by Lisa Jewell
“Why that job?”
“I dunno, really. I’ve never thought about it, particularly. It just seemed like a nice job. You know—the isolation, the nice car, the smart uniform. I felt like I was damaged goods, and it just seemed to fit me, as a job. It seemed to be the right sort of job for a reformed character. It made me feel like Robert De Niro actually,” he grinned, “especially when I was driving around at night, through the city. It can be a very romantic job sometimes, you know.
“Bee used to say it was the best feeling in the whole world, being driven around the streets of London in the back of my car, music playing, not having to speak, not having to do anything. Just sitting there watching the world go by, thinking her own thoughts. She used to say that London always seemed like a film when she was in my car, like a beautiful dream, and all the people on the streets looked like actors—it was like having a layer of insulation between her idea of what life should feel like and what it actually felt like. There were never any disappointments in the back of my car, that’s what she always used to say. . . .”
He fell silent for a moment and fiddled with a coaster.
“D’you miss her?”
“Every second of every day.” His voice stayed steady but Ana noticed a film of tears spring to his eyes. He cleared his throat and took an abrupt sip of his lager.
“Tell me about when you first met her. Tell me what she was like.”
Flint craned his neck again to view the clock in the bar. “How are we doing on that half hour?” he said jokingly.
“Plenty of time,” said Ana. “We’ve only done half of it.”
“Well—according to Bee, the first time we met was when I picked her up from the airport after she’d been in Germany. But I think that was another driver. She had a terrible memory, that woman. The first real memory I’ve got of Bee, though, was this day when I had to take her to the dentist. That woman, I tell you, that woman was just obsessed with her fucking teeth. It was unreal. I swear to God half her fortune ended up in the pockets of nice Jewish men in Harley Street. She said she had toothache, so I drove her over there and two hours later she comes out and she’s all wobbly and all over the place. The dentist had only taken her fucking wisdom teeth out while she was sitting in the chair.” He winced. “Her face was all puffed up down this side and she could hardly talk and there was all this drool”—he demonstrated it with his fingers on his chin—“pouring down her chin. So there’s this tiny little woman wearing a black leather trench coat and black shiny boots, with her boobs hanging out of this tight corset thing, with her face all fat and swollen with drool all over her chin. And then she started crying, too, so there was mascara running all down her face, and she’s going”—he spoke affectedly—” ‘oh Flint, I hurt, Flint, I hurt so much I want to die,’ just on and on and on and on, like a scratched record. So eventually I stopped the car and I turned around and I said, What the bloody hell do you want me to do about it? And she sits there looking all shocked like I’ve just slapped her or something—all hurt and injured. And then she pulls herself up, like this, trying to make herself look tall, and she says, I’ll tell you what you can do about it, Flint. You can take me into that bar over there and buy me eight thousand fucking margaritas and stay with me until I’ve drunk them all. OK?
“And we both just stopped, then, and she stared at me until I couldn’t stand it for another second. And I said, Can I laugh at you now? And she just looked at me all sniffy and serious and said, Yes, you may laugh at me now. And I tell you what—I just lost the plot—totally. I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard before or since.
“So anyway, we walked into this bar, and I knew what we must have looked like to other people—this big bloke with a scar on his cheek holding up this tiny beat-up little woman in head-to-toe leather who’s so woozy she can’t walk in a straight line. So, of course, everyone just stared at us, and I tell you what—that was the moment when I knew that Bee was special, that I wanted to get to know her. She was this famous pop star and she honestly didn’t give a fuck about people seeing her looking like a crackhead whore. All the money that her label invested into creating and maintaining her image and she didn’t give a flying fuck. I loved that. . . .
“So. We stayed in that bar all afternoon, and she wanted to know all about me—my family, my childhood, my girlfriend, my hopes and dreams. She was so easy to talk to, that woman, so excited by people and life and all the . . . I don’t know—all the little stuff. She liked detail. Not that she’d ever remember any of it afterward.” He smiled. “You could never just tell her that you’d met a girl in a bar and gone to bed with her. It would be, What bar? Who spoke first? What were you drinking? Whose place? What color sheets? What fucking color was her fucking bush? She honestly asked me that once. . . .” He laughed and then fell silent, staring at the grubby pattern on the carpet. “Fuck. I’m going to miss her. I’m going to miss her so much. Still,” he said, snapping out of his reverie, “we’re breaking the rules here, aren’t we? We weren’t supposed to be talking about Bee. And—oh look—my half hour’s up. Time to get another round in. Same again?”
At eleven o’clock, Ana and Flint spilled from the pub and into the slightly chilly outside air. Flint had offered Ana his sofa for the night, but she’d declined, and they were now waiting for a cab to take her back to Ladbroke Grove.
“So,” said Flint, “tomorrow. Daytime. We’ll do some research, yeah? Maybe I’ll come over to Gill’s—she’s got the Internet, hasn’t she?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve got a job tomorrow night, but you could always come out with me if you fancied it?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean sit up front with me, in the passenger seat.”
“But—won’t your client mind?”
“Nah. They won’t even know you’re there. And besides—it’s my car. I can have whoever the fuck I want in it.”
“OK. Maybe.” Ana didn’t want Flint to think she was leeching onto him. “But definitely, tomorrow, research.”
“OK. I’ll phone you. Tomorrow. Yeah?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
“Good. Well—it’s been an experience, hasn’t it?”
“God—that’s an understatement. Sunday morning feels like years ago now, doesn’t it?”
“Uh-huh. Oh look—cab.” Flint strode out into the street with one large arm held aloft. It pulled up beside him and he gave the address.
“So,” he said, handing Ana into the cab, “see you tomorrow. And sleep tight.” He closed the door on her and leaned into the open window. “And thank you.”
“What for?” laughed Ana.
“For being such great company. I’ve had a really good night.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really.” He stepped onto the sidewalk and started to walk away, but Ana felt suddenly compelled to ask him something. “Flint?” she called out, gripping the edge of the open window.
“Yes, sweetheart,” he said, turning back to her.
“Were you . . . were you ever in love with Bee?”
He laughed. “No,” he said, “no. I’ve never been in love with anybody.”
And then, before Ana had a chance to check the expression on Flint’s face as he said it, the cab pulled away and bore her homeward. And as the cab drove on, Ana wondered to herself how anyone who was friends with a man like Flint could ever possibly want to kill themselves when all they’d have to do, she was sure, was phone him and talk to him and everything in the world would be just fine. . . .
twenty-nine
“That’ll be 18.60, please, love.”
Ana’s eyes boggled slightly, but she pulled out her purse anyway and took out a twenty-pound note. “Bloody hell,” she said under her breath as she got out and walked toward the house. Twenty quid! For a cab ride. This city really was a rip-off.
As Ana regarded the little house on Latimer Road, she suddenly felt
like she’d been gone forever. And in a strange, heartwarming way, it almost felt like home. She picked up her knapsack and made her way inside. Once again, all was in darkness. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a couple of big glasses of water to thin out all the whiskey she’d drunk and then found, much to her delight, a couple of plates of yummy things in the fridge—party food, little sausages, terriney-salmony things, bits of battered fish. In the dishwasher were a few used champagne glasses and in the trash lots of empty crisp wrappers and hummus pots. Gill must have had some people round. And, in true Gill style, had cleared away every last crumb and wrapping. She grabbed a couple of nibbly things and took them upstairs. And, almost like a déjà vu, as she grabbed the handle of her bedroom door, she could hear groaning. And grunting. And slapping. And moaning. And giggling. Lots of giggling. No, thought Ana, no way. She couldn’t be. Not again. And surely not on a Monday night.
She let herself silently into her bedroom and breathed a huge sigh of relief as she let her knapsack fall to the floor and flopped onto her futon. She felt utterly exhausted, mentally and physically. She felt like every last drop of energy she’d ever<?# “every”#> possessed had been wrung out of her, like she’d never be able to stand up again. And she really wanted a bath—she hadn’t had a bath since last week, since Torrington. She wanted to run herself a huge, steaming, foamy bath and lock the door and read her serial-killers book and not get out until she’d turned into a prune. But she couldn’t. Because she was living in a house with a nympho, and she was too scared to open her bedroom door for fear of who she might find herself bumping into.
Slowly and painfully she started to peel off the clothes she felt like she’d been wearing for three years, and she had her top halfway over her head when she heard a gentle knock at her door. Her heart stopped beating for a millisecond.
“Yes,” she said cautiously.
“Ana—it’s Gill, can I come in?”
Oh God, thought Ana, oh no. What does she want?
“Yeah,” she said, slipping her top back on, “sure.”
The door creaked open slowly and Gill crept in.
“Oh,” said Ana, jumping slightly and clutching her chest. Gill was wearing nothing but a pair of purple satin knickers and a matching bra, with one strap hanging off her shoulder and the majority of her breast on display. There was gingery lipstick streaked all over her face and bits of paper streamer in her hair. And she hadn’t, Ana couldn’t help but notice, done her bikini line.
“Hi,” she smiled crookedly, lurching a bit from side to side, “I heard you coming in and I just thought I’d see how you were.”
“Oh,” said Ana, covering half her face with a hand and feeling unbelievably claustrophobic, “oh, I’m fine. Really—fine.”
“Good. I’ve been a wee bit worried about you.”
“Oh. You didn’t need to worry. I’ve been—”
“You shoulda been here earlier on, Ana—you missed a hoot.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah—I had a hen night here, for my friend Cathy. It was hilarious. We had a stripper and everything. You’d have loved it.”
“Oh. Yes. That is a shame. . . .”
“And how wuz Broadstairs? Did you find anything interesting?”
“Yeah,” began Ana, realizing immediately that this response would only lead to a full-length conversation, the prospect of which, in the current circumstances, she couldn’t quite stomach. “Well—sort of. Not really. No . . .” She shook her head dismissively. “You know . . .” She petered out.
“Oh well,” slurred Gill, “it was worth trying, I guess. And how was the delicious Flint?” she asked in a innuendo-laden voice accompanied by a grotesque wink.
“What do you mean?”
“Feisty Flint?” she giggled. “Did he behave himself?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on—you know what I mean. Did he try to—you know?”
“What?”
“To get into your knickers, of course.”
“No!” snapped Ana. “Of course he didn’t. Look,” she said, “what exactly is it with Flint? I mean, why are you and Lol so mean about him?”
“Och—we’re not mean about him. We’re just teasing, that’s all.”
“Yeah—but why? He seems perfectly all right to me.”
“Yes. But that’s exactly it. He seems ever so nice. But he’s not. He’s a complete tart.”
“A tart?”
“Och. A right old slapper. He’ll screw anything that moves.”
“Flint?”
“ ’Course Flint. If it’s got a pulse and a hole—he’s in there. And actually, it doesn’t even need to have a pulse. Just a hole will do.”
Ana face crumpled with confusion.
“We’ve all had him, you know.”
“Sorry?”
“Flint. All of us. Me. Cathy. Lol.”
“Lol?”
“Uh-huh—and Bee.”
Ana suddenly felt like she’d been kicked in the chest by a draft horse. She gulped as an image of a tiny Bee writhing around under a huge naked Flint flashed through her mind. “No . . .” she managed to croak.
“Aye.”
“But—I mean—how do you know?”
“Cuz she told me, silly. That’s what girls do, isn’t it? Talk about stuff. Yeah. Bee and Flint had their moments. D’you see what I mean now? Keep away from Flint. You’re a nice girl and he’ll take advantage of you if you let him. . . .”
“Well,” said Ana sniffily, regaining her composure, “I’ve got no intention of letting him do anything. I’m really not interested in him in that way.”
“Good,” said Gill, finally realizing her bra strap was hanging down and snapping it back onto her shoulder, “that’s good. But I tell you what—if you want a nice, no-strings shag, you could do a lot worse than Flintypoos. He’s fucking great in the sack. And his bits are all in proportion, if you get my drift.”
A click from across the hallway drew their attention away from Flint’s proportions and toward Gill’s bedroom.
“Oh, Lloyd, sorry. I was just talking to my lodger.” In the doorway stood a black guy. He had small dreadlocks, a long face, and quite thin legs. “Lloyd—this is Ana—Ana—this is Lloyd.” They both smiled politely at each other and said “Hi.”
“Lloyd was our stripper tonight.” She turned and grinned at him saucily. “But I’ve kidnapped him, see. Kept him all for myself. Anyway—I’ll let you get to bed now. You must be knackered.” She rose to her tiptoes and left another big wet kiss on Ana’s cheek. “You sleep tight now.”
“Yeah,” said Ana, trying to wipe the wet kiss away surreptitiously, “yeah. You too.” She was just about to close the door, when Gill suddenly turned around again.
“Ooh,” she said, “I nearly forgot to tell you. Your mother called.”
“Oh God—when? What did she want?”
“Oh, she just wanted your address. She said she had some mail to forward to you. She’s ever so nice, your mother, isn’t she? Really friendly. Anyway. I’ve got sex on a stick waiting for me next door. N’night.”
She waved at Ana and closed the door behind her, and Ana collapsed onto her bed in a state of total and utter shock. What was her mother up to? This “having some mail to forward” thing sounded highly suspicious—Ana didn’t get any mail. And Flint. Jesus. Horrible. He just didn’t feel like . . . Flint anymore. He didn’t feel like a protector, he felt like a predator. He’d had sex with pretty much everyone Ana had met since she’d arrived in London. He’d had sex with Bee. And he’d lied to her. Told her that Bee was asexual. What else had he lied about or omitted to tell her?
She pulled off her clothes, pulled back her duvet, and fell into a deep and instantaneous sleep.
thirty
Flint awoke at nine the next morning feeling strangely energized. Which was weird, because he usually woke up feeling like a n
inety-year-old man with emphysema.
He made himself a cup of mint tea and a bowl of cereal, picked up the paper from his doormat, and made his way out to the garden, where he sat in his armchair in his boxer shorts and soaked up a few early morning rays. He looked ahead of him at the stool he’d brought out for Ana to sit on last night. It was still where she’d left it, directly opposite him, her empty lager can sitting on the ground next to it, and he could almost see her sitting on it—all hunched and awkward, her legs all twisted around themselves, picking at her fingernails, covering her face with her hands every few seconds, blushing constantly. He smiled to himself at the image.
He was just about to bring a spoonful of cereal to his lips, when something hit him on the back of his neck. Something wet and cold and heavy. He looked up for a large bird but couldn’t see anything. He put his bowl down on the grass and gingerly put a hand out to his neck. He prodded a bit and cringed. There was something there. Something squidgy and wet and disgusting. He grimaced and very, very gently picked the thing up between two fingernails. It was a large lump of wet pink toilet paper. And at the same moment he worked out what it was, another large lump landed on the grass at his feet and he heard the snorty sounds of stifled laughter. He looked up again. Two small faces in the top-floor flat disappeared.
“I saw you, you little fuckers,” he yelled.
More snorty laughing noises.
Flint decided to play along with them. He pretended to go back to reading his paper and eating his cereal. And sure enough, within a few seconds two little heads had appeared at the top window, one little hand clutching another blob of wet paper. Flint immediately leapt from his seat, took two giant strides backward, and lobbed his missile at them. It hit the smallest boy square in the face before dropping off and onto the windowsill below.
The two boys stopped smirking and started grimacing.