by Louisa Young
Her skin is much better in the sun. Last year I could hardly bear to let her go bare-armed. You could almost see the London filth sneaking into the raw flesh. Two oily baths a day, a layer of vaseline night and morning, special coverings for pillows and mattresses, only cotton clothes, special washing powder, hoovering every day, no carpets in the flat, no artificial food, no cow’s milk or food made with cow’s milk, three different homoeopaths (‘What was her birth like?’ they ask politely for their notes. ‘Any trauma at all?’), a cranial osteopath, a Chinese herbalist and an aloe vera plant, its fleshy leaves torn off, slit open and the pulp applied direct. And no idea if any of it made the slightest bit of difference.
Every night for two years she’d woken at least twice. That made 730 nights she’d slept in my bed, because when a baby is scratching herself fit to weep, and weeping, in the middle of the night, you don’t leave her to do it alone. And I couldn’t stand up all night. And I didn’t fit in her cot. She still wakes every night at five to midnight. Regular as clockwork. If I go out I try to be in by ten to.
When I’d asked her what she wanted for her third birthday she’d said, ‘Dairy products.’
How dare Jim want her.
He’s her father, said a tiny voice. A child needs a father.
Not that kind of father.
Who are you to decide?
Her mother’s big sister. Janie was going to leave him anyway. She was always going to leave him.
But she never did. People do things if they really want to.
She was going to leave him.
Tell that to the judge.
Jim must not know that I am seeing Harry. He knew Harry in the old days, knows his dodginess. He’s dim but he’s not that dim. How does the court find out about whether you’re a good parent or not? What if they find out about all this? I’ve got to make an answer to the lawyers. I wish Neil were back. I hate to be dependent.
A child needs a father.
She’s never asked about a father before. There are enough children in our neighbourhood who have none for it to seem normal. I always thought I’d tell her if she asks. Tell her … what seems right. I can’t bear for her to feel unloved. But why else would he not have been here with her? ‘Your father couldn’t be bothered with you, darling.’ Well the child has a legacy to come to terms with, we all know that. I’ll just keep her safe and try to bring her up strong to deal with it when she has to. There must be a limit to how long I can get away with these amiable generalizations.
She interrupted my musings to sing the Farmer wants a Wife. Oh, and the Wife wants a Child, and the Child wants a Dog, and the Dog wants a Bone. ‘Can we have a dog?’ No, my darling, we can’t. (You’ve already got a dog. A dog of a father. The Dog wants the Child.)
I have to steal a criminal’s most personal documents, baby girl. He keeps a gun in every room and I have to steal his most personal documents otherwise your father will take you away and ruin you like he ruined your mother.
Should I have just accepted the drink-drive thing? I could have told them how it happened. Neil would have stood up for me. I think. In the circumstances. I might have got off.
Well. I didn’t accept it.
Guns kill people, that’s what they’re for. That’s why people have them. If I get killed your grandma will look after you. If I go to prison your grandma will look after you. Your grandma will look after you.
Oh, my God, what am I going to do.
*
I rang Fergus again when we got in. He was out of the office. I left a message. I rang him at home and left a message there too.
*
I dressed nicely for dinner. Chum up means be nice. Following instructions. Cooper must be some kind of fool to think I can do this.
‘And that will probably be it,’ he’d said. Do I trust him? Do I hell. He could carry on wanting things as long as he liked. I considered just failing, not even trying. What would he do? I think he would insist that I try harder. Actually I hate to think what he might do.
If I try, if I succeed, he might leave it at that. I had to try.
Looking at my fairly meagre wardrobe, I wondered what outfit would read ‘dim dippy innocent ignorant girly’ without reading ‘dim dippy innocent ignorant sexually available girly’. I needed a self-adjusting outfit, that went from girly to swift getaway in one easy move. Flat soft shoes, trousers, nice blouse – the green silk, good, it’s clean – not too much cleavage.
Why did he invite me?
Does he remember me?
Ten years on, does a psychopath remember the face of a girl he tried to set on fire?
It was such a mad thing to do. To get a thrill, to risk – what? What did he risk? Well, Ali could have called the police, I suppose. He wasn’t the type to, but would Bates have known that? Ali would always avoid anything that caused ructions or questions. Mr Discreet. Obviously a little cash changing hands at the appropriate moment would be more to his taste than insurance, statements, upset customers. His place was a bit of a male haven: Levantine Lotharios out with the wrong woman, that kind of thing. Smooth it over, brush it away.
I had a sudden and very nasty paranoid delusion that Bates had paid Ali in advance for the privilege of setting me on fire. No. Ali wouldn’t have done it. I’m sure he wouldn’t.
Bates didn’t remember me. He torched me as a dancer, a symbol, a woman in a sexual uniform playing a role. I was not me, to him. I preferred him not to remember me. It made everything easier. Less difficult, at least.
Ten minutes’ yoga breathing, bit of make-up, kiss Lily good night in her bath. ‘You’re a smelly lipstick woman,’ she said, wrinkling up her face.
Why had he invited me?
*
We ate in the dining room on the first floor, but not before we’d spent almost an hour drinking frozen vodka with the mermaid and the dancer. There were just the three of us and it was quite, quite weird. I was too nervous not to drink: I wanted to, for one, and it was obviously the point of the evening anyway. Bates was charm personified. Oozing. Little canapes, refills, cigarettes, lighter, looking into my eyes as he held the lump of malachite up to the tip of my Benson. It was a nasty moment. Flame, and his face.
‘So what do you do, Evangeline?’ he asked, so courteously, leaning back in his Chesterfield, once all my needs had been fulfilled.
‘I’m a writer,’ I said, taking the lead before Harry could say anything. ‘Articles and so on.’
‘How marvellous,’ he purred, like Shere Khan. ‘And what do you write about?’
‘Art and culture, mostly,’ I ad-libbed. ‘I specialize rather in the Arabic and Islamic subjects. I lived in North Africa for a while, travelling about and studying. I spent some time in harems, due to lucky contacts, and I’ve written about that sort of thing too.’
‘How fascinating. And where do you write? Anything that I might have seen?’
‘Well, it’s rather a specialist world, you know,’ I said, praying to God that it wasn’t a world he specialized in. Or knew anything at all about, actually, because there was a limit to how long I could talk if dancing was not a permitted subject. Which it wasn’t. I was not going to jog his memory. Of course he might have set fire to endless women in public places, but you can’t be sure. I knew he hadn’t done it to any of the other belly dancers – not in London anyway. It’s the sort of thing that gets around, you know.
‘Not a world I know anything about,’ he said, as if in answer to my prayers. Too pat? Was he trying to mislead me? Don’t be paranoid. Actually, do be paranoid. ‘But how marvellous, for an English woman. To be so involved in a foreign culture.’
He didn’t take his eyes off me. I got the impression that he was sorry I was wearing trousers. He would have been looking at my legs, that’s for sure. I smiled, like the chummy girl I was being.
‘And what name do you write under,?’
‘Oh, my own,’ I said. ‘Angeline Gower.’
‘Lovely name,’ he said, and we made some pathetically dull small tal
k about why Angeline and not Evangeline, and what names say about people, and so on and so forth. I didn’t say that Eddie Bates sounded like a small-time East End crook. Harry was not contributing.
‘And what’s your business, Eddie?’ I asked. Well, she would, that chummy girl.
‘This and that, this and that. Property, mainly; some restaurants, a bit of development, investments, information technology. Harry here’s motor business, as you know, is my little pet.’
He was very patronizing. Harry didn’t seem to mind. It surprised me. He used to be such a feisty lad. I wondered what had happened to him over the years to change him. I wondered how they had met.
‘So how did you two meet?’ I asked.
‘Ah, well, I knew Harry to be a reliable fellow, so when he came to me with his business proposition I decided to invest in him.’
No. That was all wrong. Harry had never been reliable. A mongoose on speed wouldn’t think that Harry was reliable. And yet the business was making money. Or seemed to be. Perhaps it’s money-laundering. Perhaps – and it made sense – Harry was Eddie’s private tax-loss and launderette. God, Harry. Bought. And you used to be – well, not someone I would ever have imagined to be for sale.
‘And I love the cars, you know. Bit of a little passion of mine really.’
Yes, yes. My mind was starting to race. The burglar alarm’s little red eye was flashing at me from its eyrie up in the cornicing. I was not going to be able to leave a window open in the downstairs loo and sneak back later. I was not to waste time.
‘So how long have you been in business together, then?’ It’s just small talk. Just small talk.
‘It must be more than a year now, Harry, mustn’t it?’ Harry grunted an assent. He’d hardly said a thing. I wished he would.
Only a year. I had thought it had been longer. A year isn’t long to bring a business like that into profit, I wouldn’t have thought.
The blank-eyed girl looked round the door.
‘Come,’ said Bates, with a crocodile smile. ‘Let’s eat.’
*
The food came up in a dumb waiter, and Bates brought the plates over to us. Noblesse oblige hung in the air like cheap scent. God, but we were meant to be honoured. Harry, thank God, perked up with the smoked fish and coriander soup, and made useful with the Pouilly Fume. The Fleurie was breathing gently in the corner: three bottles, all open. The table was laid for three. Clearly we were meant to be getting plastered.
‘Have you seen the Islamic exhibition at the Royal Academy?’ Bates inquired. More small talk? How long is this going to last?
‘Yes, I have,’ I said. ‘It’s marvellous.’ Taking a leaf out of his vocabulary.
‘I’m planning to go soon. Perhaps I could persuade you to go again. I’m sure your expertise would make it far more enriching for me.’
Ah.
The soup went down; the roast duck arrived.
‘In fact, before you go I must take your telephone number. Harry, you don’t mind, do you?’ Harry smiled blandly, and almost giggled. I was beginning to hate him. ‘In fact – Harry, fetch my diary, would you, it’s on the desk.’
I almost flushed when he said the D word. Harry trotted off obediently. Woof woof! What kind of bone does that little dog want?
Bates drew a long slim black book out of the inner pocket of his jacket. ‘Now.’
I gave him the number, and watched as the book slipped back out of reach. I’d have to fuck him to get it at this rate.
‘I’d hate to embarrass our mutual friend,’ he murmured, looking as if nothing would actually give him more pleasure, ‘so I’ll mention now that you are the most beautiful woman I have seen for a while, and your pleasure is my command. I hear you dance.’
Time stood still for a moment. I don’t know if he noticed.
I took a sip from my glass. A crystal flute about a foot tall. Bad move. The vodka was beginning to tell.
‘Oh, did Harry tell you that? Yes, I used to.’ Loosen up. Only thing to do. ‘But I had an accident. You know.’ God, did he? I’d meant to follow up on the least dangerous of the things he’d just said. I had a horrible feeling I was shimmying up an even shakier branch of the conversation tree.
‘Oh, dear,’ he said, all concern. ‘Nothing serious I hope?’
‘It’s just left my leg a little stiff. Dancing isn’t so much fun any more.’ How much had Harry told him?
He was gazing at me. ‘Such beautiful hair,’ he said. ‘Beautiful colour.’
I’m not fucking anyone for Ben Cooper. For my safety. For Lily. I don’t do that.
‘I wish I’d seen you dance,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I can persuade you.’
Harry came back with a fat leather diary.
‘So, how about next week?’ said Bates. ‘Wednesday or Thursday? I’m leaving the country tomorrow night, but just for a few days. I’ll call you when I return. Yes?’ He wrote it in his book.
‘Marvellous,’ I said. Duck and ashes in my mouth.
*
After the creme caramel, the coffee and the petits fours, he moved us into a smaller upstairs sitting room where brandy and cocaine awaited, nicely laid out on a tray. He put me on a sofa and told Harry to take the diary back upstairs ‘and lock it in the drawer like a good fellow’. He had taken off his jacket and left it in the dining room. One out of two ain’t bad. I’d have to go to the loo. As I rose to do so he took my arm, took my waist, stared at what was visible of my cleavage and then put his face very close to mine.
‘You’re not still attached to him, are you?’ he said.
Oh, no. Not at all.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I do look forward to seeing you next week.’
‘So do I,’ I lied.
Harry came back. I went to the loo, via the dining room where I lifted the address book from his jacket pocket and stuffed it down the back of my trousers. I was aware that this was a very stupid thing to do, and I truly believed that I had no choice.
Pray he doesn’t grab my waist again.
I was safe. As if he had realized that he wasn’t going to be fucking me then and there, he seemed suddenly bored with the whole thing. Eddie had a line of coke; Harry declined – actually he had hardly drunk anything either – and so did I.
Harry drove me home. He remained as he had been all evening, silent.
‘What was all that about?’ I asked him.
He grunted. Then as we got to the Bush he said: ‘Sorry. I didn’t realize he was going to do that. Should’ve guessed. Sorry.’
‘Well, it’s not your fault. But it was quite hard work.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Harry – does he know that I was a belly dancer?’
‘I don’t know. Why? I haven’t told him, anyway.’
‘Don’t tell him.’
‘All right. Why not?’
‘Some men get funny about it. You remember.’
He remembered.
I kissed him on the cheek and ran upstairs to my real life.
NINE
Lunch with Harry
The next morning was bright and warm and the world looked cleaner than it had for days. Three paracetamol and a pint of water last night had kept my head reasonably clear. Lily woke me in mid-conversation with herself about peacocks. I threw back the duvet with something not a million miles from elation, ambled into the kitchen to put her egg on to boil, and called Ben Cooper at home.
‘Fifty per cent success,’ I said. ‘Come and get it. Now. Then I never want to see you again. Ever. All right?’ I felt almost fond of him. It was over.
Then Harry rang, and said was I free for lunch? He sounded like himself again. He’d been like a different man with Bates the night before. Two-man Harry. One the one I’d known and loved; the other a reliable little crooked errand boy with no mind of his own. Yuck.
I thought no but I said yes. Lunch just for lunch. No invisible strings.
*
Cooper arrived as I got back from taking Lily to school. He was looking
chipper, like one of those pink people who live in Spain and call themselves Brits. He peered into the cupboard that passes for my study as he came down the hall, fish-eyeing the print of Jean-Léon Gérôme’s Dance of the Almeh on the wall.
‘Tasty,’ he said. ‘Reminds me of you.’ If I’d thought that he could make out the dancer’s nipples (which are indeed visible if you look closely) I would have kicked him. It is irritating in later life how many men have seen you half naked.
I gave him the address book and didn’t offer him coffee, though it was there on the stove. He sat down anyway, and admired the fading peonies on the kitchen table. I could see him taking in Lily’s pictures on the walls: egg people and rainbows, with her name written in the corner in big round nursery school teacher’s handwriting. The bottle of vodka was still there on the side from the night it all began, and beside it a cheque for three hundred quid that had arrived that morning from an ad agency I’d done some harem-style styling for.
‘Nice place,’ he said.
I may have been in a good mood but I wasn’t getting into that.
‘Here’s the book,’ I said.
‘Nice life,’ he said, looking round. I don’t know why I felt vaguely threatened. No one ever appreciates how hard everybody has to work to keep their own little dream-home fantasies going. I didn’t like Cooper being here in the middle of mine. I shouldn’t have told him to come here. He was like a little lump of pollution in the middle of my carefully clean and airy world. My enderun. He seemed to seep nastiness.
‘Only one I have,’ I said. ‘Mustn’t grumble. But I’ve got a lot to catch up with, so you won’t mind if I just …’ I started to wipe the table right where he was sitting.
‘Where’s the diary?’ he said.
‘Locked in a drawer in the study,’ I said.
‘Should’ve got both.’
‘I tried.’
‘Didn’t succeed, though, did you? And getting the one, now you’ll have made him suspicious. And any luck with the computer?’
‘I didn’t even see one. I was there for dinner, you know, not as his secretary.’
‘Silly,’ he said.
He looked at me. I looked at him.