What? What? He put the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbed. He was a fool, he was a fucking idiot and he could do no other than he did – pick up his phone and text her back.
Union Tavern. Pub garden on canal, Westbourne Park. Noon? Shall I pick you up?
He couldn’t hesitate or he’d be lost. He hit send, then dropped the phone onto his desk as if it had burned him. He sat, listened to the blackbirds, two of them now, one a distance away. A vocal turf war. Thirty seconds later, his phone moved.
See you there.
He laid the phone down, carefully this time. She was meeting him there. “Fool,” he muttered, but through a smile.
He looked at his computer clock. 9:13. He had time to do some work. Shadowy work.
He kept their books in his safe – even though the bloke from the synagogue, who’d recruited him, had said not to have them at home. The numbers of the combination were his children and Vicky’s birthdays which was probably also dumb.
He pulled them out, laid them side by side on his desk. Two plain ledgers. He opened one. His father had insisted he’d learned old school, hand written double entry. He’d baulked at the time, thinking it so dated. Now he was glad.
He’d only had one meeting, with a man named Sebastien, along with Nate, the man who’d introduced them, the one he barely knew from the North London synagogue. It had been a slightly unnerving encounter, since the young Englishman already knew quite a lot about him and probed for more detail. Unnerving and yet… exciting too, in a way he hadn’t been excited since his years on the road. Little detail came in return – a secret government organization within the Intelligence services; operations on behalf of the country that needed to be kept quiet and certainly needed to be kept off any drives, hard or flash. At the end of the meeting, accepted, Sebastien had given him these ledgers, some information already inked in, debit and credit. There were a multitude of accounts to be reconciled: a capital account, a premises account, various bank accounts with capital letters that did not indicate country. But he’d figured those out because of the exchange rates. They had accounts in Luxembourg, Kazakhstan, Russia, Japan; several in the Bahamas. He’d figured out some of the transactions too, what they had to be. Regular payments from suppliers into those countries’ accounts, some quite large, in the 100k Euro range. Governments, businesses, individuals, he’d guessed, greasing British Intelligence’s wheels.
In return for…? He didn’t need to know. He’d kept up as much as anyone did, with the Wiki revelations, Snowden. Had felt stirrings of outrage, his old, more Kibbutzim self. Swiftly supressed when some of the entries he made were payments to himself. Cash to the ‘Star of David’ which seemed a little too obvious. But the £5000 cash in figures beside it, the first of many envelopes he collected along with more receipts and deposits from a post box in Camden Town, made his concerns go away. This was patriotic work, he’d been assured. Snowden could go hang. Would, of course, if the Yanks could get him out of Russia.
There were smaller, monthly outgoings to different accounts, mainly the Bahamian ones. There was one that puzzled him – semi-regular, payments of 10k, to a Swiss bank under the heading Venom. An informant? Perhaps. One of the things this Sebastien had told him was not to spend too much time considering anything but the figures themselves.
But of course he had. At first it had seemed like a game, to decode the entries that looked like investments. It hadn’t taken long, the names simply anagrams with a few letters removed. He’d found Phoebus Logistics, Lynn Apparel, Manchester, Bulowayo Prospecting and Mining P/L’s. The ones he, like the Shadows, now invested in. He felt a little guilty doing it. But the extra money he was making, especially in the mining company, took away the guilt.
Time for work. He’d collected two envelopes – one held his cash, the other a single printed sheet with new debits and credits. The first sat in his home safe now, and he’d use its contents to pay off various suppliers for the bat mitzvah galloping ever closer, three days away. The sheet was open before him, so he pulled out his father’s old electric calculator, opened the ledgers and did his sums.
Absorbed, he only grunted a farewell when Vicky called up that she was heading out. Glanced at his clock, realizing that she was collecting Reuben from his tots’ playgroup. If she stuck to form, she’d be meeting other mums at a coffee bar in Totteridge. She’d made a whole new group of friends, all younger than her, in their mid-late twenties most of them, with their first borns. She loved it, playing the wise old bird. And was a source of wonder with her belly swelling again at 42.
It was 1030. She’d be back by 1130ish, unless she decided to go for lunch. But he’d not risk seeing her before his… rendezvous? Assignation? He didn’t want to lie to her again about where he was going. He knew he wasn’t very good at it.
Knowing how he could get lost in numbers, he set an alarm on his iPhone for 11:10 and picked up a pen.
The Union Tavern had changed since he was a student, lived nearby, and used to come there. Then it had been kind of ramshackle and threadbare, a juke box, a pool table, darts, out to attract the local estate residents of Westbourne Park. Now it had, like so many places, gone full gastro. In place of burgers, pizzas, chips you could get braised sea bass, Lamb Tagine, quinoa salads. They still did good beers – probably better than they used to, since craft beer was so in. Yet now they also had a decent wine list, and Joe had a bottle of Pouilly Fusée in an ice bucket before him on the wooden table. Two glasses.
The back garden hadn’t changed much though. New wooden tables, nicer umbrellas, some open, some folded for those who wanted the Summer sun to reach them. He tended to avoid the sun these days, after all the warnings, unlike in his wandering youth when he’d rub himself with olive oil and bake. He’d been mistaken for Indian before, when he was down there. Sephardic ancestry, he knew. The table he’d chosen was full in it, against the back wall, and for once he’d kept the umbrella furled, enjoyed the sun on his face. It felt… right.
He looked at his phone. 1215. She was late again, of course she was, he knew it was going to be something to expect. He’d got there early, ten to, had sat nursing the white wine; nursing memories too. He’d brought Cassidy here, just once when they were on their way to California and he wanted to introduce her to his mates, and his parents. The former had been envious (‘She could be in Baywatch’, was his friend Dave’s jealous comment). His parents had been appalled by the goy goddess and barely disguised it. He’d been delighted, of course. This would show them.
Cassidy had been scathing about this, his old haunt. “It’s got a water view,” he’d protested, waving at the Grand Union canal. “It’s got a view of a sewer,” she’d responded. “Look, cue the fucking rat!”
He looked at the water now, not seeing it, seeing other water for a moment - Big Sur, waves surging in, her walking away from them, from him. It was so strange. He’d barely thought of Cassidy in years. Since meeting this Lottie, he’d thought of her every day. Remembered moments.
“Penny for them, Mr Severin?”
She was there, backlit by the sun; he was dazzled, couldn’t see her face. He raised a hand, then she moved her head to block the light. She had her lower lip in her teeth, and her eyes were smiling.
He stood, slightly awkwardly with the back of the bench against his knees. He didn’t know what to do, but she leaned in and kissed him quickly, both cheeks, before slipping to the other side of the table. Dropping a capacious carpet bag onto it, she sat, her back to the canal. She wasn’t wearing the blouse and faux fur anymore, just a simple pale blue summer dress, buttons up the front, old school.
“Wine?” he offered, taking the bottle by the neck.
“Please. Ooh, looks nice. What’s the occasion?”
He poured. “Felt like the right choice. For a day like this.”
“I like the way you think.” She raised the glass, tipping it towards him. “To days like these,” she toasted.
They clinked, she drank off half the glass,
he sipped. She reached into her bag, pulled out her fixings for a cigarette. “You mind?”
“Oh, no, carry on. But it’s not one of the, uh… ”
“Naw, mate. Straight nicotine. Though in Westbourne Park I doubt anyone would object.” She grinned at him. “You want I roll you one?”
The instant refusal stalled on his lips. There was something in her eyes, a touch of challenge. Besides this place of memories, of student days, pints, fags. “I’d love it.”
“Good,” she said, and set to. When she raised a filter, he shook his head. She finished one, kept it before her while she finished a second, handed his over. Her Zippo was already on the table and he beat her to it, flicked the lid, then the wheel. Bending to the flame, she put her hand on his.
The shock as she touched him. Like the moment he’d laid his lips on her back, as if one of them had walked across thick carpet. He flinched slightly but she had his hand, drew the flame. “Thanks,” she said, as she pulled away, let smoke go out of her mouth, sucked it up her nostrils, like she’d done on the balcony three days before. He drew on his, felt the nicotine rush immediately. God, he’d missed that. Only realizing in the moment how much.
“And what is a day like this, Mr Severin? For you?”
“Is there anyway I can persuade you to call me Joe? Mr Severin makes me feel like your, I don’t know, like your art teacher or something.”
“Maybe. You’ll have to earn it though.”
“How would I do that?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something.” She looked away then, discontinuing the challenge, sucking at her ciggie, then exhaled hard at the next table, where a woman glared at her, before turning back and continuing, “Actually, I already have. I’ll call you Joe if I like your explanation.”
He swallowed. “My explanation of what?”
“Oh, I wonder?” She clicked her tongue, flicking it against her top teeth, eyes to the sky. Then she looked down, at him. “The tequila, Mr Severin. It’s unusual method of consumption. Something you do often?”
He shook his head. “Never before.”
“Never? Not a fetish then? Like rubber. Or sheep.”
He laughed. “Do I look like a sheep shagger?”
“I’m not sure there is a look, is there?” She grinned. “You don’t look like a man who would suck tequila from a stranger’s back either. And yet, there we were.”
“Well, you don’t look like someone who would allow it to be sucked.”
“Don’t I? That’s interesting. Because I’ve been wondering ever since if I did. If it was, like a, ah, a vibe I gave off.”
“No. Nothing like that.” He hesitated, covered it with a sip of wine. “It’s just that I… saw it. You. Your back. That part.”
“When?”
“When you came to Tufnell Park to check out of the flat. I came into the room.” It came out in a rush now, confession. “You were reaching up into the chimney. Your blouse had ridden up. That’s when I saw your - ”
He broke off. She pulled a thread of tobacco off her tongue, rubbed it between her fingers. “I see. And are you normally a back man?”
“I told you. Never before. It was just so…” he sighed, “perfect.”
“Perfect, huh?” She smiled. “Well, I’ve been complimented on various parts of me in my life. Never that.”
“Is that why you…”
“Agreed? Naw, not really. I think I agreed because you asked so nicely. And because you so clearly wanted it. Needed it.” She picked up her glass, swirled the wine in it. “It felt nice to be needed again… Joe.” She added his name with a smile, taking a sip. Then the smile left, her brow creased, those wild eyebrows drew together, nearly joining. “What now though, Joe? Now we’ve established you’re not a pervert. Or much of one anyway. What now?”
“You don’t beat about the bush, do you?” He shook his head. “I thought we’d meet, have a drink, you know, get to know each other a little, talk - ”
“Why?” She leaned forward, fixed him with those eyes. He’d been so much in the memory of her back, he’d almost forgotten her eyes, their iridescence. “What’s your limit? Your line?”
“Line, as in - ?”
“Not pick up. Not coke. Line as in limit. Where do you draw your line?”
“With you?”
“Yes and no. More with yourself.” Her cigarette had gone out and she picked up the Zippo, conjured flame. “Is my back it? The sum of your ambitions? That your line?”
He’d thought of more of her, of course he had. Woken hot in the night with an erection and her scent in his nostrils. Thought of moving from her back, to her belly, to her breasts, to… But he couldn’t say that. Because mostly he’d thought this. “Look, I’m married,” he blurted.
“I know. Your ring.”
“Oh yes.” He looked at the thick gold band. “Should I have taken it off?”
“Not if you had any hope. Of anything.” She blew smoke at him, her eyes narrow. “I hate lies, Mr Severin. Hate ‘em more than anything. I’ve had enough of them in my life.”
“I thought I was Joe now?”
“You may be again. If you promise never to lie to me. And tell me your lines.”
“OK.” He laid his cold cigarette in the ashtray, took a deep breath. “I don’t know, longer term. For now, I… I just want to… touch. Does that sound pathetic? I’m not seeking an… an affair. I don’t want… sex. I mean, I do, but I can’t. I’m married. Happily married. Christ, I said that to you before, didn’t I? Fuck!” He picked up his wine, drained off his glass. “That’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.”
“No, you’re not, you’re - ” She held up her empty glass to him and he lifted the bottle from the ice, poured for them both. “Touch is fine. We all need to be touched, I think. It’s been a while since a man just…”
She broke off, stared above him, and he saw someone in her eyes, hated him whoever he was, the one who’d put the sadness there. Was simultaneously glad of him too. Especially when she took his non-pouring hand, and tugged it. “You seem quite far away there. Why don’t you come over here and sit by me… Joe?”
He stood and she thought, what the fuck? What’s going on ‘ere?
It was one curse of her nature, to over-analyze. Seek root causes. Break things down into causative chunks. With Patrick it had been simple. He was gorgeous and pure lust had dictated her actions; love had only crept in later when she’d gotten to know him, his vulnerabilities, his tenderness, his self doubts. Lust was still there now, she couldn’t deny it. She had desired him even when he was entwined with that Russian beauty the night before, that Sonya. But he was no longer vulnerable, and tenderness was a rare and fleeting thing with him these days. Success had done for it, together with its trappings, money, cocaine.
As Joe sat beside her, she thought, do I fancy him? She’d thought him cute the other day, when he’d first proposed that she occupy his flat in West 11. He was still, but how? The thick black hair was short cropped, with flecks of grey at his temples. There was stubble that she suspected would escalate fast into a beard. He had heavy lids over his eyes, hoods which he pulled down to conceal – or shot up to reveal his change of moods; which had happened often in their brief encounters, while he wrestled with his desires, and his guilt. The eyes themselves were a light brown, milk chocolate to Patrick’s mocha.
He’s more than cute, she thought, as he slid in, as he pushed himself to the corner, as he grabbed his wine glass and gulped. He’s a handsome man. A man arrived, not a youth on the cusp. But he doesn’t see it, or he’s forgotten it. Remembering hasn’t been necessary in the life he lives now. What did he say? He was ‘happily married’? And yet here he was. Needing.
While Patrick? He needed nothing from her now. Patrick could see his own attractiveness so clearly - yet he still never passed a mirror without checking up on it.
Lottie looked at Joe. He looked back, waiting. He doesn’t know what to do next, she thought, doesn’t know what he wants, wher
e his ‘lines’ are, though he says he does. Which means I can set them for both of us.
The hairs on her forearms rose with a sudden excitement. Covering, she reached for the stub of her cigarette again. Lit, inhaled, then swiftly jabbed the butt down just as her fingers burned. She rubbed it out, pushing the embers around, then slid over to him, turning to fold her back against his chest. He stiffened, pressing out, resisting for a moment. Then suddenly gave and she sank into him, felt him where they touched – his chest pressed into her back; her right arm laid along his thigh. “Is this alright?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied, after a second. “It’s… nice.”
She looked around the busy patio. “You’re not worried about the people?”
He only left it a moment. “What people?”
She laughed, and he did too. “Oh, Mr Severin.”
“Joe.”
“Oh Joe.” She stretched for her wine glass, snagged it, took a sip. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Tell you what?”
“Oh, I dunno. Like, everything.”
She felt his hand then, his left hand, she hadn’t noticed before but she must have pinned it against the bench back. He lifted it away, paused a moment, then replaced it, curling around her rib cage, to rest under the curve of her left breast. The edge of his finger was in her crease there, where her breast hung pendulous against the bone. She felt him tense, then relax. It reminded her of the feeling of his lips against her spine. Tension, then release.
Leaving his hand there, he began to tell her everything.
12
Saturday July 28th 2018
As soon as his daughter began to sing, Joe started to cry.
One London Day Page 9
