A Secret Life
Page 15
The phone was still ringing: where was the answering machine? And then, abruptly, it clicked off, dead. Georgie frowned down at it, all her excuses and evasions on the tip of her tongue unsaid. Beside her, the ice cream eaten down to the tip of the cone, Tabs hopped off the bench and at the movement one of the cages suddenly filled with colour as a dozen small pastel-green and pink birds took flight, whirring and twittering. Georgie recognised them from somewhere: the phone still in her hand she bent to look over Tabs’ shoulder.
‘Lovebirds,’ she said, into Tabs’ upturned questioning face, leaving out the rest, monogamous pair bonding. ‘Aren’t they a pretty colour?’
It went round and round in her head, what the placard said about the birds. Monogamous pair bonding. The heavy phrase had set her heart pounding, ridiculously, it frightened her. She made herself smile down at Tabs and with relief she saw tiredness, Tabs had run out of energy at last. ‘Time to go,’ she said firmly and saw Tabs decide not to protest.
It was a quarter past four when they got on the bus, Tabs insisting on upstairs but almost having to be carried up there and leaning quiet against her now while Georgie’s heart pitter-patted. Seeing Dad had shaken her up, not calmed her down. Why did he think— But Tim did say that. Tim sighed, when she talked about having Dad over, having him to stay, complained about him getting Tabs overexcited.
The traffic was choked and the bus didn’t move. Georgie looked down on to the wide pavements, a group of European tourists in quilted jackets emerging from the Planetarium, a woman with a buggy, a couple hand in hand bundled up in coats, leaning in to each other. What did she even think she would say to Holly, with Tabs there? But when she looked down Tabs was asleep against her. The bus moved a few hundred yards, then stopped again.
And then Georgie had her phone in her hand, and his number on it. I can’t stop thinking about you.
The journey was so slow. The phone was back in her pocket.
They got off a stop early. She had to shake Tabs gently awake, pressing her face against her warm cheek to soften the blow then pulling back to look down. The small face pale and blank as she emerged from sleep, from somewhere strange where tigers padded up and down.
Funny how the geography had come back to Georgie last week, even in the dark, even after the time away, even with all the changes, the cranes and new building. They walked between hoardings, Tabs dragging her feet. Fifteen minutes in hand: Georgie suddenly felt an access of dread, at the thought of seeing Holly. Seeing her with Tabs in tow, too: what if she said something? What if she even hinted?
Holly had no idea about kids. Of course she didn’t: she wouldn’t understand how quick they were, to pick up suggestions, to ask awkward questions, to worry.
Georgie stopped on the pavement, because here they were, it was on the way after all, here they were outside the club and as she was telling herself, No, there’ll be no one here anyway, instructed herself to walk on past the black-painted door when it opened and there he was. Frank the barman, a bulky kitchen machine in his arms, with a plug dangling, something like an ice maker. He stopped stock still in front of her, looking properly astonished.
Carefully he set the machine down on the step. He looked pale by daylight, stocky, dark eyebrows. He was wearing a white shirt rolled neatly to the elbow and a tie pin.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s you. It’s Georgina from Brockley Rise.’ And laughed uncertainly, registering Tabs at Georgie’s side, rubbing her eyes with a fist. ‘Been a long day, has it?’ he said. Standing there.
She felt herself go red. ‘Only my mother-in-law calls me Georgina,’ she said stupidly and blushed harder, not having wanted to mention her mother-in-law. ‘This is Tabs,’ she said, ‘we’ve been to the zoo and now we’re off to meet – a friend.’
‘Just passing, then,’ he said, still uncertain.
‘Actually I came this way on purpose,’ she said, hurriedly, ‘Because I – because—’ and her hand crept to her earlobe, the flush intensifying. She bit her lip. ‘I’m sure you haven’t found anything. Seen anything. But I lost a diamond stud.’ He was nodding. ‘They were a present and I’m in a bit of trouble.’
Georgie fumbled in her bag, fishing in all the crap, still hot, still anxious, before she found the box, holding it up, opening it.
‘I believed you,’ he said, smiling, then shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s been nothing found,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask—’ he hesitated, turning his head toward the club. ‘I’ll ask around. Do you want – if you want to leave a number. Or just call the club and ask for me. I’m Frank.’
‘Yes,’ said Georgie, ‘I remember.’ And he smiled, and she smiled and it seemed all right. In that moment, it all seemed – manageable. Replacing the earring, meeting Holly, getting home, putting all this behind her. Last Friday night, gone and forgotten.
His hand hovered above Tabs’ head as if he wanted to rest it there a second but she looked up at him in that moment, eyeing the hand haughtily, and he laughed instead. ‘Looks like you,’ he said, then looked embarrassed.
‘I’ll give you my number,’ said Georgie. Frank got out his phone and punched it in carefully, big fingers and Georgie was suddenly uneasy.
‘Thanks, I think – I’d better go,’ she said, apologetically, ‘I’m meeting someone, at Fanelli’s, that’s not far, is it? I mean, I’m sure you won’t – I’m sure— Thank you. Anyway.’ And she was off, tugging Tabs behind her. When they got to the corner and turned she saw that he was still standing there, the ice maker on the pavement beside him.
Georgie had looked up Fanelli’s. Tim had always praised her thoroughness, her scrupulous attention to detail, when they worked together and it occurred to her now as she shepherded Tabs ahead of her that partly she had been that person obediently for him. And then he hadn’t wanted her to work for him.
It wasn’t far from here, she knew that much. Down the side street they followed the light was going: overhead the sky was bright but pale. Georgie looked at her watch: five past. Damn: they must have stood talking longer than she thought. He’d been nice, though. She’d have liked just to stop there a bit longer. At her side Tabs stopped. ‘Who was that man, Mummy?’ she said distinctly. ‘And where are we going now?’ Tugging her hand downwards like a bell pull. A stubborn look on her face, a dark look to her brows. She looked foreign, sometimes, though the donor, they said, had been British. He’d said Tabs looked like her.
Making herself be patient – she could see the illuminated sign to the café, if Holly gave up waiting and came out they’d see her – Georgie lifted Tabs, small and heavy as a couple of sandbags. Smelling sweet, of ice cream, she stuck out her lower lip. ‘We’re going to have a cup of tea with an old friend of mine,’ Georgie said. ‘She wants to meet you.’ Tabs’ shoulders dropped, but she nodded.
Seven minutes past, and the café was crowded. There was no sign of Holly: Georgie scanned the heads once, twice. There was a long bar with stools, all taken: she saw a woman’s crossed legs, stockings, a slim ankle swinging – but it wasn’t Holly. More a bar than a tea room, not quite right for Tabs: Georgie felt a strange mixture of panic and relief and disappointment.
‘Can I have hot chocolate?’ Tabs was craning her neck, impatient. She’d perked up, pink in her cheeks.
Resigned now, relief uppermost, Georgie began her backtracking ‘Sorry, baby, we must have – there’s nowhere to—’ But then a couple were getting up and Tabs was already heading for their space, weaving at table-top height through the crowded room.
Following her, apologising right and left in the cramped space, Georgie realised she was gripping her phone tightly in her pocket: she stopped and with an odd sense of dread stole a look. Missed call. She thrust it back in her pocket: Tabs hated her looking at her phone when they were together. Always asking who it was.
What would happen, if she knew? Knew another man was interested in her mother.
A man she’d met once. Georgie’s belly dissolved, with the danger.
A hassled waitress brought hot chocolate for both of them, but when she lifted it to her lips Georgie found the smell turned her stomach, and set it down. It was like being pregnant, this constant queasiness, this fluttering: the thought made her almost laugh out loud, or cry, she couldn’t have said which. With Tabs absorbed in her big cup she looked at the phone again. The missed call was from Holly’s number. Of course it was.
With one hand covering her ear in the sudden noise of the room, Georgie called back, averting her eyes from the full cup of chocolate on the table. The line was engaged. Across the table Tabs had pushed her cup aside half full and looked up at her, flagging again. Her shoulders drooped. Georgie put the phone away and signalled to the waitress.
Standing to leave, Georgie was suddenly worn out, too, disappointed and relieved all at the same time. There had been something wrong about being here with Tabs, concealing things from her, bringing her to this place, to crowded dangerous London, where men turned to look at them. And it was too noisy, too hot. Getting out her stuffed purse Georgie paid and added a tip and thought she heard the waitress make a sound of disparagement. She got up hastily, the chair scraped loud and for a second people turned, everyone was looking.
Tabs came obediently round the table and Georgie steered her ahead of her. There was something – something odd, her peripheral vision seemed fuzzy suddenly, as if she’d stood up too suddenly, and she kept her hand on Tabs, steering herself now through the crowded room. She didn’t remember it being so dark when they came in and she focused on the doorway out of the café, the rectangle of greying light, the railings of the buildings opposite, still stupidly far away, more tables still to negotiate as if they were multiplying. A man standing on the far side of the street. Was this the place, was this where it happened?
Where what happened? She didn’t know what, and that was the truth. Holly could have told her, but Holly wasn’t here. Where a strange man kissed her goodnight. She knew if she looked down there was still the bruise on her shin she’d woken up with, the morning after, the other that had appeared inside her thigh, as if a thumb had pressed there. Both yellow now. And if she chose to remember it, the feeling of dread she’d woken up with, when her body had ached in strange places, her neck, her jaw, and she couldn’t remember how she’d got to bed.
And then suddenly Tabs wasn’t under her hand any more, and Georgie didn’t know if she’d tripped or lost her balance but she stumbled, she was over, half in, half out of the café doors and Tabs nowhere to be seen.
And out of nowhere a hand was under her arm, it was rescuing her. There was a man looming over her, blocking what was left of the light, the darkening sky electric with the evening. A man with his hand under her elbow: he held her up, raised her up. She knew him.
Chapter Sixteen
Saturdays got started slowly and Frank was restocking the bar. Reaching up to fix a bottle of Aperol into its optic – Frank didn’t like the stuff, which he found sticky and orange as Lucozade – he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Georgie.
Walking out with the ice maker, looking for Joe who was supposed to be collecting it for repair, Frank couldn’t believe it when he saw her. Right there standing on the pavement outside the Cinq, wearing jeans, no make-up and a little girl in tow and looking – tired and a bit scared, if he was honest. Looking lovely. She’d showed him her diamond stud in the little box. He remembered seeing them in her ears, then, but they hadn’t looked that big. Her husband must be loaded.
Ruth was the Cinq’s cleaner, a Brixton girl with a gold tooth and she was fairly straight. She’d turned things in before that she’d found: a chain one time with a little letter hanging off it. The girl had come back for that – but mostly people didn’t come back.
Wiping the counter, Frank wondered if she was scared of her husband. ‘I’m in trouble,’ Georgie had said, her mouth twisted up as if she actually meant it, it wasn’t a joke. Maybe she was trailing all over looking for the stud, hotel or wherever she’d stayed. They’d stayed.
Frank had stood in the street watching her and the little girl go off to Fanelli’s, just thinking of what Matteo had said. About the skinny guy going off with them, getting in their cab: Matteo had known there was something funny about it, ever the wise old monkey himself. For a stupid second he’d thought, he took it, he took her diamond. The tall skinny guy: he saw she had money from those sparklers in her ears and he went after her. But when you thought about it, that didn’t make any sense at all, why take just one? How would you even do it?
Something was wrong, though. With him, with the man. Frank was quite sure, from the minute he’d seen him set his foot down off the barstool. He’d have taken the earrings if he’d had the chance, he’d have taken something. The women might have thought, there was three of them, they could handle him. But he’d been after something, Frank was sure of that. And Frank had been right.
He should have gone after her then and there, and he would have, just to make sure she was – just to stop her looking frightened like that. To say, It’s just an earring, love, I’m sure he’ll let you off. Except at that moment Joe had turned up in his white van and there was the ice maker to sort. And then Joe wouldn’t stop talking, about the murder.
There had been a police van up on the pavement just around the corner when he’d gone out for breakfast: outside an old brick building he knew nothing about, shutters at the windows, a lightwell, six bell pushes. Frank had stopped to pick up coffee on the corner and asked if anyone knew what it was and the Filipina lady who ran the greasy spoon he favoured got all flustered, hands up in the air, he gave up. It wasn’t till later he’d found out, bumping into Matteo on the corner around midday.
Joe, whose face looked like a walnut, had run his electrical store in the next street since the sixties, and he was up in arms about it. He blamed Crossrail and everything getting dug up and sold off. He blamed the old landlords for being greedy, and Airbnb and the internet. He blamed foreign pimps. ‘It’ll be one of them Romanians,’ he said. A woman had been raped and strangled, in a top-floor flat. Joe was certain she’d been a working girl – prostitute – working out of an Airbnb. Matteo had said the same. The cleaner had come in and found her.
It had shaken Frank, when Matteo had told him, the two of them standing there in the busy familiar street between delivery vans and motorbike couriers. When he’d lived in Streatham a few years back there’d been for ever a street taped off for muggings, stabbings, gang fighting. But not Soho.
He should have gone after her sooner. But at least he had gone, once he’d shut Joe up, getting more and more uneasy the longer he’d gone on about it.
Now in the dim evening as the day turned itself over and over inside him, the club was empty and Frank came round the bar to stand in the doorway. In the week there were after-work drinkers but Saturdays always started later, ten, eleven o’clock.
Dead in some poky flat, one of the thousands behind dirty windows, raped and strangled. Not normal for round here. Too many people around.
There were plenty of girls, too, though. Girls who didn’t look where they were going, or who was watching them.
Down the street a long vertical green and red neon sign blinked. Soho wasn’t a place where you got murdered. Too busy, too full of life. But maybe the place hadn’t been secure, these Airbnbs could be like that, ramshackle conversions, old doors easily forced. And it was a dangerous business, selling sex, everyone knew that. Frank shifted in the doorway: he had never been to a prostitute, wouldn’t dream of it, it felt dangerous to both sides, to him. Frank liked it easy, he liked it friendly.
Catch people in their soft spot, say the wrong thing and they lose it.
It was dark outside now, but not the warm autumn dark he’d got used to.
Frank poured himself a mineral water, ice and lime, taking care, setting it on its little round mat. Lucy wasn’t in yet, Dom was still out the back and he must know something Frank didn’t know, namely that there was no chance of Eddie coming in as the smoke was spicy with dope, you could smell it from where Frank stood, wafting in the still air. Not a soul in. Frank sipped, leisurely. Time to think.
He’d got there just in time: he wasn’t sure if she’d tripped or fainted or a combination of the two but her face had been quite white. Picking her up off the pavement in the doorway of Fanelli’s, there’d been a moment when he thought he’d scared her himself, coming after her like that. The little girl beside her standing back wide-eyed and shocked, the first time you see your parent poorly, or not in charge, it was a shock, wasn’t it? Frank remembered that feeling.
He had brought her back inside Fanelli’s and asked for a glass of water for her. Frank couldn’t remember when he’d last been in there but the dark guy behind the espresso machine seemed to recognise him and the water came straight away, someone got up and gave her a seat by the door. The air outside was cold, and someone closed the door and looking out through the glass, Frank saw him. Standing in the doorway opposite, leaning against the stone surround, half in shadow, looking down the street.
‘Holly never came,’ she said beside him then and he bent to hear her better.
‘Holly?’ he said.
He couldn’t work it out. Coincidence? He doubted that. The guy was watching her. Them. The tall skinny guy in the cheap suit who’d got in the cab with Georgie and her friends, the guy she shouldn’t have gone near – he could have told her that – was watching her.