The Exchange (Mischief Books)

by Williams, Carrie

  ‘OK,’ I said, trying not to sound reluctant. I was interested in the job, but I wasn’t so thrilled that it would mean meeting up with Tatiana. I was uncomfortable with the thought of what I’d done with her boyfriend at Kyle’s the night before, of course, but I was also mistrustful of Tatiana herself. There was something calculating about her – more than a suggestion of ulterior motives to her apparent kindness.

  ‘Great,’ she said faux brightly. ‘What we could do is meet for lunch in Holland Park, and then drop by the boutique and see if Lulu is free for a chat? Or I might actually give her a call now, to check she hasn’t already got anyone and to let her know we’ll be calling in.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. Just let me know where and when.’

  ‘Well, how about Julie’s, at 1 p.m?’

  ‘Fine, I’ll see you there,’ I said, opening my laptop to find out the street name.

  ‘See you there,’ came Tatiana’s voice, and again it struck me that the honey of her tone masked something infinitely less sweet.

  I was just about to put the phone down when she spoke again. ‘Oh Rochelle,’ she said, as if it were an afterthought. ‘Do make sure to dress up in your finest, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, but as I replaced the receiver I was already grimacing, wondering if I was doing the right thing.

  ***

  I walked down to Holland Park, through the hipster throng of Notting Hill Gate itself. I was still getting my bearings, and in such fine weather, it was pleasant to take my time, to breathe in the spring air and ogle the buildings, which got increasingly impressive the further I descended the hill towards Holland Park. On either side of me rose white-fronted mansions bedecked by wrought-iron latticework, and fronted by immaculate gardens. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much they may cost, or who might earn the kind of money to buy and then maintain them.

  I came to the street I needed, took a right off the main drag. Julie’s appeared on my left and I approached the front door a little self-consciously. I had dressed up, but not because Tatiana had virtually ordered me to. The truth was, I loved it, and I knew also that I would feel crappy if this shop she talked about was brimming with gorgeous antique clothing and accessories. There’s nothing worse than shopping somewhere lovely and then catching sight of yourself in a mirror and realising you’re looking daggy.

  I’ve never been a jeans and a sweater type of person. From the earliest age I would sneak upstairs to raid my glamorous maternal grandmother’s wardrobe, to slip on her oversize shoes encrusted with diamanté, to swathe myself in her real-fur stoles. Then I’d sit down in front of her three-mirrored dressing table and dab at my face with her powder-puff before coating my mouth with a slick layer of her lipstick. This was the ’70s, and the colour I remember applying most often was a vibrant orange. I never did my eyes, but I’d dab at her little pots of navy and silver shadows with my fingers and rub them over the backs of my hands to test out the effects.

  That carried on, but while I still love dressing up, I’m not swimming in money, and I party too hard, and sometimes I realise the effect I achieve is more Courtney Love on a bad day than offbeat starlet. Today, however, I was Courtney in Versace: a bit ruffled, but sexily so. I’d teased out my ringlets a bit, and my nude-beige dress, knee-length and covered with appliqué white, pink and scarlet flowers, was actually quite downplayed. My lipstick and eye make-up were correspondingly muted.

  As I walked in, Tatiana gestured from a table. I had to admit it, she looked good, her platinum-blonde hair offset against an expensive white trouser suit. Silver bangles and a heart pendant at her throat twinkled unobtrusively.

  ‘Rochelle,’ she said, standing up and walking around the table to kiss me on both cheeks. Her hands clasped my shoulders firmly, in a gesture I felt was a little territorial. I wriggled free, sat down. She did so too. I busied myself opening and scanning the menu; I knew it was rude, but suddenly I wasn’t in the mood for this. Whatever this may be. And of course I felt pretty shifty about what had happened with Morgan.

  ‘It’s great to see you again,’ she said, leaning across the table and thus forcing me to look up and meet her gaze. ‘What an unexpected pleasure that it be so soon. I’m almost glad my friend cancelled now. Old friends are great, but it’s always nice to make new ones – to extend one’s circle. Don’t you think?’

  On her breath I caught a whiff of wine, and looking down I saw that she had almost downed a large glassful while waiting for me. It wasn’t for me to judge, but I did find that noteworthy given that we’d all been drinking the night before – and also given that I hadn’t arrived late, for once in my life.

  When the waitress appeared by my side, I ordered a sparkling mineral water. I wanted a clear head for the job interview – if that’s what it was going to be. But I also wanted a clear head for this lunch. Something wasn’t quite right, and I needed to have my wits about me.

  Tatiana had fallen silent now, and I became convinced that she was studying me, although I was avoiding looking at her again in favour of the menu. I had a very strong feeling, all of a sudden, that I had fallen into a kind of trap.

  I was just wondering whether to make an excuse and nip out to the street to call Kyle and question him about Tatiana and Morgan, when she spoke again.

  ‘I’m having the red mullet,’ she said. ‘How about you?’

  I’d barely been able to read the menu, my thoughts were so fast and panicky, so I read out the first dish my eyes alighted on and then put the menu down.

  ‘So …’ I said, thinking that it might, after all, be better to cut to the chase and found out exactly what Tatiana wanted of me.

  An almost flirtatious expression spread across her smooth, radiant face. ‘So …’ she echoed, and then she faded away as she waved to someone she’d spotted coming in the door.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘How the devil are you, Roger, my old mucker?’

  A man strolled over, hands in his pockets, a roué’s smile on. ‘Tats, darling!’ he said. ‘You’re looking just fabulous. How’s the old man?’

  ‘Oh, he’s the same old Morgan,’ she said, and as she did so, she turned her head in my direction and winked at me. It was all I could do not to let out a gasp. Was she implying, I wondered, that she knew what had happened between Morgan and me? I remembered seeing, through my drunken haze, her sniffing his fingers as they were about to climb into the taxi outside Kyle’s. I didn’t blush easily, in general, but now I felt my cheeks blaze red.

  As Roger gave me an appreciative glance and then made his way to his own table, I struggled to regain composure. I was convinced, by now, that Tatiana had guessed what had happened at Kyle’s house and that her sole purpose in inviting me here was to humiliate me. There was to be no boutique, no introduction to her friend. It had all been an expensive ruse to lure me out on the pretence of friendship and a favour and then to slap me in the face, whether metaphorically or physically. Tatiana was playing some strange little game in which I may be nothing more than a pawn. Perhaps this was her way of getting her revenge, in slow but sure stages, on Morgan.

  I made my excuses and headed for the loo, through the warren of rooms with their little alcoves and bohemian-chic mash-up of styles – velvet sofas beside church pews, old pulpits next to Indian carvings, and even an old pulpit and some stained glass. In one corner I spotted a pair of famous young actresses from a rom com, one of them jogging her new baby up and down on her knee as she fed herself soup. Further along, another actress, this one in her 60s and currently making a comeback in a popular period costume drama, dined with a much younger man who could have been her son but might also have been her lover.

  In the loo, I leaned against the wall and tried to meditate, to calm my racing heart. I wanted to run out of the door and never see Tatiana again, but our food had been ordered, and I felt bad wasting money and time, no matter whose it was and how badly they squandered it themselves. It just wasn’t in my nature. That was a bone of conten
tion between me and Konrad. It’s not that I denied myself – when I loved something, I generally treated myself, and god knows I had plenty of stuff in my life as evidence of that. But Konrad acted as if money burnt a hole in his pocket, as if it would never stop flowing towards him. Thus far, he was right. But god forbid that the silver river would start to dry up for him – he’d never be able to cope. I on the other hand was in my element in thrift shops and bargain basements.

  The thought of Konrad calmed me, although I don’t think it was so much Konrad himself as the thought of home. I could go back any time I wanted to, I reminded myself. Rachel and I hadn’t signed any contract; we’d made this arrangement casually, and in fact it was she who said that whatever happened in terms of work or any other commitments that either of us made during these six months, if one of us wanted to reclaim their life and apartment, all that was needed was a week’s notice to make the practical arrangements.

  But then I thought of the songwriting course, and of how I had this opportunity to make real change and find my passion. To date, I hadn’t found anything to live for. I was living, but I had never been driven by anything but fun. And suddenly fun didn’t seem like enough.

  I went back to Tatiana, and I forced myself to get through the meal, partly by turning the focus on her and questioning her about her career. It turned out she was semi-retired, now only accepting very special roles. She’d travelled too much, she said, and now she just wanted to be a homebird, enjoying the wealth she’d accrued and making a beautiful home for herself and Morgan.

  ‘You’ll have to come round sometime,’ she said, eyes fast on mine. I felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web. ‘I think you’d find it pretty special. You seem like a woman of taste.’

  I used the compliment, whether it was sincere or not, to turn the conversation to the subject of her friend Lulu, and to glean some information that might put me at an advantage when I met her, and so I navigated us through the potential minefield of the meal. It was a relief to finally get out of the restaurant and to find out that the shop was just around the corner, so that I didn’t have to carry on diverting the conversation from Morgan.

  ***

  Lulu turned out to be an ethereal, slightly distracted woman with silky silver hair and a face twenty years younger than her likely age. Photos of her late actor husband – who I recognised from several movies – covered the wall behind her as she talked to me and explained what she wanted of her new assistant.

  It was hard to concentrate when I was surrounded by so many wonders. I felt like a kid in a sweet shop, and I wanted to run hither and thither, touching the extravagant materials, holding dresses up to my body to parade in front of one of the antique mirrors. It was torture not to be able to do so, but I forced myself to listen attentively to Lulu. It would be marvellous to work here, I kept telling myself – it was quiet, so there’d be plenty of time to look through the clothes and even try them on. And I could read, and surf the net, and listen to music. The hefty price tags meant that when somebody did come in, the till would ring itself silly. There’d be absolutely no pressure – the quality of the clothes meant they’d sell themselves, to those with the money and taste to buy them.

  And how I wished I was one of them. Suddenly I rued my life and its aimlessness, and my lack of any real ambition. I’d always felt that I was above being interested in money, that I was worth more than that. But now I fantasised about being able to just stroll into a place like this and pluck anything I liked from the rails and just buy it, and I thought how sweet money must taste, sometimes.

  I looked at Tatiana. Tatiana acted as if money could buy her anything, and I wondered if by introducing me to Lulu she felt that I would owe her, that I would be at her bidding. Even buying me lunch, I had to admit, gave her some kind of hold over me. Money complicated things. I wished I’d insisted on paying my own share of the bill, but it was too late now.

  Nothing was concluded, but Lulu took my number and told me she’d be in touch. As I shook her hand, she asked Tatiana if she’d like to stay for a pot of tea, and I was grateful to have the opportunity to slip away alone. Thanking them both, I headed out and then along the street. At the end of it, I crossed the main road and followed signs to Holland Park. Walking, I thought, would clear my head.

  When I got there, I felt instantly soothed by the patches of woodland and especially by the serene Japanese garden with its waterfall and koi carp. For a while I was able to just sit still and let my thoughts and emotions wash through me like water. Accepting them but paying them little heed allowed them, I discovered, to flow on and then out of me. I realised with shock that I never sat still and quiet like this. For so long, my life had been about noise and running around, clamour and movement. I’d been like a whirlwind in human form. Everything always had to be busy and complicated and loud. Or so I thought. For the first time I got an inkling that things didn’t have to be that way in order to have value. For the first time I realised that I was looking for peace. The thought made me cry.

  When I was done crying, I stood up and walked home. It was quite a way, and much of it was uphill, but it felt good, both on my leg muscles and on my mind. It was only when I got home and played the message on my machine that I remembered what I’d done before I went to the park – the lunch with Tatiana, and before that the dinner party at Kyle’s. Suddenly real life came flooding back in in all its unfathomable complexity.

  For a moment I thought it might be Lulu, offering me the job. But it wasn’t.

  ‘Rochelle,’ came the familiar saccharine voice. ‘It’s Tats. I know this is short notice again, and I’m sure you’re sick of me already. But … some friends are having a party at that new hotel on Park Lane.’ She paused, clearly for effect. ‘Well, they own it actually.’ She chuckled. ‘Anyway, I’ve told them about you and they’re dying to meet you.’

  I sat down, head in my hands. I so much wanted to say no, but the Pigalle part of me just wouldn’t let me. For so long I’d dreamed of London, and of Park Lane in particular. For so long I’d been obsessed with the filthy rich and what they got up to behind closed doors. I knew it was risky – that I was like a moth to a flame and would almost certainly get burned – but it just wasn’t in me to turn down this opportunity.

  ‘Just for one night,’ I said to myself as I walked over to the clothes rail and began searching through my clothes. Then I thought: to hell with it all, and I grabbed my bag and left the flat. I might have been running out of funds, but Park Lane demanded something very special indeed. And Park Lane also demanded that I treat myself to a little tipple – a half-bottle of champagne – to sip while I got myself ready for the ride.

  As I strode up the road, a strange energy rippled through me, like electricity.

  Chapter 9: Rachel

  I woke up hungover, head beating, mouth parched. My camera was beside the bed, on the floor, and I was fully dressed, on top of the duvet. Moaning, I rolled over and reached for my camera, switched it on and began scrolling through the images. The first few – the latest – were of a topless Konrad, posing for me, dancing, vamping it up. I loved the look in his eyes. He was teasing me, leading me on. The cheeky bossa nova tune he had danced to replayed in my mind, tauntingly:

  ‘I ain’t wid you

  And you ain’t wid me

  And that’s why we can’t

  Touchy touchy.’

  I lay back, still flipping through the images but wondering what would – could – have happened had I stayed. Had I stood a chance, or were the lyrics echoing Konrad’s own thoughts?

  But I hadn’t stayed. I’d taken fright, suddenly, afraid that things were getting out of hand. I didn’t know if Konrad was really flirting with me or just having a laugh, and part of me was afraid to find out. If he was flirting with me, then dare I even go there? I wanted to, but I didn’t think I was worthy. He was out of my league, and while a harmless fling might be just the thing I needed after my long bout of monogamy with Kyle, I was afraid that I m
ight fall hard for Konrad. It was difficult to imagine not going weak at the knees every time I set eyes on him. Sometimes, I thought, it was better that certain things remain out of your reach. Some things are just too hot to handle. And in any case, Konrad was with Rochelle, even if she wasn’t around right now.

  And so I’d finished snapping and then basically fled, not even waiting for the lift in my agitation but running down several flights of stairs, clutching the handrail, knowing that I was stupidly drunk and shouldn’t be tearing around like a lunatic, especially with an expensive camera in tow.

  I didn’t remember getting home or collapsing onto the bed. But here I was, unfresh, in need of a good scrub. I got up and started to run a bath while I brewed up a coffee in the kitchenette. While it percolated, I stripped off my clothes from the previous night and swaddled myself in one of Rochelle’s robes. It wasn’t like my comfy towelling robe at home, which I hadn’t had the space to bring along. It was more of a kimono – silken, with an exotic cherry-blossom motif of pastel greens and pinks. It was cute, but not at all me.

  I took my coffee in the window, looking down onto the street. There was a strange mix of characters in evidence: prostitutes, even at this hour, but also models on their way to castings or shoots, hip young parents pushing buggies, shuffling tramps, and others less immediately classifiable. This wasn’t Soho, but neither was it Bayswater, where I lived. I struggled to think of anywhere that quite matched its vibe in London. It seemed unique and utterly compelling. I decided I’d go out exploring once I’d freshened up.

  But first a bath. I walked towards it, starting to shrug the kimono from my shoulders. As I did, I had a sudden vision of Rochelle falling back on the bed with Konrad’s hands at her shoulders, easing her backwards, slipping the robe from her alabaster skin. Lowering his gorgeous pouty mouth to her shoulders and nibbling at them, peppering them with kisses.