Beautiful Creatures

by Lulu Taylor

14

  By the end of the second week of her art course, Flora had grown in confidence. There were only a dozen people on it, and most of them were content to keep themselves to themselves. The studio was always quiet: not in a cold, frigid way but with a sense of keen industriousness. Occasionally Peter put music on, and there were lessons on watercolour technique and practical tips, but mostly they worked away on their own, painting whatever display he had set up for them. Flora said hello and goodbye to the other students, but at lunchtime went away on her own with a book to eat the sandwiches that the cook had made for her. No one knew who she was, and she was careful to look as anonymous as possible. One of the younger students from the neighbouring gilding class asked one day if he’d seen her in the papers, but she’d shaken her head and stammered out that he was mistaken then hurried off.

  It must have been Octavia, she thought, dashing into her classroom. Octavia had said that photographers were beginning to pop out at odd times and take her picture when she was hanging out with her new friends.

  Once she was in the safety of the studio, Flora forgot everything else. She loved the work and could see that her technique was improving every day. Peter was encouraging and told her she had a good eye, particularly for colour, which made her feel ridiculously happy. When he saw some of her doodles and scribbles on an art pad, he gave her a book on design which he thought she might find interesting.

  The season was definitely changing, Flora thought as she stood outside the art school, waiting for Steve to arrive. The summer warmth had vanished and the first chill of autumn was in the air. She pulled her jacket round her a little more tightly and looked down the road, wondering when the car would arrive.

  Perhaps I’ll walk, she thought. After all, she’d seen the route often enough and it didn’t take so long in the car. The classes were helping her to find a bit more confidence about being outside the house. How hard can it be to get home?

  She pulled out her phone and sent a text to Vicky. Tell Steve no need to pick me up. I’ll walk home.

  Then she set off along the street, heading in the direction she remembered him driving, and was soon lost in her thoughts, imagining how she would work on her still life the following day. She didn’t know how long she’d been walking when she suddenly realised that she didn’t know where she was. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, she thought, looking about her. Her surroundings looked very unfamiliar. Instead of leafy streets and gracious brick houses, she was in a rougher area. She could see tower blocks nearby and hear the rumble of heavy traffic that meant she must be near a main road or a flyover.

  Don’t panic, she told herself firmly. Just look about for a road name or something. She could see street signs, but they all told her where to find other, unfamiliar places, not where she was. A shiver of fear crept over her. I don’t know where I am, she thought. I must call Steve. But she couldn’t tell him where she was. How would he get to her? I’ve got to find out where I am! No one will be able to find me until I know that. She gulped, trying to control her breathing, but her heart was starting to pound and the first feelings of sick panic were uncurling in her stomach.

  I’ll keep walking. I’ll ask someone. She carried on along the street, aware that it was getting darker. A man came striding towards her and she resolved to ask him where she was, but as he got closer, she lost her courage and couldn’t speak. A taxi came past, its golden ‘For Hire’ light glowing like a beacon. She tried to put her arm up and summon it, but fear gripped her again. The sight of the strange driver, a hulking dark shadow behind the wheel, terrified her and she couldn’t move. As soon as the cab had gone past, she let out a shuddering breath. You idiot, don’t be so stupid. You’ll have to get the next one. But no more came.

  Flora kept walking, feeling more and more possessed by fear. She could tell that she was beginning to sink into an autopilot state, but there was nothing she could do to stop herself.

  She came to a large interchange and found herself walking under a bridge. There was a thundering noise as a lorry rolled by overhead. Flora put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, unable to stop herself from moaning. She felt the rumbling fade away and slowly opened her eyes.

  Then she drew in a sharp frightened breath. A group of three men were blocking the way. It was as though they’d appeared from nowhere, two white boys and a black one, all with close-shaven heads, street clothes and trainers – and menace glittering in their eyes.

  ‘What have we here?’ sneered one, looking her up and down. ‘It’s a princess, guys. A real-life princess.’

  Flora couldn’t speak. Her heart was hammering away hard in her chest and her stomach was clenched with terror.

  The first one, obviously the leader, began to circle her, getting closer each time. His sharp eyes picked out her jewellery and watch. ‘You must be a princess. That’s a Rolex, innit?’

  The other two advanced as well. All three of them were now close to her and she could feel her breathing speed up.

  The leader came nearer still and put his mouth almost against her ear. She tried not to sob. ‘You must be rich. Where’s your money, princess?’

  She fumbled with her bag and pulled out a £10 note, the only cash she had. ‘Here,’ she said breathlessly. ‘T-t-t-take it.’

  ‘Ten quid?’ said one of the others with a sneer. ‘Is that it? Where’s your credit card?’ He reached out a hand and pulled at the glittering stud in her ear. ‘Are these real diamonds?’

  Flora had no idea there were any other kind so she said nothing.

  The leader laughed. ‘Come on, Your Highness, I think we’re going to borrow your crown jewels, if you don’t mind. Give us your bag. Where’s your fuckin’ phone?’ He snatched at her bag while one of the others went for her earring, tearing at her earlobe, and the third scrabbled with her wrist, trying to get the watch off.

  Flora squealed with pain and fear.

  ‘Shut the fuck up! You can spare it, you fuckin’ bitch!’ hissed the leader, rifling in her bag for her phone and wallet.

  ‘Halt!’ cried a terrible voice. All three of them stopped and turned to stare. A man stood only a few metres away, smart in a three-piece suit and carrying a dark walking stick with a bone-handled top. He was staring at them, eyes flashing. ‘Stop that at once! Leave this lady alone, I command you.’ His accent was German but his English was perfectly phrased.

  Flora stared at him, confused. Who was he?

  ‘You command us?’ sneered the leader. ‘You’re a fuckin’ wanker. Come on, boys.’ He turned to face the man with a swagger. ‘We can take you in about thirty seconds, you tosser.’

  The man’s eyes glittered. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. There was a flash and his cane transformed itself into a sword, its long thin rapier blade shining in the darkness. He made one or two swift thrusts and it sliced the air with a hissing noise.

  ‘He’s got a fucking blade!’ cried one of the boys.

  ‘And I will not hesitate to use it,’ declared the man. He took a step forward and, with one swift movement, sliced open the front of the leader’s tee-shirt from top to bottom.

  ‘Fuck!’ he snarled, furious. ‘I ought to kill you for that.’

  ‘You are welcome to try, my friend,’ said the man politely.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ begged one of the others, tugging at the leader’s arm. He glowered back ferociously at Flora’s rescuer but a moment later allowed himself to be pulled away, and the gang of three disappeared into the darkness.

  The Good Samaritan put the blade back in its sheath so that it was a walking stick again, and advanced on Flora. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ he asked gently.

  The adrenaline began to melt away. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘I’m f-f-fine. They didn’t hurt me.’

  ‘You were lucky I happened to be passing.’ He looked at her with a half smile on his face. ‘You have to be very careful, walking about these parts on your own, especially when you are wearing
expensive trinkets.’

  ‘I g-g-got lost,’ Flora said. She was trembling with the aftershock. ‘They’ve t-t-taken my bag. It’s got my phone in it, my m-m-money …’

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I will make sure you get home. Now, let’s get away from here just in case those men take it into their heads to come back with some friends.’

  He led her out from under the bridge. A few moments later he had hailed a cab and they were sitting inside it together. Flora told him her address and soon they were heading towards Chelsea.

  ‘You must report the thefts as soon as possible,’ the man said. His accent was barely noticeable, except for a slight sibilance on ‘th’, and his language was a little more formal than a native speaker’s. ‘Especially if you had bank cards in your purse.’

  Flora nodded, remembering her credit card in its pale green case. ‘I w-w-will.’

  ‘Good. And promise me you will not walk alone in such a place again!’ He smiled. He had a warm, friendly face, she noticed. His eyes were light brown with creases at the corners, and his hair was also a soft, honey brown, thick and with a wave in it. His bottom lip protruded slightly beneath a long straight nose.

  ‘Do you always c-c-carry a sword?’ she asked.

  He laughed, his eyes merry for a moment. ‘Of course! I know it is not strictly legal to do so, but a man must be prepared to defend himself – only if he is attacked, you understand. The world is a dangerous place, as you’ve just found out. Ah, here we are at your address.’

  The cab stopped and he leapt out, helping Flora from the taxi. ‘Will you be all right now?’ he asked.

  ‘Y-Y-Yes, thank you so much,’ she said gratefully.

  ‘You’re very welcome. Goodbye, my dear, and don’t forget to report the theft.’

  ‘I won’t.’ She watched him climb back into the taxi and wave at her through the window, smiling broadly, as the cab pulled away.

  The front door opened and Vicky came out, her face anxious. ‘Flora! Thank God! Where have you been? We expected you ages ago, and you’re not answering your phone. Steve is out driving the streets, looking for you.’ She stared after the vanishing taxi. ‘Who was that man you were with?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Flora said, staring down the street after the cab. ‘I completely forgot to ask.’

  15

  Amanda Radcliffe was in her office on the sixth floor of Noble’s, the distinguished store founded by her great-great-grandfather Sir William Noble. The huge emporium sat squarely in the middle of London’s West End, a stunning building constructed in the nineteenth century in the Tudor style, its white plaster and timber-work occupying the whole corner of two streets. The beautiful interior was firmly in the Arts and Crafts tradition, with polished wooden panelling, carved staircases and even fireplaces. The oak and teak that made such a glowing, warm framework had all come from two decommissioned men-of-war, the HMS Augustus and the HMS Succour, and the great curved pieces of hull created a wonderful central atrium that extended upwards through the entire six storeys of the building as far as the glass cupola on the top of it.

  The whole marvellous store was a testament to William Noble’s ambition and drive. His first small shop selling fabrics had been founded on this site, and as it had prospered he’d acquired more and more property to either side. He had then decided to build something that would remain true to his design ideals of beauty and style, as well as creating an oasis of charm and tradition among the tall, classical Regency buildings that surrounded it. They all had rows of matching sash windows, marble floors, chandeliers and Neo-classical plasterwork. Noble’s semed to be from an older page in history, with its leaded casements adorned with painted glass, red-tiled gables, high octagonal brick chimneys and the famous wind vane sitting on top of them, a model of the Mayflower in gilded copper that looked tiny from the street but was in fact over four feet tall.

  Inside, the atmosphere was intimate, almost homely, but with an impressive use of expensive materials. The woodwork was hand-carved and all in keeping with the faux-Tudor design, from the fat balustrades of the atrium well to the screens between the different galleries housing the separate departments. The polished wooden floorboards were all original deck timbers taken from the old ships. In the Great Gallery were additional heraldic touches with the carved and painted arms of the Tudor monarchs and the great poets of Elizabethan times: Sidney, Jonson, Bacon, Herbert and Shakespeare.

  It was quite an accomplishment for a boy originally born above a draper’s shop in Wiltshire. He had told a friend once: ‘If only I had my own shop, I could change the whole look of fashion and decoration,’ and when he finally created the most extraordinary store in London, he was as good as his word.

  Since then Noble’s had become a byword for beautiful fabrics, covetable dresses, fashionable furniture and gorgeous rugs plus all manner of fitments for the best houses. Royal warrants were mounted on the white exterior of the building, though they were now, perhaps, looking a little shabby.

  Amanda scrolled down on her screen, looking through the catalogue of offerings from a small fashion house. They were sending her tasters of their spring range for the following year, via an impressively crafted web campaign that led her through their accessories and clothes as though she were walking through her own, very stylish movie.

  ‘Clever,’ she said aloud. ‘Very smart. And I like their stuff. But I don’t think it’s right for us.’

  After all, ‘traditional’ was Noble’s signature word. It was as if here style had reached its apogee in the nineteenth century, and everything since was considered vulgar, just a passing fad that couldn’t hope to match the established and indisputable good taste of Noble’s, whose floral prints had been bestsellers for one hundred and fifty years.

  Just then her assistant knocked on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ said Amanda, turning to face her.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’ She frowned. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  An invisible hand pushed the door hard so that it swung open into Amanda’s office and revealed Gerry Harbord standing on the threshold.

  ‘Amanda my darling,’ he cried, ‘up here in your adorable little garret! So sweet.’

  ‘Gerry,’ she answered coolly, standing up. ‘To what do I owe this honour? That’s all right, Jenny, you can go.’

  Her apologetic-looking assistant pulled the door to.

  ‘Just coffee for me, Jenny angel, thank you,’ Gerry sang out before she was quite out of the room.

  ‘Are you staying long enough?’ Amanda asked, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘I hope so, I’m desperate.’ Gerry came in and sat down in the carved wooden chair opposite her desk. He was wearing bright yellow trousers from Topman, an orange shirt and a white blazer with orange piping, along with white winkle-picker shoes. ‘Look at this.’ He held up a plastic bag in Noble’s signature dark green, with the shop name picked out in coppery-gold plain font. From the bag he pulled out a magenta feather boa. ‘See what I found in your haberdashery department? I had to push aside a horde of old ladies as they pored over embroidery kits and disgusting brass buttons, but there are always treasures where you least expect them, aren’t there? I must come to Noble’s more often. I’d quite forgotten about it.’

  Amanda gritted her teeth slightly. ‘What is the reason for your visit, Gerry? I am working, you know.’

  ‘Of course I know! And it’s very impressive! Everybody thinks it’s simply marvellous the way you work when you really don’t need to. But then, this place is so handy for the shops, isn’t it? I imagine you can just pop out and get whatever you can’t find here.’

  Amanda took a deep breath as though she were trying to keep calm then said in a level voice, ‘Please get to the point.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Now, I haven’t seen you since the ball at Templeton House, have I?’ Gerry said, stuffing his boa back into its bag.

  Amanda felt a flush suff
use her face. She didn’t like to be reminded of that night. It had been a horrible humiliation, the worst night of her life practically. ‘No, I don’t think we have seen each other,’ she said, trying to sound insouciant.

  ‘So you have no idea how fuming I am.’ Gerry made a little pout with his lips and frowned.

  The door opened and Jenny came in with a tray. She put down two cups of coffee and left discreetly.

  ‘Thanks, Jenny,’ Amanda said. ‘Here you are, Gerry.’

  ‘Oh, nectar, thank you.’ He took up a cup and looked at it. ‘Very pretty.’

  ‘From our homeware department.’

  ‘I guessed. It looks like something I see in my Great Aunt Susan’s retirement home.’

  Amanda felt a rush of annoyance. ‘If you’ve just come here to insult me and my family’s business, you can piss off!’

  He held up a placatory hand. ‘Sorry, sorry, you know me, I can’t help teasing.’

  Amanda looked at her watch. ‘I’m serious, Gerry, you have two more minutes. After that, if you won’t leave, I will.’

  He put his cup down and leant towards her, his eyes suddenly hard. ‘Do you know how much that ball cost me? All right, I won’t pretend I don’t get a lot of things at trade prices and discounts, but even so it was a hefty sum … and I did it all for that ungrateful little hoyden, that madam! I gave her so much … I gave her everything … my time, my advice, my very self.’

  ‘I take it we’re talking about Octavia Beaufort.’

  Gerry snorted. ‘Of course we are. Who else?’

  ‘So she’s no longer flavour of the month?’

  ‘No, she’s bloody not! She’s turned traitor, Amanda!’ Gerry clenched his fists tightly and his knuckles turned white. ‘I don’t suppose it’s all her fault, she’s a total naïf. She’s been pulled into the wrong orbit by Jasmine Burlington and that awful sullen Rosie. But even so, she must know how much it would hurt me to be dropped by her in the way I have been. She left my party before it was even over – the guest of honour! She disappeared with that louche crowd and I haven’t seen her since. Oh, yes, she sent round a bunch of white roses and a rather stunning Mont Blanc pen as a thank you, but I’ve heard barely a whisper since. And do you know why?’