Lottie pulled out as she’d pulled in, stopping the traffic, with angry drivers leaning on their horns. Daphne protested, not at the insults that followed, but just ‘cos the old girl was not well. It was why she needed to cash the cheque, and get her to Dermot, who worked from a former coach alley in Belsize Park. The little man from Munster would work his magic and keep them on the road a little while longer. He might even fudge the air quality test for a smile and one of her special roll up cigarettes.
But after she dropped Daphne? She’d planned to train it out to Bicester, get her Mum to pick her up and whip her back to the manse at Barton Hartshorn; but that was more from necessity – being flatless and broke – than any real desire to see Peggy. They’d get into the gin, never her favourite method of inebriation. It would be fine up to a point – the point where her Mum went from giggly to squiffy to maudlin to vicious in rapid succession. Some people shouldn’t touch gin, it was a funny drink. Her Mum was one of them. She’d start in on Dad, which was fair in one way seeing as how he’d dumped her for the ‘floozy’. But Mum had had a gin problem long before he’d met Dorothea. Really, she was surprised Keith had stuck it out for as long as he had.
Besides, now she had to be in Notting Hill tomorrow at eleven and getting Mum with a hangover to drive her back to the station by nine thirty one, for the cheap ticket, was never a good idea. No, she’d have to find a place to crash tonight, to make her morning… what was it? Rendezvous? Assignation?
What are you about, Mr Severin?
She could guess the half of it. He’d been odd when they talked, disconnected, half looking at her, half not. She knew that look. But she’d meant what she’d said - he was quite cute. And ever since she’d lost her virginity to a Jewish lad – Israel Muzzet, one of the few boys in the Sixth Form at her boarding school – she’d had a fondness for them. ‘Israel’, she’d learned from Izzy, wasn’t just a country, it meant, ‘he who wrestles with God.’ He’d certainly wrestled with her, the two of them just sixteen, and he’d often called on God, and even his son, towards the end of each round.
Stuck at traffic lights in Kentish Town, she leaned down and pressed her home button. “Siri,” she said, “how are you today?”
The man’s voice came back. “I’m very well. How you doin’, Lottie?”
Lottie smiled. She’d switched to Australian Siri only that morning. “Play my voice mail please,” she said.
“Certainly,” came the perky response.
The phone had rung when she’d been parking the car outside the flat. She was late enough so she’d let it ring. Besides, she’d seen it was Patrick; and she wanted to be calm before she spoke to him again, not super stressed.
“Hello, baby,” he began.
The voice was dark brown. When she’d called it that, first time they met when she played for him at his audition, Patrick had bristled, like Mr Severin had just bristled when she’d pointed out his Jewishness. But they were only observations, they were true and she meant them kindly. Her former landlord – and future benefactor - was Jewish. Patrick did speak – and sing - in the voice that went with his Ghanaian blue-blood background. It was like his body, a flowing fountain of finest dark chocolate, which she’d also said, a bit later - but not much later, truly. Why would anyone ever take offence at that?
“How are you, baby? I’ve been missing you,” he purred on, like the great big black panther he was and she shivered, as she always did when she heard his voice again after a while. After a month, actually, since she’d told him she’d had enough of the games – the sex games, the drug games, the sex ‘n drugs games - that this time it really was over, this time she was done. She’d taken the letters she’d written him when he was in Los Angeles, and the three she’d written him when she was away playing with the jazz orchestra in Prague and he was back in London fucking who knows what. Taken them, and the few things she’d kept at his place in Stokey and gone back to her flat in Tufnell Park.
The purr went on. “Listen, I’m sorry…” Yeah right… “and I want to make it up to you. So I did what you asked. I’ve invited her.” There was a little breath of excitement. “Sonya that is. Remember? Her from the bar? It’s on. Tomorrow night. You in? Gi’us a call, ‘kay?”
He hung up. The Australian said, “That’s all your messages, Lottie. Can I do anything else for you?”
“That’s it,” she replied, overtaking and accelerating through an amber, to more horns.
“G’day, Lottie,” he said.
As she turned onto Prince of Wales Road, she shivered again. This time though she was thinking about Sonya.
She remembered her alright.
It was a week before she’d walked out. They’d met her in the bar in Shepherd’s Market. She remembered the first sighting, walking in and seeing Patrick on a barstool, this absolute stunner on the one next to him. Had to be six one, which usually would make Lottie hate her. As pale as he was dark, with a voice that was as rich as his, though not chocolatey more… borscht, she’d thought at the time, which didn’t do it justice. She had close cropped auburn hair, grey eyes, cheekbones for eons - Slavic, she’d guessed, which was true since Sonya, it turned out, was from Russia. Lottie had her pegged as a model, which she sometimes was. What Sonya mainly was though, what Patrick had established fast over his second, appropriate Moscow Mule, was an escort. As high end as you get, he’d told Lottie in excited whispers when Sonya went off to the washroom. One thousand quid a night, if you wanted extras. The way he’d said extras made Lottie think, fuck, ‘ere we go.
When Sonya had returned, Patrick had asked the question, how much would it be for the two of them? Fifteen hundred she’d said. “Less than usual,” she’d said, turning to Lottie, “because you are so beautiful.”
But Patrick didn’t have the money as he was between gigs, waiting to hear about a big movie. So he certainly wouldn’t have the extra he’d need for coke, an essential accompaniment since his LA venture. He tried to sweet talk Sonya into a discount but she just patted his cheek and said, smokily, “You call when you have the money, sweetheart,” then finished the sentence looking at Lottie, “because it will be beyond your dreams, trust me.”
Lottie had shivered then, and she shivered for a third time now, thinking about that look. Especially as, from his message, it appeared that Patrick had scored the role in the movie, and was flush again, or would borrow against the promise of it.
Lottie chewed at her lower lip. Though Sonya’s breathed promise had excited her, their track record on three-somes wasn’t stellar. The first time it had been boy-boy-girl and Patrick had got all territorial and hetero, even though he’d been the one who’d invited the young man back from the pub. Barely let the poor lad get a touch of her. The second time, girl-girl-boy, the other girl had freaked out and left. Which was alright by Lottie, actually. Despite the usual dormitory fumblings at Epsom College, she’d never been that into girls. Though she was reconsidering, remembering the way Sonya had looked at her.
“Move your bloomin’ arse!” she yelled, at a zebra crossing on Haverstock Hill, where the woman driver ahead wanted to wait for every school kid on the pavement to pass in case any of them suddenly decided to dart across the road. It made her think of Patrick again, ‘cos it was a line from the show where they’d met, in the road company of ‘My Fair Lady’, him a colour-blind casting choice as Freddie, her on keyboards in the pit.
Then, they’d been all each other needed - and what a laugh it had been. Seedy digs in northern towns, thin walls, people shouting at them for all the noise they were making, only some of which was sex, most of which was laughter. She’d even thought, fuck, is this it? Or is it just a road thing? But they’d laughed as much back in London. Until he got the Indie gangster thing, which led to a bigger agent and the invite to Hollywood, coinciding with their two-years-but-still-not-living-together anniversary. In LA, his tastes had… broadened. She’d gone along with it all for a while. But they didn’t laugh as much and she’d finally said, l
ast month, no more games. It wasn’t like she hadn’t given him fair warning. Those letters?
Speaking of… where the fuck had they gone ?
There was surprisingly little traffic. She turned left onto England’s Lane, right onto Belsize Park Gardens. No more games, she’d said. Though Sonya? She saw them, the three of them, Patrick melded into the Russian, chocolate on… no, couldn’t be borscht, that would be disgusting. Chocolate on… home made vanilla ice cream! That was better, she’d like to watch that for a little - but not for long. Only until Sonya reached for her…
As she waited to cross Belsize Avenue she pressed her Home button again and said, “Siri, call Patrick.” The rings came but after three there was the click. “Heh! Good to hear from you. I’ll get back to you.”
“Heh P, ‘s me. I am in, actually. But not at yours. Can you spring for a nice hotel? Or,” she paused, “tell you what, I’m moving into a new place tomorrow. Portobello. I’ll text you the address, you text me the time.”
She pressed off as she pulled into the alley in Belsize Village. How Dermot could afford the rent in that neighbourhood was beyond her. Though she had a clue when she saw him, staring disconsolately at the engine under the hood of an Aston Martin. There was a Roller in the garage behind him.
“Ah, look there now. If it isn’t Princess Di.”
She got out. “I need it tomorrow morning, Dermot.”
“No fucking chance, lady!”
“Afternoon then?’
“Still none.”
“What?” she said, reaching into her bag. “Not even if I roll you one of these?”
She stayed and smoked two with him, until he said yes. Then she walked to Swiss Cottage station to catch the Tube to Dollis Hill. She’d go to Sarah’s. Saar always let her crash at short notice on her couch. A trawl through memories from Epsom Sixth Form over a take out biryani and a couple of bottles of Pinot Grigio was a small price to pay.
Her mind jumped again when she stepped onto the escalator, going down. Sonya, Sonya, she wondered, I wonder where are you right now?
4
630pm. Tuesday 24th July 2019
Bernadette had been taking lessons.
Bitch, Sebastien thought, as his opponent shifted him off the T with a drop shot to the corner and then, when Sebastien only just made the return, beating him with a drive tight along the wall to the back of the court.
The squash match was not going its customary way. Bernadette’s superior fitness being also a marathon runner – would usually keep it competitive till game three, by which time Sebastien’s deftness and general sneakery would win out. Years of playing – Bedales, Magdalen, the Service – it was rare that he hadn’t triumphed in four sets; had lost maybe ten matches in all those years, due to illness, hangover, luck.
Not going to lose today, he thought, as Bernadette went back to serve.
“Eight all,” came the call.
Two sets all. Game Five, two clear points for the win. One clear way to get those, Sebastien thought, bending at his knees.
The finishing line in sight, Bernadette was over excited. The serve wasn’t as good, dropped shallow and short, allowing Sebastien a back hand flick that sent it without much force to just above the tin. Bernadette had to lunge, stretch, the ball returned easily to Sebastien’s forehand, now back at the T. There was an easy kill. But an easy kill just meant he’d have to kill again. So instead of slamming the ball to the back of the court, he smashed it hard and straight - into his opponent’s cheek.
“Christ!” came the scream, followed by the clatter of a dropped racket. “Shit!”
“Oh, terribly sorry, old soul.”
“You fucker! That was deliberate!”
“ ‘course it wasn’t, old soul. Are you alright?”
“Do I look it?”
“Take your time.” Sebastien stooped for the ball, flicked it up, went to the server’s box.
Bernadette, rubbing at the cheek, glared, “What? You’re taking that?”
“Alas, have to. Rules. You should have gotten out of the way. “Eight all.”
It was soon over. A couple of fast serves, tight to the wall. The drop shot and lob combo that had his opponent running back and forth. Desperate, Bernadette lunged, slipped on some sweat. Caught the ball but hit the tin with it. The glorious sound of the death knell.
“And that’s match,” Sebastien stepped forward, hand out. “Well played. So close. Didn’t expect five sets. Swift shower or we’ll be late for the chaps.”
Sebastien stooped for his phone, tucked into the corner. He’d put it on silent, so no dings but plenty of messages. A quick scroll – the shop, the wife.
Later, in the communal shower, Sebastien inevitably glanced at Bernardette’s huge cock and pendulous balls. He really was a stallion – which had made his nickname at school all the more amusing. They were alone, in the large stall designed for five. “So, going to tell me?”
“Not now,” Bernard grunted, still obviously pissed off. “Don’t want to have to repeat myself. I’ll tell you with the others.”
“True cause for concern?”
“Perhaps.”
Sebastien felt his own, smaller scrotum tighten.
“Oh, for godssake, man, do you have to do that in here?”
“What?” Sebastien looked up from where he was directing his piss. “All goes down the drain, doesn’t it?”
They left the RAC Club and headed along Pall Mall towards the Athenaeum. It hit him straight away, this absurdly hot summer, with too-swift shower not quite removing the heat of the game. He felt instant sweat at forehead, armpit and groin.
The pavements were packed, parties of gawking tourists shambling along in their enviable shorts and sun dresses, requiring him to shift around them – on his bloody street! All off to Clarence House then onto Buck House, to attempt to get the busbied sentries at both palaces to crack a smile. When he’d been in the Blues, and assigned to Royal duty, the colonel had insisted all his subalterns did at least a couple of days in a sentry box. He was one of those who thought his officers should experience the life of the ordinary soldier. Prat.
As they neared Duke of York Place, a party of Spanish teenagers, taking selfies of themselves with the Duke’s statue in the background, blocked the way, forcing Sebastien to step wide. And there, just ahead, was a beggar he’d never seen before. This young man’s - ‘schtick’, was that the right word, he’d have to ask Nate later - was to kneel on the pavement, his forehead to the stone, his arms thrust in supplication before him, with hands clasped around a polystyrene cup. Two steps away, he could see that it was half full of coins. Halfway to another fix.
Scum, he thought and, without breaking step, drove his right foot forward and kicked the cup hard.
Coins followed him as he continued up the street. The Spanish kids were yelling, scrambling. He’d caught a finger with the polystyrene he was fairly sure. But oddly, the addict hadn’t make a sound. Too stoned, no doubt.
“Fuckssake, Sebastien,” Bernard muttered as they rounded the corner. “You really are a sod, aren’t you?”
They climbed the Athenaeum’s steps and pushed through the doors. Another of their number awaited them at the porter’s desk. “Perry had already gone up by the time I got here,” complained Sadiq. “And when they asked him to come down for me he said he couldn’t, he was in a meeting. So they’ve made me wait.” He glowered at the porter. “My own membership is still marked, ‘pending’, apparently. It’s been that for six months.”
“Lots of closet racists here.” Bernard shrugged. “Maybe you’ve been black-balled, old chum.”
“Well, he’s been that since birth, hasn’t he?”
“Oh ha-ha, Sebastien. You never tire of it, do you?”
“How could I?” He stepped past Sadiq to the guest book, picked up the pen, “ ‘when I have such meet food to feed on as Signior Benedick?’ ” He wrote in ‘Sadiq Malik’, then dashed his signature beside it. “Your line at Magdalen in that all ma
le ‘Much Ado’, eh Bernadette? Me as Benedick, you as Beatrice. In that mini skirt? Never quite recovered. Be still my beating heart!”
Bernard shook his head. “No, Sadiq, he never tires of it.” He gestured to the stairs. “Shall we?”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Nate?”
“Don’t worry about him, old boy. He’s already a member. They’ve let Jews in ever since Disraeli.”
They went to the bar. Perry was in the far corner, with a gaggle of his diplomatic corps friends. He waved, but went back to his conversation. They found a table. Sebastien and Bernard ordered their traditional post-squash pick me up, Black Velvet – champagne and Guinness. Sadiq, unusually for him, ordered a whisky soda. Perhaps he thinks, Sebastien speculated, that a Muslim that drinks has more chance of becoming a member.
Bernard still refused to talk about why he’d summoned this meeting. “Wait for Nate,” he muttered. They attempted small talk – the ridiculous heat, the schadenfreude of German disaster at the World Cup, the latest on refugees. Fortunately Perry soon joined them and put an end to all banalities. “Sorry, chaps,” the little man said, using his MCC tie to wipe sweat from his forehead, “bit of a buzz from North Korea today. That plonker Trump might actually be getting them to disarm.” He hailed a waiter. “I’ll have what their having,” he said, pointing at the Black Velvets. As the man went off he lowered his voice and said, “So what’s the story, morning glory?”
As Bernard explained once again why he wasn’t going to tell it yet, Sebastien sipped and studied his friends. The Athenaeum wasn’t short of brains. One of the first things you learned on joining was that it had more Noble prize winners than France - a joke that truly had everything. But there was a definite concentration of smarts that day around the table. He’d known Bernard since prep school, they’d met Perry at Bedales and all gone up to Oxford together in ’99 where they’d met Sadiq – and the awaited Nate - at Magdalen. They had discovered there – amidst the drinking and the leching – a shared passion for the movie, The Matrix. Each had adopted a name from it. Bernard, since of course he was already Bernadette, had been forced to accept Trinity. Sadiq, with his Keanu-like dark good looks, was a shoe-in for Neo. Perry, who was a computer geek, was an obvious Cypher. While the late Nate had a steely affect that made him a perfect Agent Smith.
One London Day Page 3
