by Angela Dyson
She gave me a shove and ushered me into the building.
The full strength of the midday sun was shining through the plate glass shopfront, giving the room a hothouse atmosphere. Hanging on the white walls were framed black and white prints of architectural plans, which looked I thought, very similar to the ones Simon had in his sitting room. Perhaps he’d helped himself? Talk about taking your work home with you. On a giant easel to the left of the door were photographs and details of “This Week’s Featured Properties” some of which already had sold stickers across them.
My attention was caught by a sketch of a block of New York Style Loft Apartments that was under construction on the south side of the Common. I tried to imagine myself living in it serving pastrami on rye and lox bagels to Flan and Mr. H. but couldn’t really picture it.
There were four beech wood desks in the room, in front of which were pairs of upholstered chairs positioned at an intimate and conversational angle. Two of the desks were empty but the occupants of the other two immediately rose to greet us with the forced bonhomie and determined glint in the eyes of those who work mostly on commission.
I recognised the woman I’d seen bringing in the open/closed board when I’d first staked out Simon and she was wearing another shirt waisted dress. The other, a young guy with tufty blonde hair and a suit that looked slightly too big for him was, I could see from the nameplate on his desk, Stephen Oakley. Now I was right in front of him I could see what Flan had meant about his teeth.
“We’re not buyers,” said Laura with a smile. “Or vendors. Sorry. We’ve got an appointment with Mr. Dunstan.”
The woman, her nameplate pronounced her to be Linda, answered politely, “Good morning. May I take your names please?”
We gave them and she then led us through and out to a private office at the rear of the shop.
“He’s expecting you,” she said. “Go on in.”
Laura nudged me as if expecting me to go in first, but I shook my head and took a step backward.
“Oh no. After you.”
She smirked and pushed open the door. A guy in his late thirties with close cut dark hair and a pleasant but plain face rose from behind his desk. He had the build of a habitual sportsman with broad shoulders and a compact well-toned body.
“Hello,” he said offering his hand and giving us a warm smile. “I thought I heard voices. I’m James Dunstan.”
Laura introduced us both.
“It’s very good of you to come,” he said and led us to a brown leather sofa. “Now how about some coffee?” he asked when we’d sat down.
He indicated one of those sophisticated coffee machines that look like you’d need to go on a course to learn how to operate and a few minutes later we were sipping at steaming hot and remarkably strong cups of espresso.
“Can’t get through the morning without at least three of these,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “Terribly bad for me I know, but I can’t help myself. Now, I have to tell you that I was shocked to hear from Mr. Garstein this morning. I’m still reeling from it now. At first, I couldn’t believe it of Napier. I mean I knew he was ambitious, even a little cold-blooded but I thought he was probably just what the company needed.” His large mobile mouth set in a grim line.
And it was then that I became aware of Laura discreetly giving him the once over. Good for her I thought, but I’m sure she’d said only last night that she was off men for the time being.
James was still talking. “I’ve been blaming myself. I should have kept more of an eye on what was going on.” His eyes clouded as he explained, “I haven’t spent as much time in the office as I should have in the last few months. You see I’ve just gone through a messy divorce and…”
I felt Laura beside me stiffen with interest. A disconsolate divorcee needing a shoulder to cry on, this was the perfect breeding ground for her next big crush.
“My wife walked out six months ago leaving me with our two boys. And it’s been tough juggling everything.”
Laura asked gently, “How old are they?”
“Charlie’s seven and Sam’s nearly five.” His face lit up. “They’re great kids. But these last few months have been difficult for them. They miss their mum. Finding childcare for Sam and cover for the school run for Charlie has been a challenge to say the least and so I have to confess that I’ve rather let things slide here.”
He glanced at Laura who nodded sympathetically. Wanting to distract him before he could move on to the subject of bed-wetting or other symptoms of childhood trauma, I was just about to interrupt when she said in a voice full of warmth and understanding, “Being a father is your most important role and it sounds like you are coping really well.”
James smiled and I noticed then that there was something particularly open and attractive about that smile. It clearly wasn’t wasted upon Laura who was now pulling playfully at a long lock of her hair, which is always a sure sign of interest with her. Here we go I thought. Throw in two motherless children and it was practically a done deal.
“That’s kind of you to say,” he said and looking directly at her asked. “Do you have children?”
She laughed, “No. I’m not married but I love kids.” And then added seamlessly, “I’m single actually.”
As she smiled into his eyes a slight blush crept up her throat. Now that was smooth I thought. I could see James digesting the information. But would he take the bait? We would have to wait and see but I hoped so. There was something very likable about this guy.
There was a slight pause. It was time for me to cut in. “And Simon resigned this morning?”
James gave himself a little shake appearing to remember the reason for our meeting.
“Yes when I came in at eight thirty his desk was cleared, the car was outside, and a letter giving little or no explanation for his sudden departure lay on the mat.”
Laura said, “My firm, Mr. Dunstan, will not be…”
“Call me James please.”
She dimpled. “James, as I said we won’t be pursuing the matter. I think Mr. Garstein informed you of that. We believe that there is nothing to be gained by contacting the original owners of the houses in Bathgate and SouthPark Road. It’s too late now. The properties have changed hands and all it would do is open up a can of worms, which frankly we don’t need. And as for Alwyn Road your company will maintain the instruction and we’ll arrange to get rid of the squatters. In fact I think Mr. Garstein has already contacted the police and put the procedures under way.”
I heard this with relief, glad that Gary would be sent packing and even more so that Melanie and Ted were safely at Tim’s.
“And what about you James?” I asked, remembering my promise. “Are you going to go after Simon? I mean legally that is.”
“There’s no point in getting bogged down for the next couple of years in mountains of red tape,” he grinned and his face seemed no longer in the least plain. “But I do have cause for one area of satisfaction. Napier didn’t give me any notice and so he forfeits his salary for notice period and there is also the small matter of his commission cheque for the last three months.”
He looked across at me with a significant nod. “So, I’d like you to accept this because I understand from Mr. Garstein that it was down to your efforts that all this has come to light.” He pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it to me. “I’ve left the name blank as I didn’t know who to make it payable to.”
I opened the envelope to find a cheque for an amount of money that would take a nice chunk off my credit card bill… but I couldn’t accept it. “You can’t give me this!” I exclaimed.
“Why not?” James asked mildly.
“Look,” I said firmly. “You don’t have to worry that I’m going to blab about what’s happened. Really you don’t have to buy my silence.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” he protested. �
�We’re an independent company, not one of the big chains. Our reputation could have been seriously damaged by this and thanks to you it hasn’t been. So give me one good reason why you shouldn’t have it?”
I thought for a moment but strangely enough nothing sprang to mind. I pocketed the cheque and got to my feet. “Well thanks very much. I didn’t expect payment but I’ll take it.”
“You are very welcome.” And turning to Laura he put out his hand.
She shook it saying shyly, “Well goodbye then.”
James hesitated a moment and then said still holding her hand, “Um. I was wondering if perhaps you’d like to have lunch sometime.” He coloured slightly. “To discuss things you know. Napier. Further business that kind of…”
I smiled to myself. The bait had been well and truly taken and I was genuinely pleased for Laura. It looked like James wasn’t an inconsolable divorcee after all.
“Yes.” Laura’s smile was radiant. “That would be lovely.”
They both appeared to recognise at the same time that their hands were still interlinked and laughingly relinquished their grip.
Once back outside Laura gave a little skip of sheer happiness. Now normally I don’t approve of skipping in anyone over the age of eight and am inclined to make rude remarks to those I catch indulging in the practice, but for once I refrained from comment.
“This is turning out to be a good day,” she said beaming at me.
I couldn’t find fault with that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Laura’s right I thought as I made my way home, it has been a good day, but after everything I’d been through yesterday, what I really wanted, what I really needed and deserved… was a bloody good night. I wanted to get steaming drunk and I wanted to get laid. In that order. Luckily for me, both were in my power to achieve. And I had options. I could ring around some mates and go clubbing and hook up with someone new or I could take up the invitation left by Not-So-Tiny Tim in a message on my mobile.
“A Tuesday is as good a night as any for Melanie and Ted’s house-warming party and so if you can make tonight… and I know you’re not working because I checked the rota… that would be great. About nine… See you later I hope.”
Melanie greeted me with a hug.
“You’re the guest of honour. It’s because of you that we met Tim and then we met Barney and then… oh, and did I tell you that I’ve contacted Kingston College of Art and that I might be able to pick up on one of their courses?” Barely taking a breath she was excited and happy. The pale anxious faced girl that I’d met only a few days before had gone and, as she snuggled under Ted’s protective arm I felt glad that not only were things working out for them, but that I had in a small way contributed to their good fortune.
“It’ll just be a part-time course because I need to find a job and work at least a couple of days a week to bring some money in and…”
“That’s great. Really good news. Good for you,” I said.
“And Ted’s found some evening work at a tapas bar in Raynes Park. And you’re thinking about putting a band together aren’t you?” she smiled up at him.
Ted explained, “Barney might even play the odd session himself, him and his sax. He’s seriously good and must have been even better in his heyday.”
Melanie touched my arm. “I meant what I said about it all starting with you. We really do appreciate your help.”
“Absolutely we do,” added Ted. “But now I think what you probably need is a drink. Go find Tim in the kitchen. He’s making daiquiris.”
As I turned to go, Melanie whispered, “Tim’s really in to you Clarry.”
I made my way down the hall passing a large double sitting room hung with framed posters depicting bands from the seventies and eighties. I spotted Paul Weller’s lean frame and distinctive haircut on an album cover suspended above the fireplace, but I only vaguely recognised some of the other faces. Twenty or so people were talking and drinking and listening to something cool and jazzy and syncopated that was playing. Many of them appeared to be contemporaries of Barney the landlord, but there were a handful who were much younger, and were clearly friends of Tim’s.
I continued past to the kitchen where even over the noise of half a dozen people talking, I could hear the sound of a blender running.
Tim, surrounded by bottles was alternately squeezing fresh limes and hulking strawberries. “Clarry,” he called catching sight of me as he switched off the blender. “Great you’re here. Do you fancy one of these? They’re heavy on the rum but I think I’ve got the sweetness to sharpness ratio right.”
He grinned and pushed back a strand of hair from his face. I’d been right to describe him to Ian as a puppy, I thought. In his six-foot rugby-playing frame there was something discernibly bouncy and playful, not only in his physique, but in his manner too. And I happen to like puppies. But then who doesn’t?
He handed me a drink. “Jerry,” he called to a stocky guy in a polo shirt. “Take over from me will you mate?” And he came and stood in front of me. “You look good,” he said.
“So do you,” I said.
My black dress from last night I’d binned. It wasn’t just that the halter-neck ties had been ripped by Simon; I suppose I could have got it repaired, but I just didn’t want to wear it again. Even cleaned and re-stitched, something dark and menacing might yet linger in its folds and mar any future occasion on which I wore it, the way a bad dream can sometimes seep out and tarnish a new day. So, I’d gone for an old favourite. Clinging and with that secret support that makes you feel like you’re wearing a bandage, it was short and had a zip running down the front.
“I like the zip,” Tim said.
“It goes all the way down,” I said.
“I see that,” he said.
For a moment, the thought crossed my mind that having sex with a co-worker is never really a good idea, but then instantly I dismissed it. We were waiters for god’s sake, not running the country or even a company. And besides I was so in the mood. I took a sip of my drink and coughed.
“Too strong?” Tim asked.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
The option I’d taken proved to be a highly satisfying one. And the nickname Not-So-Tiny, I discovered, was bang on (Ian, I knew, would be delighted to hear that.) It wasn’t going to be anything serious between us; it was just sex. And that was alright with me. Tim was funny and sweet and very eager to please. Eager to please in a whole different way from a puppy.
Around midnight, as Tim lay quietly snoring sprawled upon his back across a bed that wasn’t quite wide enough to accommodate us both comfortably for sleep; I took a long breath out. I’d built up a lot of tension in the last week and now, thanks to Tim’s energy, stamina, and surprisingly proficient touch, I’d just released it in the best way possible… four times. I ran a finger lightly down his spine. Let’s make that five I thought as Tim stirred and looked up at me.
Afterwards, as I padded down a flight of stairs to the bathroom, the realisation came to me that try as I might… and I had tried really really hard, the sound of that unknown woman’s sobbing in the club was still with me and that nothing that Tim and I had done and almost certainly would do again in the morning, could drown it out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I couldn’t sleep. Tim took up a whole lot of space. Gingerly I slipped out of bed doing my best not to wake him, because after that performance, he certainly deserved his rest. I hesitated and looked down at my discarded clothes. I felt I couldn’t just go without leaving a note and so hunted about for something to write on.
His bedroom was a typical young male’s room. Clothes and shoes strewn around, a pot of hair gel balanced on a plate of toast crusts, a pile of rugby and gaming magazines, a laptop and a TV on a desk, but no sign of a pen or paper. I picked up a magazine featuring an article about the British Lions and then rooted aro
und in my bag for a pen. As I did so, my phone fell out on to the carpet. I flicked it on and found that I had been left a voicemail message at 12.17pm from a number that I didn’t recognise.
“Hi Mallory… or whatever your real name is, it’s Paula. I wasn’t going to phone but I reckon I owe you. And anyway, I’m out of here in a minute… I’m catching an early train back home to Dudley.” There was a slight pause before she continued in a low whisper, “I heard one of the twins talking to someone on the phone. The girls, there’s three of them, are being moved tonight. And that’s basically all I know. Except I think more are expected because…”
She broke off and in the background there was the sound of a man’s voice saying something I couldn’t hear. Then the line went dead. I looked at the phone screen. It was nearly one o’ clock in the morning. I glanced across to Tim now lying peacefully on his side and then came to a decision. Yanking on my underwear and wrestling myself into the bandage dress, I scribbled a few lines in the margin of the magazine article, grabbed an oversized denim shirt of Tim’s from the back of a chair, and slipped out of the room.
Swapping my heels for the pair of trainers that I keep in the boot and cramming my hair into my cap, I started up the Renault and headed towards central London. It was only when I’d been driving for about ten minutes however, that I remembered the daiquiris. I had to be over the limit. Damn. Whatever was going on at Knights was happening tonight and even now I might be too late.
Mentally I checked my vital signs. Hands steady on the wheel, vision focused, mind clear – or at least clear-ish. I felt fine and in command of my faculties, but if I was stopped and breathalysed I didn’t think the police would see it that way. What to do? I weighed it up and allowed curiosity and the prickling sense of unease I’d been feeling, to battle it out with common sense. Curiosity won and I drove on.
I reached Waterloo and made my way up Bayliss Road slowing down as I passed the club, but I couldn’t tell if it was still open as the obscured glass and security grilles made for an impenetrable screen. I took the next left and found myself in a wide and dimly lit street overlooked by a tower block on its eastern side.