Joe looked at the counter. Only thing out of place was a plastic bag that the inventory clerk had apparently found wedged up the ornamental fireplace. Joe had peered inside when he’d first seen it. Papers. No, letters. He could see handwriting and a ‘Dear…’ someone. Who wrote letters these days? Well, Ms. Henshaw apparently – he could see her signature on the bottom of one, a mad scrawl of ‘Lottie’. Odd, why did she have her own letters? Did she write them to herself?
None of his business.
He looked at his phone. Three fifteen. He’d give her five minutes and then he’d go. She’d have to come to the office in the morning. They were already doing her a huge favour by giving her the cheque today, rather than making her wait a week because Oliver was horny and she’d said she was desperate. Well then, she needed to learn to be punctual.
Since he had his phone out, Joe thought he might as well check his stocks. He usually only allowed himself to check at mealtimes because it could become obsessive - it was just too easy, pulling it up on his app, seeing how much he’d made that hour, or not. He’d done a little trading while he was still at school, with two of his brothers; a little bit before he dropped out of college. But it had been so cumbersome then – studying the FT and Teletext, ringing his broker. Now, with a few flicks of the thumb…
His finger hovered. He burped. It was obsessive - but it also made him slightly nervous. Gassy. He knew shouldn’t be be doing this. That he was simply meant to be the bookkeeper for these people, setting down the figures; old school double entry on paper. He knew he should have been content with the extra money – monthly, cash – that was helping him pay all the bills Vicky was running up. But once he’d figured out where the money was coming from, where it was going - because his employers barely disguised the names of the companies they were investing in - it didn’t take a genius to track them down, note their growth and invest himself. Not too much – some of the Shadows’ laundered cash. A little more borrowed against his properties. Ride the wave, he’d thought. It was little different from property speculation and he’d learned that at his dad’s knee.
He tapped, flicked. His portfolio was small. Three companies.
Phoebus Logistics, out of Limmasol, had dropped slightly. Lynn Apparel, Manchester, had risen a little. But Bulowayo Prospecting and Mining P/L’s shares had risen eleven percent overnight. He’d read in the Telegraph that morning that the world was short of Coltan again. The South African company must have found some.
Three more flicks… and he’d sold some of the first two’s shares and bought a lot of the third, adding some cash from his bank account. He belched again, but smiled.
He went down the corridor into the living room/bedroom. Hot in there because it faced the afternoon sun and July was baking this year. Shaping up to be the hottest since 1976, they were saying which he didn’t remember since it was the year he was born. It was a nice room now, after a lot of work over the years. Double glazing kept the worst of the high street traffic noise out – and the heat in, he thought, feeling the prickle of sweat on his forehead. Freshly painted only last year. The fireplace was faced in faux marble. He’d done that himself, learning from manuals, and it still looked good. Faux was very big when he’d bought the place in 2001.
2001. That year he did remember well. Coming back from California, where he’d gone, in doomed pursuit of Cassidy. Tall, blonde, impossibly American Cassidy with her perfect teeth and flawless skin. “Goy goddess,” his mate Sol had called her when she first jumped down from the truck at the kibbutz outside Hebron the year before. “Dull as ditch water in bed, brother,” he’d added. And boy, was Solly wrong. Cassidy had been carnality incarnate.
Joe heard horns outside and went to the window; watched a battered red MG trying to park in an unsuitable space right in front of him. It went too wide on entry, pulled out, tried again. Cars backed up and a white van driver was leaning on his horn. Joe saw it all – but he was still thinking of Cassidy. Full moon, and how they’d snuck past security at Masada, climbed to the top of the monument where, after a pipe of hash, she’d given him the best blow job of his life. Afterwards, feeling a bit guilty he’d said, “You do know that my people sacrificed themselves here, don’t you?”
“Well,” she’d replied, “so did I.”
The MG had made it in, though there was some bumper bashing. The driver stepped out. White van man paused to yell something. All Joe caught was, “… legs, darlin’.” He glimpsed long blonde hair, almost Cassidy length, a fur jacket – in July? – a blouse and a skirt that reached mid-thigh. It appeared that Oliver’s chaos on two lovely legs had arrived.
His phone went. He’d left it back on the counter in the kitchen. He headed there, as the buzzer sounded. That annoyed him, because it meant she must not have her keys which she should be handing over. Well, he thought, she’s not getting her cheque without them. He pressed the button.
“Sorry, I’m - ”
“Come up.”
He buzzed her in. Went into the kitchen. It was Vicky on the phone.
“Joe? Where are you?”
“Flat. Doing the check out?”
“Why?”
“I told you. I - ”
Vicky started. The closer they were to the bat mitzvah, the more wound up she got. Which was not good for the blood pressure. A concern for her, pregnant at 42. Again. How they’d managed that - two years after Reuben, and him eleven years after Rachel who they’d long assumed, after years of nothing, would be their only one – baffled him. Considering they only fucked on birthdays and the occasional high holiday. God’s joke, he thought. Now, as usual, he let Vicky go on – she only needed to be heard, really.
He hadn’t realized how competitive the bat mitzvah business was. Ever since they’d attended the one six months ago, for Suki Jacobs, Vicky had a look in her eye. There’d been a band, a sushi bar, along with jugglers, a fire eater, a mini trapeze, a close magician – it had been like fucking Cirque de Soleil in that marquee off the Heath Extension. Ben Jacobs had told Joe that it had set him back fifteen grand. Vicky was pushing him to go bigger so he wouldn’t see much change from twenty. And with the Portobello flat still vacant after three months, fees at Channing for Rachel, Reuben about to go into Montessori creche, he’d been a bit strapped. So when, six months before, that bloke Nate who he barely knew at the synagogue had found out that Joe had been an accountant and had offered to put some work his way, he’d taken it. Old school, like he’d been trained. Double entry… but only on paper, nothing electronic. Two ledgers, always kept together. He knew it was dodgy, the fact that he worked on paper and was paid in cash. But it was such lovely cash. The only problem was how to launder it. The business helped, but it was getting harder. Still, since Vicky appeared to be telling him that Naomi Jablonsky had told her that the caterers they’d settled on were in fact rubbish, and they needed to step up, cash would be very necessary. Again.
“Alright, love. Alright. I - ” He heard clumping in the hall, called, “Go through, Miss Henshaw, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Then he was back with Vicky, going, yupp, yupp, yupp, agreeing to it all. While she talked, he tucked the phone against his shoulder, put his hand into the plastic bag, pulled out a letter. Read,
‘Dear Fuckface,
So you just get up and walk out with your cum running down my thigh…’
He dropped the letter back in the bag like it was burning him. He didn’t know what Vicky was saying to him. Maybe he hadn’t made enough supportive noises because he heard her say, “Joe? Joseph? Are you listening to me?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry. Look, tenant’s here, I have to go if I am going to get Rachel to you in time. We’ll talk then. No, then, love. Bye. Bye bye.”
He hung up, pocketed the phone. Then he picked up the inventory and, as an after thought, the bag of letters, carrying them out of the kitchen, and down the hall. He wasn’t sure why he took the letters. It was like a guilty reflex. If she knows I was alone with them, he rationali
zed, she’ll suspect I read them. So I’ll brazen out. Be casual. Oh, I, uh, found this bag, don’t know what’s in it, some papers. Here…
He stopped in the doorway. He didn’t see her at first, partly because the sun was full on streaming through the window now and dazzled him. Partly because she wasn’t on the sofa bed, nor one of the chairs by the table. She was opposite it, by the fireplace. Kneeling before it, half way in it, looking up the chimney. He took in her legs below the short skirt. Saw her scuffed boots at the other end, Blundstones, no socks. But what he really saw, what he couldn’t take his eyes off, what stopped the sentence he was going to casually speak about the bag– ‘Looking for this’ - was the small of her back. Her blouse, her short fur coat, both had ridden up because she was reaching up into the chimney and that stretch revealed it. A shallow valley, sunbeams striking it, flaming the little hairs within it, golden against the tanned brown of her skin.
Joseph Severin turned and threw the plastic bag back down the corridor.
“Ow!”
He turned back. She’d come back onto her knees, was holding her head and looking at him. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“You made me jump,” she accused, rubbing her head.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, stepping into the room.
“ ‘s alright,” she said, standing, pushing down her skirt. “You’re from Severin’s, right?”
“Yes, in a way. Actually, I am Severin. Joseph Severin.”
“Cor, the man himself.”
She had one of those London accents, not her own, not the way she’d said ‘you made me jump’ which was like she was from a Winnie the Pooh story. So she was not London but from somewhere near outside, somewhere posh.
She stepped forward, held out a hand. “Lottie Henshaw,” she said.
She came up to his mid-chest, and he was not that tall. He took her hand she gripped him, hard. He must have winced because she laughed. “Sorry. Pianist’s fingers. Will you live?”
“Somehow. Joseph Severin. Oh, I told you that. You can call me Joe.”
“Oh, I think I shall call you Mr Severin. I mean, you’re the big boss, aren’t you?”
He shrugged, not sure if he was being flattered, flirted with or mocked. She glanced back to the fireplace. “I was looking for something. Did your cleaners happen to find a, uh, a bag? Of papers?”
“I… don’t think so. They would probably have made a note on here.” He waved the inventory at her. “I mean if it was on the fireplace they may have thought it was rubbish.”
“It wasn’t… on it.” She tipped her head, and blonde hair fell over her left eye like a veil. The other, green like patterned jade, peered up at him.
“I… I can contact the company we use. Ask. For you.”
“Wotever.” She tipped her head the other way, the veil switched to her right eye. She reached up and wiped her hand under her small ski jump of a nose. “Nothing vital anyway.”
She’d come close to shake hands - since her arms weren’t very long, he supposed. She hadn’t moved back and he could smell her. Scent of skin, it was a hot day and she had that fur on, faux like his fireplace. It had seen better days. There was a hint of coconut, tanning lotion, which accounted for her brownness. Tobacco, unusual these days and… leather, like the interior of an old car. Which she’d arrived in, of course, the MG outside.
His phone rang. He didn’t take it out of his pocket. “I should get this. Could you check that all’s well in here?” He handed her the inventory and without waiting for a reply, pulled the door slightly to behind him and headed down the corridor. The bag of letters was halfway down it and he stooped to snatch it up. In the kitchen, he looked at his phone. His daughter. He let it go to voice mail and looked around, then opened the cupboard under the sink, knelt and shoved the bag into the cleaned, empty garbage can there, putting the lid, which had been to the side, back on top.
What are you doing, he thought, closing the cupboard? What the fuck are you doing?
He stood, as he heard her coming down the corridor, heavy in her boots. She may have been gorgeous but she wasn’t especially graceful.
“All good in there.”
“And in here.” He took the list from her. “I, uh, checked before. You can go through it if you like.”
“No, Mr Severin. I trust you.”
She waited, looking at him expectantly. “I need the keys,” he said.
“Shit, yes, sorry, I left them at my friend’s. Can I bring them round later?”
“Well, you could. But I’m afraid I can’t give you your cheque till I get them back.”
“Shit,” she repeated, did the veil over the left eye thing again. Her voice dropped a bit lower, and she took her lower lip between her teeth briefly before she spoke. He recognized the look. Cassidy from Santa Cruz had been a master of it. The ‘be a good boy and roll over’ look. So he wasn’t surprised when she said, in her normal voice, not her London put on, “I really need the money today, Mr Severin. I have… bills to pay. Your man said he’d make it to cash.”
“He did. We did. Hmm.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I’ve, uh, I’ve had a thought. Where are you moving to?”
If she was surprised by the question, she didn’t show it. “My mother’s. For a few days at least. Buckinghamshire.” She pronounced ‘shire’ like it was from The Hobbit.
“You don’t sound very happy about it?”
“Happy? I’m delirious.” She clapped her hands together. “What 26 year old doesn’t love to be moving back in with Mummy?”
From the moment he’d seen the small of her back, he’d only been thinking one step at a time. Throw the letters. Hide the letters. Keep her talking. Keep her… somewhere near. And then it hit him. A solution, as it happened, to several problems. “Look,” he said. “If you’re looking for another place, I have…”
“I can’t afford another place. I haven’t got the deposit, or a month’s rent.”
“You will have when I give you the cheque.”
“Nah, mate. Bills, I told you.”
She’d gone London again. “Listen, I have a place. Near Portobello Market. Been empty a while. Two bedroom. You could - ”
“Two bedroom? In Notting Hill? You’re joking, right? How could I ever afford that?”
“Well, I could… could…” He reached up, scratched under his yarmulke. “How about no deposit, and I let you off the first month’s rent.”
“Hmm.” She took her upper lip between her teeth this time and studied him. There was laughter in her eyes. “Now why would you do that, Mr Severin?”
“Joe.”
“Why, Mr Severin?”
“Honestly?” He swallowed. “You’d be doing me a favour?”
“Really? And would it be the only… favour I’d be doing you?”
“Oh. No, no. I don’t mean… it’s nothing like that, honestly.”
“Mr Severin, you’re blushing.”
“I am not!”
“You are. No, it’s cute. In fact, under all that,” she waved, “Jewish paraphernalia, you’re quite a sexy man, aren’t you?”
Two thoughts. Sexy? No one had called him that since… a very long time. But also… “You know you’re not meant to say things like that, right?”
“Like what?”
“Pointing out my religious…”
“Why? I’ve never been much on what I am allowed to say or not. Besides, it was an observation, not an insult. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, a compliment.”
He had noticed. And he felt like he was about fourteen. His palms were actually sweating. He was the old hand here, the businessman. He’d been around. He took a breath. “There are no strings to this. And you would be doing me a favour. All this talk of taxing vacant properties? I need the place occupied, starting tomorrow or I’ll get clobbered.” He’d almost convinced himself. “You can stay… till the right renter comes along. May only be a month. You interested?”
It was bollocks, but he’d said it confid
ently. He was the business man once more.
She studied him again. Really looked him over, from his yarmulke down to his chest, level with her eyes. Finally she said, “Yes, I am very interested.”
It was quickly sorted. He texted her the address, and they arranged to meet there at eleven the next morning, they’d swap keys then. She signed the inventory, he made a thing about making an exception when he gave her the cheque. She left with a smile, clumping down the stairs.
He waited in the kitchen till he heard the MG start up - followed by lots of car horns when she must have pulled out. Then he got the bag of letters from under the kitchen sink and took it through to the living room. Sat at the table, and thought about how he would use the Portobello flat to channel five thousand pounds of the Shadows’ cash per month. That would pay for a lot of jugglers.
He reached into the bag, pulled out the stack of letters. Each was addressed to the same person, Patrick, though sometimes he was ‘fuckhead’ and once ‘you total cunt’. He wondered again why she had them. Had this Patrick returned them or… or what if they had never been sent? He had a few ‘letters never sent’ in his past. His one to Cassidy in Santa Cruz had been a classic. He’d burnt it, of course, when he married Vicky
He didn’t start to read for a bit though, just stared at the faux fireplace and remembered what he’d seen there. Brown skin, golden hairs, a cleft like a basin. And what he suddenly realized, what he’d most like to do, more than anything in the world, was suck a shot of tequila out of it.
He’d set his phone to vibrate. It kept shaking on the table but he ignored it as he began to read. It would be his daughter, his wife, both. They’d figure it out.
3
A few moments later…
One London Day Page 2
