by Anna Smith
She would probably regret this, but right now she felt good. TJ had insisted on taking her to the small Italian bistro downstairs from his flat in the city centre. She told him she was too tired to go anywhere except her bed after the day she’d had, but TJ convinced her she was more in need of some company and a few hard drinks than a rest. Eventually she agreed, and when the bistro’s owner, Giovanni, welcomed them at the bar with a hug, and a gin and tonic that barely touched the sides, she was soon feeling a whole lot better.
Two hours earlier they had driven Gemma within about fifty yards of the children’s home and dropped her off.
‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ Rosie had said. ‘You couldn’t make this up.’
It was his plan, and he told her just to do it and keep quiet. It was the only way. Gemma had promised to go straight to the door. She would say she’d gone for a walk and got a bit lost. She’d only been missing for just over an hour, and unless the children’s home was run like a prison camp, they probably wouldn’t even have missed her. They had watched from the car as she walked along the street towards the big, grey sandstone building. She pushed open the door, giving them a furtive wave before she went inside. They waited for about five minutes, keeping an eye on the door to see if there was any activity, but there wasn’t. They left then, telling themselves there was nothing more they could do.
‘I feel wrecked already.’ Rosie rubbed her eyes as TJ filled up her glass with red wine. ‘You shouldn’t have allowed me to drink when I’m this tired.’
‘Nonsense. You’ve hardly had a couple of glasses.’ He downed his drink and gave her a devilish look. ‘Hey. Let’s get hammered. You’ve no work tomorrow, and you’ve already cost me a full night’s busking by dragging me into your kidnapping scam.’
Her eyes flicked across his face, the sallow skin and dark features that TJ had said was the Black Irish in him. His father had been from Donegal and his mother was from Glasgow. But he always joked that his ancestors were sailors from the Spanish Armada, who jumped ship when they saw the beautiful Irish girls. The romance got lost somewhere between the Irish sea and the rat-infested Glasgow tenement he grew up in.
‘You never tell me all of your story, TJ.’ Rosie was always fascinated by his tales of growing up, and how he just walked away from Glasgow one November morning when he was twenty-two and didn’t come back for twenty years. He’d lived in New York, trekked across Europe, and for a couple of years lived in Cuba.
‘What’re you talking about? I’ve told you loads of stories. What’s to tell?’ He smiled, running a finger around the rim of his wine glass.
Rosie sipped her wine, watching him order coffee for both of them when Giovanni came to the table, then said, ‘Yeah, but I can never really get inside your head. I mean, you’re out there busking, and you say you don’t need to do it for the money. What’s that all about? Don’t you ever wonder, after all the travelling and restless stuff, what’s going to happen? When will it stop?’
She blinked, knowing she was beginning to sound a bit drunk. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t mean to decipher your life. But you know, TJ, I just wonder about you sometimes.’
He leaned forward, lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly.
‘It’s okay.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘So what if I keep travelling? Why stop? Why stay in one place? Who made that rule? I’m happier when I’m moving. It’s when I stop that I feel unhappy.’
Rosie took his cigarette from between his fingers and had a drag of it, then gave it back.
‘Are you unhappy now?’
He smiled. ‘Yeah. Because you keep smoking my fags, Gilmour. Can you not buy your own?’
‘I don’t smoke. You know that.’ She took his again, had another draw, and handed it back to him.
‘Aye. Not much, you don’t.’
‘You never answered my question.’
‘Do you hacks never take a day off?’ He smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘No. Right now, right at this moment, I’m not unhappy. I like being with you, Gilmour.’ He looked at her, then away. ‘You’re nuts, but you’re not predictable. Once you get predictable, we’ll not be having these touching little interludes.’ He clinked his glass with hers.
Rosie grinned back. ‘Well that’s good to know. Good that we’ll be mates till the bitter end.’
TJ raised his glass and they clinked again.
He called Giovanni for the bill, and insisted on paying it despite Rosie’s protests.
‘I’ve got a great idea,’ TJ said as they stood up. ‘Let’s go to the salsa dancing and drink tequila just for the sheer badness of it.’
Rosie laughed. ‘Can you salsa?’ She put on her jacket.
‘Can I salsa?’ He knotted his scarf around his neck. ‘Did I not live in Havana for nearly two years? I’m talking snake hips here, darlin’.’ He shimmied as he shoved his arms into his jacket.
Giovanni walked them to the door and kissed Rosie on both cheeks, then did the same to TJ.
‘I love you, Giovanni,’ TJ said. ‘I want to have your babies. They’d be beautiful.’
Giovanni laughed, his big belly shaking under his apron, and slapped TJ on the back as they went out into the freezing night.
The salsa bar was dark. Rosie could barely make out the faces of the people at the tables next to her. TJ told her that the darkness was all part of the ploy to make it more like the smoke-filled basement bars in Havana he’d more or less lived in, where everything seemed mysterious and sexy in the candlelight. On the dance floor, couples gyrated to the music. Some of them actually knew what they were doing and snaked their hips towards each other in a sexy sway to the sultry music. Others were women out on a girlie night, just getting bladdered. Fat bellies and backsides swivelled in no coherent direction. Rosie looked at her watch and knew she should be asleep. But what the hell? She was having fun. TJ brought two tequilas and a couple of slices of lemon to the table.
‘Why are we drinking tequila?’ Rosie asked. ‘Isn’t that Mexican? Should it not be rum?’
TJ shrugged. ‘Yes, of course, but tequila’s much more fun. More instant.’ He sat down and clinked his tiny glass with hers. ‘Right. Come on then.’ They both swallowed in one. Rosie could feel the shot burning all the way down and stuffed the lemon into her mouth to take the taste away.
‘Tastes like toilet cleaner.’
‘Really? I’ve never tasted toilet cleaner. You hacks really know how to live.’
He lit a cigarette and offered it to Rosie. She could still feel the drink burning her stomach and took a long draw from his cigarette. A waitress passed by and TJ ordered two more tequilas. Rosie protested, but she didn’t mean it. Just go with the flow . . . see what happens after a few more of these . . . tomorrow was another day . . . But if she kept this up, it would be a sore one.
Two shots later, TJ was holding her hand and touching her arm. A little tingle ran through her.
‘Next year,’ TJ said, looking her in the eye, ‘assuming we’re still friends and you haven’t been shot, I’ll take you to Cuba. You’d love it. I could show you stuff there. It’d be a real blast.’
‘It’s a deal.’ Rosie clinked his glass. ‘In fact, why wait till next year? Let’s go tomorrow. Get the hell out of here.’ They both laughed. But her stomach took a funny little leap. Did he want more than friendship? She hoped not, and she hoped she didn’t either. But right there and then, she would have gone to Cuba with him. Just kept on going and never come back. That would really be living on the edge. Jesus, it must be the tequila! She waved to the waitress and ordered two more.
‘That’s it, Rosie. Just go with it,’ TJ laughed, and clapped his hands.
This was getting crazy. The music changed, and in a minute the dance floor was full. TJ stood up and put his hands out towards her.
‘Come on, Gilmour. I love this song. I used to play it on my sax in a bar in downtown Havana. Come on.’
‘I can’t dance like that.’ Rosie got up. ‘
I’ll make an eejit of myself.’
‘Bollocks. I’ll show you.’ He took her hand and weaved his way through the chairs to the dance floor. He held her hand and showed her a few steps. Rosie was a little unsteady, and he moved closer and pulled her towards him.
‘Just move to the sway of my body.’ He held her close. ‘That’s it. Just get my rhythm and keep on going. It’s a bit like dry humping.’
Rosie was giggling. This was good. They swayed and danced on the crowded floor, TJ swirling like an old pro. And when the music stopped, they were locked somewhere between a dance and an embrace, their cheeks touching. He turned her face towards him and kissed her full on the lips. Not exploratory. Hard and decisive. She felt his tongue flick into her mouth and she kissed him back. It didn’t last long, but it was long enough. When they pulled back Rosie could feel his breath on hers as she looked into his eyes.
‘Let’s go home,’ TJ whispered, and gripped her hand tightly as they left the dance floor.
She followed him as he lifted their jackets, and they walked out of the club in silence.
His flat was only a couple of blocks away, and they didn’t speak until they got to the front door. Rosie was lost for words, but she could hear her heartbeat. She should stop this now, but she couldn’t. What if it ruined everything? She knew what was going to happen, but she couldn’t think beyond that.
‘You okay?’ TJ pushed open the main door of the flats.
Rosie nodded and they went inside the dark hall, towards the staircase leading to TJ’s flat on the first floor. He took her hand as they walked up the stone stair and Rosie could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t feel so drunk now. TJ stopped on the stairway. He turned to her and pulled her towards him. He was breathing fast as his lips ran over her face and neck, and she could feel him hard against her. He touched her breasts and she put her arms around him. He started tugging at her jeans. Jesus!
They weren’t even going to make it to the flat, but she didn’t want him to stop.
He was breathless. ‘Come on. Let’s go in.’ He took her hand and they climbed the stairs to his flat and opened the door.
He slammed the door shut and they fell against the wall. Rosie kicked off her shoes and shrugged off her jacket. TJ was in his knees on the hallway, pulling at Rosie’s jeans until they were down round her ankles and she kicked them away. Through the open door, while he was easing her pants down her thighs, Rosie could see the living-room bathed in alternating flickers of light and darkness as the neon flashing from the bar across the street shone through the window. It was like a dirty movie.
‘Jesus . . .’ She closed her eyes as TJ buried his head between her legs . . .
Later, much later, Rosie opened one eye to see the morning light coming through the bay window. The sky was pale and grey. Her head was pounding. She turned slowly to where TJ was sleeping softly on the pillow next to her, and she watched his peaceful face for a moment. Then she closed her eyes, recalling the sheer craziness of last night. Christ. She’d done drunken benders before, and sure enough they’d ended like this. But the self-loathing that usually kicked in just made your hangover ten times worse, so she hadn’t been down this road for a long time. Christ almighty, this was her mate. This was worse than crazy. She turned on her side and rubbed her eyes. They were wet, and suddenly she remembered the dream again.
‘You okay, Gilmour?’ TJ stirred beside her. ‘You were crying in your sleep.’
He reached across for her hand, but didn’t open his eyes.
Rosie turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. ‘Sometimes I do that.’ She was embarrassed. ‘I wake up and my face is wet. It’s just some dream. I cry in the night.’
TJ turned to face her and propped himself up on one elbow.
‘Want to tell me about it?’ His fingers traced a line across her forehead and her cheek.
She took a deep breath and sighed. She had never told anybody before about the dream. It would mean explaining everything – her whole life. All the shit and misery she had tried so hard to put behind her, but that kept coming back to her in that dream. If only she could make it go away.
‘I see something in my dream, TJ,’ she found herself saying. ‘Something from my childhood. A lot of bad things happened. My moth—’ Tears welled up and Rosie turned on her side. She could feel his hand on her back, gently caressing her spine.
‘Sssh,’ he whispered, and moved closer to her. ‘It’s okay. Talk to me.’ He leaned close so that his head was next to hers. ‘I love you.’ His voice was soft in her ear. ‘You know that, don’t you, Rosie?’ His lips brushed against her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry if that doesn’t fit into your very ordered life, but I just wanted you to know.’
Rosie swallowed back her tears. She tried hard to get a grip of herself. Because more than anything at that moment, she wanted to turn around and tell TJ that she loved him too. That even if last night had never happened, she loved him. That she hoped last night wouldn’t change them, now that they had been together like this. And she wanted to tell him that more than anything she was terrified of losing him.
He put his arm around her and gently pulled her onto her back. He wiped her tears with his hand and smiled.
‘Talk to me, Rosie. Come on.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rosie had slept for twelve hours straight. When she awoke in the bright yellow bedroom of the flat that was her temporary home, she felt refreshed. She had spent all day yesterday recovering from the night before, and she smiled now, remembering how attentive TJ had been before she had left his flat in the morning. She hadn’t expected that level of devotion. Nobody in her life had ever been like that, except one man a long time ago. And he had broken her heart. She couldn’t help herself bringing down the shutters. She could see that TJ knew, and he was wise enough to take a step back. When she said she wanted to go home, he drove her in his rickety old car to the flat, and kissed her gently on the lips before she left. No questions. No judgement.
Now, in the plush but sterile minimalist West End flat, Rosie suddenly felt more alone than she had in a long time. She’d enjoyed the clutter of TJ’s messy flat and the jazz music blaring on the stereo before she’d even got out of bed. She must be going off her head, she told herself.
To break the silence and escape the navel gazing, she flicked on the television and watched some politician being filleted by a silver-haired presenter. Without showering, she got up and pulled on a tracksuit and went down to the newsagent’s for the Sunday papers. When she had arrived yesterday, to her surprise the fridge was already stocked with orange juice, milk and enough to keep her going. Marion was more than just an invaluable PA to McGuire, she’d been a lifesaver to Rosie. She’d bailed her out of scrapes in war-torn lands when she needed a flight, a hotel or fast cash. And they were kindred spirits, who’d a few stories to exchange at drunken office parties about the ones that got away, and the ones they were glad they let go.
After breakfast, and a long hot shower, Rosie was ready to face the world. She had made up her mind that she would go to the children’s home and look in on Gemma. TJ had told her to think twice about going down this road because she could leave herself wide open for questions, but she’d made a promise to the child. To the peaceful toll of Sunday morning church bells, she drove away from the leafy, West End avenues where people lived well-heeled lives behind big oak doors, to the rundown East End. It was a different world, not just the buildings and the sense of decay, but the people who walked the streets. You could see the poverty from their clothes, their demeanour. You didn’t have to go into a tenement to see their struggle.
At Woodbank Children’s Home, barely any noise came from the yard where a few children played. Some kids were kicking a football, others sat on the swings, but there was none of the usual din you heard in a school-yard. No squeals or giggles. Rosie watched from her car, planning what she would tell whoever she had to deal with at the reception. She assumed that on a Sunday there would o
nly be a skeleton staff and they may not have too much objection to a friend of Gemma’s mother calling in.
She needn’t have worried. The fat woman behind the reception was barely awake when Rosie went up to the counter and asked if it was possible to see Gemma Gillick. The woman sighed and chewed gum as she pulled a clipboard from below the desk and scanned a list of names.
‘Oh, aye. She’s still here.’ Then she looked up at Rosie for the first time.
‘Are you a relative?’
‘A friend. Of her mother’s.’
The fat woman looked her up and down, then nodded. She didn’t even ask for her name or a signature.
‘She’s in the wee cafe with another girl.’ She half smiled. ‘She’s got a new pal. It’s just along the corridor, then into the left.’ She pointed, then sat back and scratched her belly.
Rosie couldn’t believe how easy it was.
‘Thanks,’ she said, walking away. ‘I won’t be long.’
In the cafe, rows of white formica tables were empty, apart from two girls sitting at the end. Gemma was drinking from a can of Coke and the other girl, older, was swishing something around in a plastic beaker. Gemma’s eyes lit up.
‘Rosie!’ Gemma jumped out of her chair and sprinted across the wooden floor. ‘Rosie! You came!’ She threw her arms around Rosie’s waist and hugged her. Rosie patted her head, glancing around self-consciously.
The other girl, who had bright red hair swept up in a ponytail, watched from the table.
‘This is my pal, Trina. She’s ten. Her ma’s in the jail. But she’s coming back for her one day.’
Gemma took Rosie’s hand and pulled her in the direction of the table. Trina sat up straight, her face breaking into a smile. There was a sprinkling of big freckles on her cheeks.
‘Hiya,’ she said.
