team talk was over.

  'Late, Katie?' she said, and I shrugged. 'You'll be late for your own funeral if you're not careful.'

  Evelyn was skeletal with streaked blonde hair in a French pleat, heels too high, a tad too much make-up, lipstick too far along the curve from pink to scarlet, a case of if a little of something is good, then a lot must be better.

  'What would you like me to do?' I said, and she pointed at the table set slightly apart in a semi-circle of floor to ceiling glass.

  'That's the power table. The booking came from the architects.'

  'What are they building?'

  'Does it matter?'

  'Everything matters, Evelyn.'

  Her hair remained immobile as she shook her head. 'Some buildings in Mayfair, two crescents that will make a circle. Something unique.'

  'Until the next unique thing comes along.'

  'I really want to get in with these people. Just be, you know,' she did a little shimmy. 'Just be great, Kate. We can really go places.'

  'We?' I asked her.

  'It's there if you want it. You've always known that.'

  She tottered off in small steps. Evelyn didn't particularly like me, but must have thought I added something to Team Talbot.

  We unpacked crystal glasses. The three men on the team, moonlighting actors, were in charge of opening the champagne, not something you could leave to girls, not on their own. Evelyn watched from below arched eyebrows, and the first guests began to wander in just as were finishing.

  A man of indeterminate age, with gold in the bands of his turban, robes and dark glasses, entered with his court. Everyone grew silent before putting their hands together in a round of applause. Evelyn led the party to the money table and the sheikh sat between
two younger Arabs, his sons, probably, polished young men in shiny suits with thick moustaches. The sheikh turned as if bored and gazed out into the mystery of the universe, the skyline hidden by low cloud. Helicopters glided by, the sound through the glass like the buzz of mosquitoes in the bedroom at night.

  The names of the guests were embossed in gold on grey place cards and we girls in our tight skirts flapped about giggling as we helped the men find their places. There were almost a hundred guests, just two women, the party divided on twelve tables of eight. A four-girl string quartet in floor-length dresses played Vivaldi and Mozart.

  When everyone was seated, we hurried to the kitchen where sombre chefs served soup in bowls with gold rims and gold crowns glazed into the china. We watched Evelyn until she gave us the nod and exited in a file with trays containing eight bowls of soup, breasts pushed forward, spines pulled back against the strain, and I thought for some reason of girls carrying water jugs on their heads in far away places.

  The sons of the sheikh had moved to new positions. A tall, dapper man in a blue velvet jacket and bow tie now sat on the sheikh's right. On his left was a muscular, square-jawed ex-rugger player with a mane of flowing gold hair, wide shoulders and a wide knot in his gold tie. I drew the conclusion that the bow tie was the architect, the gold tie the main constructor.

  As I placed the soup in front of him, he leaned round and gave my backside two soft slaps.

  'Don't spill any, there's a good girl,' he said.

  'You can be certain of that. I'm very careful,' I replied, and turned away.

  The light had gone. The sky was leaden, vast as the sea. The quartet slipped through their repertoire. After collecting the bowls from the soup course, one of the new girls dropped her tray as she returned to the kitchen. Evelyn took deep breaths and gripped her fists. I helped the girl pick up the broken pieces. Like the sky, the colour had drained from her face and her hands trembled.

  'It doesn't matter,' I whispered.

  'It does,' she said, and I could see panic in her eyes.

  The chefs were filling plates with roast lamb and vegetables, typically English, or typically Arabic. My stomach turned queasy seeing the vast quantities of meat, so much food that we would remove again from the tables and scrape into black bins. While we girls carried laden trays, the actors served a Côte d'Or Grand Cru; £800 a case wholesale, Evelyn whispered. The sheikh indicated that he would take a small measure of wine, and the rugby prop with the gold tie threw up his two hands as I placed a plate in front of him.

  'Look, no hands,' he said.

  'You'll need them for your knife and fork,' I replied, and he laughed.

  'So, what's your name, honey?'

  I paused. 'Kate,' I replied.

  'Kate. That's nice. That's pretty. Hey, everyone, this is Kate. She's very careful.'

  The two young Arabs studied me with eagle eyes and I thought perhaps they weren't the sheikh's sons but bodyguards. All over London that winter I had noticed vigilant men in black suits standing beside polished parked cars with black windows outside hotels, boutiques, night clubs, casinos, building sites.

  We served treacle pudding. More wine that loosened their tongues. The noise level rose, drowning out the quartet. An MC in a white jacket tapped a microphone and fiddled with the electrics, preparing for the speeches.

  The builder beckoned.

  'Hey, Kate, Kate. Come here a minute. Come, come.'

  The eyes of the men at the table were on me as I approached.

  'Yes.'

  He placed his hand on my bare arm – anchoring; I knew all about anchoring.

  'I wanted to give you my card.'

  He removed a card from his top pocket and gave it to me.

  'Thank you,' I replied.

  He ran his hand up my arm and down again. 'I thought you might like to give me a call.'

  'You should speak to Evelyn.'

  'Evelyn? Who?'

  'If you need a waitress.'

  'A waitress? That's the last thing I need.'

  He swept his hand through his golden hair and laughed. He was handsome, sure of himself. The others laughed. The sheikh had made a spire with his fingers. His dark glasses were on me. This was a game. I imagined there was a wager at stake.

  'No, nothing like that,' the builder added. 'I thought we could have a drink?'

  'A drink?'

  'Yes, you know, meet up, go somewhere nice. Anywhere you like. Have a drink?'

  'A drink?' I said again.

  'Yes. The two of us.'

  'But why?'

  'Why? Why not, Kate? Kate. You know, I love that name. Don't you think that's a great name?' he said, and glanced around the table. Everyone loved Kate. He looked back with a smile. 'See,' he added, as if some point had been proven.

  'You want to have a drink with me?' I said.

  'You got it.'

  'Why?' I said again.

  'Well, why not?'

  'Because I don't know if you really want to have a drink with me, or whether you just want to go to bed with me?'

  Now there was silence. The men at the closest tables had stopped talking and were listening.

  'No, no, not exactly.'

  'Then what?' I prompted.

  'Well, yeah, if you want to put it like that.'

  'Then this is a business arrangement?'

  'How do you mean, Kate?'

  'You don't want to know me. You don't want to go traipsing round the bars drinking. You want to take me to bed.'

  He held up his palms in the same surrender gesture.

  'Okay, you win. What do you say?'

  The silence stretched. We were playing tennis. Maybe I'd broken his serve.

  'I just thought, as a businessman, you understand everything is business. Politics is business. Sex is business.'

  He smiled and did that thing, stroking my arm.

  'You know something? I like a girl who's direct.'

  'I've got your card. I'll text you my bank details.'

  He sat back, grinning. 'You what?'

  'I thought we'd agreed. This is business.'

  'You're something else. OK, baby. You do that.'

  'When you get my text, set a time and date and wire me £200,000.'

  'You what?'

  'I'll send my bank details.'

  'Are you out of your mind? You want £200,000 for a fuck?'

  'You don't think I'm worth it?'

  'Nobody's worth that.'

  'Yes, you're right.'

  I glanced at the sheikh. The lights reflected in his dark glasses. The two young Arabs stroked their moustaches. Those men at the table by the window were used to getting whatever they wanted.

  Evelyn, who missed nothing, appeared like Death in a play.

  'Is everything alright?' she asked and the builder pushed his chair back before replying.

  'This waitress of yours is soliciting,' he said.

  'She's…What's that? What…'

  'That's right,' he looked around the table. 'She wants me to wire her money, a lot of money.' He smiled at the sheikh. 'And in sterling, not dollars.'

  Evelyn was shaking. She looked at me as I placed the business card down on the table. Evidence.

  'Get your coat. You will leave this instant,' she said. I noticed her apologetic shrug as she turned to the architect. 'Nothing, nothing like this has happened before, I promise you.' She looked back at me. 'Go. For heaven's sake go. You are more trouble than you're worth.'

  The round room of glass had grown quiet except for the quartet. They played on like the band on the Titanic and the other waitresses remained motionless like pillars of salt.

  21

  Sunrise to Sunrise

  I walked home through the grey streets beneath my yellow umbrella with a feeling that I had taken on the world of bankers and builders. Not that I had. Those men at the money table were sitting back at that moment listening to speeches applauding their vision. The crescent buildings would rise over Mayfair and the woman in Norwich d
enied respite care would still be looking after her handicapped son. In the end, you have to decide who you are, take sides. There's no future sitting on the fence. Eventually, you fall off.

  Since I had ironed my skirt that morning, an unformed thought had been playing through my head like a jingle, like a word in a foreign language you know you know but can't bring to mind. I stepped off the kerb into a puddle. My soaked shoe made sucking noises as I crossed the road. I told myself I would have to go out and buy another pair and, the same second, it occurred to me that I didn't have to do anything of the sort. I would dry the shoes, polish them, make do with the shoes I already had, that these small frustrations are like mist drifting in from the sea and concealing everything solid and tangible. On the corner, the scribble of white neon above the windows of a shop reminded me for some reason of meeting the man in the torn tee-shirt in Regent Street.

  I took a shower, changed into my pyjamas and made scrambled eggs on toast. I sat at my desk with a mug of spice dragon chai, gave the yellow exercise ball a few squeezes, then watched my fingers type 'English School' into Google without being entirely sure why.

  There are hundreds of schools where you can learn English and almost as many where you can study for the TEFL certificate you need to teach English. I sat back with that feeling you get when you're following a map and suddenly see a sign that makes sense. I remembered that night when Tom told Ray to contact him when he came out of the army. 'We need people who can do things,' he said.

  I found a school a few stops down the tube line at Kings Cross with an intensive four-week course starting Monday, in two days. I emailed, apologising for being late applying. I explained that I would arrive at the school early Monday with the full fees and prepared to start immediately. I paused before adding that I had a degree in English and French Literature, and the opportunity of a job.

  Sunday. Lunch with Mother. I needed a loan. Just a loan. I had withdrawn as much as I could from the ATM machines, I explained, but needed to top up what I had to pay the fees for the TEFL course.

  'TEFL,' she said. 'Isn't that the black stuff they put on saucepans and it always comes off?'