by Monica Ali
‘Tattoo parlour,’ said Jenny. ‘Bet he’d give you a big discount.’
As soon as he got into bed Gabe started making ‘to do’ lists in his head.
He fermented a couple of hours beneath the sheets and then he rose.
Ted, bent-backed at the kitchen table, did not hear him come in. The room was swaddled in darkness save for the bright casket of the desk lamp over Ted and his matchstick ships. Ted, absorbed, subsumed, made his devotions. Gabe stilled his breath, humbled for some reason that was quite beyond his reach.
His father, with his friar’s hair, his mendicant face, his brown robe tied with a cord, gave himself to the task. Gabriel, in the shadows, longed for there to be light. What comfort could he take? Never, not one time, in forty-two years had he felt anything to be holy, never a glimmer, never a stir. Oh, dear God, he would be spiritual if he could. God save us. It was a talent he had always lacked.
Without looking up, Ted said, ‘Can’t sleep, son?’
Gabe shook his head. He went to the table and sat down.
‘Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Gabe. ‘Well, I’ve got this problem. Something I’m trying to think through.’
‘I’m listening.’
Gabriel told him about Gleeson and Ivan and their plotting. He got sidetracked on to Ivan and Victor’s fights. He talked about Yuri and then about Nikolai. He even started telling stories about Oona and Ernie which made Ted chuckle so he told him a story about Chef Albert too. And then he went back to Gleeson and told about the photographs and what Branka, the housekeeping supervisor, had said. Why was she bringing one of the maids to see Gleeson, who had nothing to do with them? And the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that there was some kind of link with the photos. Why were they there unless Gleeson had put them there? Who was he showing them to?
‘What do you think I should do, Dad?’ Gabe fiddled with a matchstick. It snapped in two.
Ted smiled. ‘Never thought I’d see the day.’
‘It’s probably nothing,’ said Gabe.
‘My own son asking me for advice.’
‘I might not take it.’
‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘You might not.’
‘But what was he doing with them? Placed on the middle of the desk like that, with the lamp on, like it was set up for some kind of meeting. What’s it all about?’
Ted glued a balustrade in place with a pair of tweezers. ‘Wish I’d got old and wise, Gabriel, ’stead of just old. One thing I can tell you, looking back, I never worried about the right things. Like with yer mum, I worried that much – that I’d lose her because she’d lose her mind, or lose her to another man. And she goes and drops down dead. Well, you never think. You never in a million years.’
‘I should stop fretting, you mean.’
‘Some of us is made to worry, Gabe.’ Ted wiped the tweezers clean. ‘If I had my time again … but no, some things never change. I was sat here – before you come in – sat here worrying about the stupidest thing. I was thinking who’ll have these ships, who’ll want them? Jenny says they’re full of dust and, you know, with her allergies. Harley and Bailey, they’re not interested. Why should they be?’
‘I’ll take care of them, Dad.’
‘What I’m saying is we fret on and it makes no difference. The time I’ve wasted. Worrying about this and that. What’s coming to us pays no mind. Goes right along and comes. Like as not we don’t see it coming because we’ve been looking the wrong way all t’time.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IN FEBRUARY THE BOILER BROKE. THE WATER FROZE IN THE PIPES. Gabriel called a plumber and stayed at home with Lena. They set up camp beneath the duvet.
If they could find a little planet somewhere, this size, they’d be just fine.
Beyond the corners of the duvet, and despite the progress they’d made, she eluded him still. Sometimes she would not speak. She bit her nails and burned. He told her that he loved her and she twisted, as if it were the most horrible thing she had ever heard. Sometimes, though, she gave him hope. She smiled. She seemed to like him. She told him he was a good man.
He could not hold her, that was the problem. She slipped through his fingers. Even her physical presence seemed doubtful to him, more will-o’-the-wisp than waif. Watching her cross the room was like a waking dream. If she disappeared into the wall he would not be surprised.
He had tried to pin her down. He said, ‘How long did you spend in the flat in Edmonton?’ She said, ‘Why, what it is to you?’
If she didn’t go up in a puff of smoke she could vanish simply by walking through the door and never coming back. It killed him. He died a little death every time he thought of it.
And he pieced her together nightly, assembling all he knew of her with his fingertips, working feverishly up from her toes. Everything that he knew about her and all that he might still learn, examining her heels, her insteps, her calves, her stomach, her arms, as if her body might offer up clues.
‘What did he do to you?’ he said one long restless night, asking about the ‘client’ who had hurt her.
She never told. She said he smoked and Gabriel examined her body for cigarette burns. He found none. He imagined worse. He thought about the man towering over her, doing unspeakable things. A married man. Probably he had kids. A pillar of the community, no doubt. Gabriel thought about killing him, imagined crushing his ugly face. He worked himself into a rage. ‘For fuck’s sake, tell me what he did,’ he said, squeezing her arm. Images flashed through his mind. What sickness. But she would not help him. She rolled away. ‘Lena,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that you might feel better. If you get it off your chest.’
Oh, how he hated himself. He would never touch her, swore to it silently, looking at her back. He would kill this man. He would not touch Lena, not ever, not ever, but for this one final time. One more time, kissing her toes, one more time to make it right, and he was down on his knees and feeling blindly along her leg, and then the creature was on him and he could only do as he must though he knew he was not the piece of her that was missing, that however deep he inserted himself, he would not make her complete.
* * *
They had their setbacks, of course, but on the whole he felt they were gaining some ground.
He had decided that he loved her and he wanted little enough in return. When he felt guilty about the relationship he reminded himself that he had taken her in and given her a home. She came to him. If he grew angry at her he was careful to remember that she had been rude to him first. When he regretted scaring her about the world outside his door he kept in mind that it had, indeed, been a dangerous place for her. It was all a trade. He played his part; she played hers. It pricked his conscience to lie to her about the private eye. But she had lied to him.
‘Why does your brother have a different last name?’ he had said, when she went through her notes with him so that he could write them up in English.
She picked her lip.
‘Lena, is he your brother?’ he said.
‘Is my brother,’ said Lena, twisting up.
‘Why doesn’t he have the same name?’
She shrugged. Eventually, she said, ‘He have different father. Pasha is half-brother, OK?’
Gabriel smiled. ‘Why didn’t you say that in the first place?’ He finished writing up the notes and when he got to work the next morning he took them out of his bag and dropped them in the bin.
This Pasha, this so-called brother with a lover’s name, would take her away from him and he must not be found.
He was late for the end-of-month meeting with the building contractor at Alderney Street. When he arrived Rolly and Fairweather were there already, deep in discussions. The room had been freshly replastered and a decorator was painting the far wall white. Nothing of the florist shop remained, the building stripped back to its bare essentials, renouncing its former self. Gabriel shivered. He told himself he was ready for this.
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br /> He went through to the kitchen. The Rosinox stove tops had been installed. He ran a hand along and imagined how it would be.
‘Nice of you to show, Chef.’
‘Got a bit held up.’
Rolly slipped his thumbs under his braces. He eased them off his shoulders. ‘Too bloody tight,’ he said. ‘Must have shrunk in the wash. Hope you’re not turning into a prima donna, Chef, I’ve worked with too many of those.’
‘Look,’ said Gabriel, ‘I’m sorry I was late.’
‘No one’s indispensable, you know.’
‘Do we need to make a meal of it?’
Rolly blinked hard and fast, tapping out a message. Don’t take me for a fool because I dress like this.
‘It won’t happen again,’ said Gabe.
‘Least you missed Lucinda,’ said Rolly. ‘That woman scares the hell out of me.’
They’d ended up with Fairweather’s wife as interior designer. Fairweather had a gift for steaming ahead with his own ideas while all the time seeming to give way.
‘Me too,’ said Fairweather, coming in, ‘and luckily the builders as well. Think they’ll finish on time.’
‘Less than three months to opening,’ said Rolly. He belched. ‘Stress and indigestion, very much linked. Need to order the crockery, six weeks or more lead time, often as not.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Gabe.
‘Start poaching staff within the next month.’
‘Yes.’
‘We need to decide on a name. Haven’t talked about that for a while.’
‘I was thinking,’ said Gabriel, ‘that we could keep it simple, call it – maybe – Lightfoot’s.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Fairweather, almost bouncing with enthusiasm, ‘has a ring to it. I like it. Magnifique. Always adds a little something when the place is identified with the chef. Makes the cooking, the food, seem important, if you know what I mean.’
‘It is important, I hope,’ said Gabe.
‘Excellent,’ said Fairweather. ‘All about communication. I do agree. The way you’ll stamp yourself on this fine establishment, bring your personality to bear.’
‘Fine,’ said Rolly. ‘Lightfoot’s will do. Now, we’ll use my usual PR outfit, they’re quite good, well, they’re a right shower, in fact, but all the other PR dollies are just as bad.’
‘Exciting stuff,’ said Fairweather. ‘What will they do? Bash out a press release, line up interviews? I can just imagine it – Chef looking like some simmering culinary Heathcliff in the Sunday supplements.’
Rolly snorted. ‘Or in the trade gazettes. See what strings you can pull with your media pals,’ he said to Fairweather. He turned to Gabriel. ‘I’ll set up a meeting with Fleur, that’s the publicity bird, and she’ll ask you all the questions the journalists will ask you. You know, about your passion for food, how you got started, some stories about why you wanted to be a chef. Make it up if you have to, but make it sound good, OK?’
Gabe scratched his bald patch. It seemed to have doubled in size. Was he starting to look like a monk? ‘Oh,’ he said, with a half-laugh, ‘that should be straightforward enough.’
‘Terrific,’ said Fairweather, ‘that’s the stuff! Newspapers love personal stories, love to find new characters. Hit them with everything you’ve got.’
‘It’s about the food really,’ said Gabriel. ‘Not about me.’
‘You’ll be a star,’ said Fairweather. His mobile rang. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said, and wandered off.
Rolly said, ‘I’ve got to go. Meetings.’ But he looked reluctant to move. He leaned against the counter and rammed his fists in his pockets, perhaps as a sign of resistance, or perhaps to keep his trousers up now that his braces were down. ‘Don’t know why I do it,’ he said. ‘I mean, there’s never a moment to enjoy.’
‘Think we’re committed now,’ said Gabe.
‘No one’s trying to back out. Too late, anyway. That’s not what I was saying. I was thinking about my life.’
He sucked saliva ruminatively through his teeth.
Gabe looked at his fat cheeks, his little eyes, his bright paisley shirt. Rolly looked sad in the saddest possible way, like a clown.
‘I’ve been in this business a long time,’ said Rolly, ‘and I’ve built it up from scratch. We didn’t have anything really, me and Geraldine, when we started out. Funny thing is, I think I was happier then.’
‘Maybe you need new challenges,’ said Gabe, ‘like this place, for instance.’
‘I’ve got two houses,’ said Rolly. ‘You’ve got to have your country pile. I’ve got a Jag and a Mercedes. I’ve put two kids through private school. I’ve got a stockbroker and investments.’ He looked at Gabe and shrugged, as if bewildered by what it all meant. ‘The building work’s never finished, because Geraldine must have this and then that. The pile in the country is a bugger to maintain. The Jag got broken into, some bugger’s dragged a key down the side of the Merc. You can’t stop worrying. The kids still put out their hands. I had a bad night only this week because twenty grand’s been wiped off some shares. I’m still up by five since a year ago so I sold, had done with it. Then I couldn’t sleep. What if I’ve sold too early, what if I’m missing out?’
‘You’re doing all right for yourself,’ said Gabriel. Rolly’s sleepless nights sounded more reasonable, more productive, than his own.
‘We started off in this little cottage in Twickenham. Think we were better off then. Didn’t know, didn’t realize, how much we didn’t have. There’s no end to it. It’s like being on a merry-go-round and you want to get off and the ride won’t end. You could jump but you don’t want to risk it and it’s the same bloody tune going on and on in your head.’
‘You’ve got to think how much you’ve achieved,’ said Gabe.
Rolly massaged his jowls. ‘I said to Geraldine this morning – are you happier now or twenty years ago?’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said her therapist warned her to stay away from my negativity. I said, maybe I ought to warn your therapist to stay away from my money, she might catch something from it.’
Gabriel laughed. He said, ‘Yeah, well, life’s a bitch.’
‘It’s genetic, of course,’ said Rolly, getting ready to go. ‘Some people have an unfair advantage when it comes to happiness. And I envy people like you, Chef, because I don’t know why I do what I do, I just do it. You’re one lucky bastard if you can say you do it for love.’
Fairweather, still on the phone, strode purposefully up and down by the plate-glass window. He raised a finger to Gabriel to indicate he wouldn’t be long. A blonde passed by outside and Fairweather swept at his fringe. The blonde looked back over her shoulder.
Fairweather had a wandering eye. Women seemed to like him too. Gabe supposed he was not bad-looking, a little short, but not short of apple-cheeked charm.
‘Excellent,’ said Fairweather, pocketing the phone. ‘How marvellous,’ he added, in equal parts emphatic and vague. ‘My God, you do look tired.’
Gabriel put a cigarette between his lips.
‘Didn’t kick them?’ said Fairweather. ‘Never seen the appeal myself, but then I guess you don’t if you never start.’
‘You don’t mind if I?’ said Gabe, searching for his lighter.
‘No, no,’ said Fairweather. ‘We all have our vices, don’t we?’
‘What’s yours?’
‘Ah, well, you know,’ said Fairweather. ‘Now, did you want to see me about something?’
‘Remember you were asking me about Yuri, the porter, I mean. Well, I’ve been having … I’ve been thinking …’ It was the dream. But he wouldn’t tell Fairweather that. The dream must be for a reason. He had to figure it out, and then it would go away. Last time the food had buried him. He’d nearly suffocated, come up gasping for air. ‘Well, Yuri was definitely an illegal, though he had a National Insurance number, don’t ask me how because I’ve no idea. So do you think that means he would have been – what did you call it
? – bonded labour, in debt to someone?’
‘Inquest go off all right?’ said Fairweather, encouragingly.
‘Yes,’ said Gabe, ‘no problem. Accidental death.’
‘Poor chap.’
‘Do you think he could have been—’
‘Does very little good now to speculate,’ Fairweather interrupted. ‘Who does it help?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gabriel. ‘Maybe the agency should be prosecuted. If that’s what they’d done to him.’
Fairweather checked his watch. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘why go down that road?’
‘But you said, in cases like this—’
Fairweather began speaking quickly. He crisped up. ‘You can’t equate the two things. A worker might enter illegally and then find work without facing a situation like that. Many do. Conversely, the majority of people identified as, technically speaking, trafficked have come to the country entirely legally.’
‘Go on,’ said Gabe. ‘Explain.’
‘All right. If you really want to know. What happens is, the traffickers use regular migration routes and work visas, but then charge fees for arranging work which put the workers into debt before they’ve even arrived in the UK. Sometimes their documents are removed, they’re kept in poor housing and charged a fortune, charged for transport to and from work, and so on and so forth. Threats, abuse, all sorts of things. Don’t forget that these people very often speak little English and they’re not aware of their rights. Your porter, he could be a victim, should we say. Or he might not be. The fact that he was an illegal immigrant is neither here nor there.’
‘But if he was …’
‘What you’ve got to understand,’ Fairweather fired away rapidly, as if he had thirty seconds in which to deliver a brief, ‘is that even if it did happen to your guy, you’re not going to change the world by making a fuss. It’s too widespread for that. It’s endemic, it’s a structural problem. You get the odd media story but that’s only the tip of the iceberg.’
‘So why aren’t you doing something about it?’
‘The government? Even a Labour government? We’re trying but it’s not that simple. There’s a private member’s bill coming up about equal rights for agency workers, but for very complex reasons we’ve been unable to back it.’