‘Just yourself?’
‘Just yourself?’ the manageress asked, as Ellen stepped in to the crowded King’s Road café.
No, she bit back. I’ve brought along a whole football team. Can’t you see?
Did the woman have to make her feel so unwanted and superfluous? But, of course, a singleton hogging a table-for-two was clearly uneconomic. The manageress didn’t even bother to smile; simply led her to a dark corner at the back and, having slammed down the menu, strode off to greet some newcomers – a couple, naturally.
Ellen unbuttoned her coat, glancing round at the brightly lit and stiflingly hot establishment. No one else seemed to have had the temerity to enter it on their own. All around her were groups or couples – normal people with friends and partners and futures. It had been a mistake to come here at all, but it had felt equally wrong, on her fortieth birthday, to leave work and go home alone. Admittedly, her work-mates had made a bit of a fuss of her in the office; bought a proper iced cake and some Cava, but Derek, with typical boss-man stance, had soon put a stop to the merriment.
After a brief look at the menu (or its cheaper dishes, anyway), she decided on the lasagne – not that any waitress seemed interested in taking her order. Perhaps singles were ignored here, as in the wider world. The whole of society was geared around coupledom: double rooms in hotels; meals-for-two in Tesco’s; half-bottles of wine increasingly rare and always over-priced. She couldn’t afford wine anyway, although at least she’d had a tipple at lunchtime. True, Cava was hardly sophisticated, but her work-mates’ kindness had touched her. There had even been a glitter-sprinkled card, signed by all the gang: Rosie, Jenny, Linda, Beth and Anne. Derek made a point of employing only women and liked to strut about like a cock with his brood of hens. Apparently, most people met their future partner at work, which might explain her current lack of a mate. She had tried Internet dating, of course – didn’t everyone, these days? But the no-hopers she had met so far had failed to match their ‘Profiles’ in age, appearance or success, and seemed to have few skills except deceit. The ‘company director’ had turned out to work in a call-centre, and the ‘advertising executive’ was little more than a glorified salesman.
The waitress was just bustling up to the table next to hers. Ellen signalled to her, waving the menu for emphasis.
‘Won’t be a sec,’ the girl said, then disappeared for a good ten minutes. The only other waitress was patently overworked; rushing about in near-panic, with too many customers to serve.
On a sudden impulse, Ellen stood up and made for the door. There was now a small cluster of people waiting to be seated, so she’d actually be doing them a favour by vacating her table-for-two. Not that anyone seemed to notice she had gone. However, as she walked out into a deluge of sleety, stinging rain, she regretted her action as typically self-defeating. Better to be sitting foodless in a cosy fug than battling, head-down, against the elements. Spotting a soggy, crippled umbrella abandoned inside-out on the pavement, she paused to open her own sturdy, storm-proof brolly; wished she could storm-proof her life; make it impervious to gales and squalls.
Fortunately, the downpour began to peter out as she strode, in the dark, murky night, towards the bright warmth of the tube. Stopping at the lights, she was joined by a swarthy-looking man, with long, straggly hair and a shapeless old grey coat. While they waited for the pedestrian light, he suddenly stooped down to pick up something from the gutter and, nudging her excitedly, held it out on his palm for her to see. Jolted, she stared at the wide gold wedding-ring, which he was now examining more closely, presumably to check the hallmark.
‘Real gold!’ he exclaimed, as he crossed the road beside her, then continued to walk alongside, down the street. ‘Me Russian,’ he confided. ‘In London six weeks.’
Beginner’s luck, she thought, wryly, to light on such a treasure, when he’d only just arrived in England, whereas she’d never found so much as a fifty-pence coin, during all her years of living here. However, she gave him a courteous smile and, thus encouraged, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop, insisting that she watch while he tried the ring on all his fingers in turn.
‘Too small,’ he wailed, screwing up his face in disappointment, as each finger proved too fat to fit the ring. ‘For lady,’ he said, returning her smile and thrusting the ring towards her. ‘You have. Bring you good luck.’
She dodged away, imagining some frantic wife not daring to tell her husband that she had lost her wedding-ring. ‘You need to take it to the police,’ she told him. There might well be a reward, so he could still be in luck.
He shook his head so violently, raindrops cascaded onto his coat. ‘No! No police. Papers not in order. You take. Ring for lady. Real gold. Bring you luck.’ He jammed it on to her wedding-finger, where it fitted so surprisingly well, she was reminded of Cinderella’s slipper in the fairy-tale.
She stood a moment looking at her hand; her life upgraded in an instant; no longer a lonely singleton, loveless and adrift, but with an adoring partner awaiting her at home. And, with Valentine’s Day just forty-eight hours off, she would have the longed-for flowers, the beribboned box of chocolates, the intimate dinner in a romantic riverside restaurant. Yes, she could feel her husband’s hand just slipping beneath the table to gently stroke her thigh and....
The man’s hoarse voice interrupted the fantasy. ‘Me no job. Me hungry. You give me money and you have ring.’
‘No,’ she reproved, slamming the door on the romantic riverside restaurant. ‘That would be stealing, so, if you refuse to take it to the police, then I will.’ No question of claiming the reward for herself, which constituted another form of theft – or so her law-abiding mother was pointing out, from some realm beyond the grave. ‘He found the ring, so any recompense is his.’
Turning her back on her mother’s sepulchral presence, she repeated her advice about the police but, unceremoniously, the bloke snatched the ring from her finger. ‘No police,’ he insisted. ‘Police send me back to Kursk. Papers not in order.’
She wrestled with her conscience. Her devoutly Christian parents had trained her since early childhood to be scrupulously honest. Yet this ring was clearly valuable and thus could offer her the chance of fulfilling a long-held dream. She knew absolutely nothing about gold, but Derek had happened to say, just last month, that it always increased in value at times of economic crisis and was currently fetching extremely inflated prices. So, if she sold the ring, she would have the cash to sign up with Connect, as Rosie at work had done. Rosie, equally disgusted by the frauds and cheats she, too, had encountered online, had decided to use professionals, instead. Connect relied on trained psychologists to find each client a perfect, lifelong mate, with the end result that Rosie’s whole existence was transformed: she was now Mrs Simon Murray, revelling in married life and already three months’ pregnant.
Ellen winced as the bloke nudged her in the ribs. He was nothing if not persistent and was holding out the ring once more, clearly determined to overcome her scruples. Yet those scruples were so deeply entrenched, it did seem truly heinous to resort to stealing to ensure her own future happiness. ‘Look,’ she told him, wearily, ‘if you’re scared of the police, take it to Lost Property, instead.’
He stared at her in bafflement; his vocabulary obviously not extending to such concepts.
‘Me hungry,’ he repeated, his tone entreating, almost desperate. ‘Me not eat three days. You give me money and you have ring.’
Ellen realized they were blocking the pavement, and that several irritated people were having to squeeze past, already harassed by the large, inconvenient puddles. Wasn’t it equally immoral, she tried to persuade herself, to allow a man to starve? For all she knew, he could be homeless as well as hungry, obliged to sleep on a sheet of cardboard in some freezing alleyway, and rely on the non-existent kindness of peevish Londoners like these. And, anyway, did she have to stick so closely to her parents’ high-minded precepts? They’d been dead for twenty years, for
heaven’s sake, and, even when alive, had never been concerned with her feelings or well-being, only with her moral rectitude.
‘OK,’ she said, suddenly decisive and, snapping open her bag, she extracted a ten-pound-note from her purse.
Ungraciously, he grabbed it from her and thrust it in his pocket, only to hold out his hand for more. ‘Thirty,’ he demanded.
Ellen struggled between annoyance at his discourtesy and a grudging admiration for his sheer sense of entitlement. If only she possessed such confidence, she might be a manageress by now, or even work for a big corporation, with her own expense-account and company car. In point of fact, she was often forced to economize and, anyway, since last July, when she’d been robbed in broad daylight by an aggressive young hoodlum who’d threatened her at knifepoint, she deliberately avoided carrying large amounts of cash. However, she did find another tenner, which she handed over, reluctantly.
‘More!’ the Russian repeated, whilst pocketing the second note. Her sympathy was dwindling fast, yet having done a quick calculation, thirty pounds still seemed a reasonable outlay if she managed to sell the ring for, say, a cool five hundred. After only a moment’s hesitation, she scrabbled in her purse again for a last, crumpled fiver and three pound-coins. He could see perfectly well that he had cleaned her out completely, but she brandished the now empty purse, to prevent any further argument.
He did have the grace to smile his thanks, before shambling off in the opposite direction; turning round to holler out a final ‘Bring you luck!’ Although her rational side refused to entertain the concept of luck, she couldn’t help but thrill again to the sight of her ‘married’ hand; the gold-emblazoned wedding-finger proving to the world that she was wanted, coupled and deeply loved. Despite the cold, she was loath to put back her glove, wanting everyone to see the ring; view her as a beloved wife, successful and secure.
On the journey home, she had to contend with rush-hour crowds and signal failure on the District Line, yet her new status seemed to put a gloss on everything, as if she’d been gift-wrapped, mind and body, in glittery gold foil. She imagined her fellow commuters regarding her with new respect; some of the females downright envious. And, to her considerable surprise, she had succeeded in banishing her parents’ ghostly voices, so that she barely felt a twinge of guilt. Indeed, as she ascended from the tube and strode towards her apartment block, even the puddles looked enchanting, gleaming in the light of the street-lamps, as if they contained shards of brilliant stars.
‘Hi, Ellen, stop! It’s me!’
Swinging round at the sound of the voice, she saw Susanna just entering the block, a pace or two behind her. The woman lived one floor above and was the nearest she had to a friend there. People kept themselves to themselves in Granville Court.
‘How you doing, Ellen? I haven’t seen you in an age.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, believing it, for once, and, suddenly expansive, invited Susanna in for a coffee.
‘Actually, I’d planned to go to the launderette. My laundry-basket’s overflowing! But who cares about a few more dirty clothes? So, yeah, you’re on!’
Ellen fumbled for her key. Susanna was enviably easy-going, in contrast to her own rigid lists and schedules, which included various after-work routines, normally set in stone. However, just for once, she would break with normal practice and make an effort to relax.
‘Wow!’ Susanna exclaimed, as Ellen let her in. ‘Your place looks like a show-flat. Mine’s a complete and utter tip! But how on earth do you keep it so tidy and uncluttered?’
With a little daily discipline, Ellen refrained from saying, although demonstrating her point by hanging up both their coats and putting her bag away in it’s rightful place. Clutter was dangerous as well as unnecessary. If you allowed it to take hold, life could spiral out of control. ‘Make yourself at home,’ she said – superfluously, she realized, since Susanna had already done so and was now sprawling on the sofa. ‘How do you like your coffee?’
‘Sweet and strong, please. Three sugars.’
Jolted by Suasnna’s sangfroid as the woman kicked off her shoes, to reveal large holes in the toes of her tights, Ellen went to fill the percolator. As she stood measuring out the coffee, she wondered whether to mention her birthday or not, but finally decided against it, for fear of seeming a failure. Any truly popular person would be celebrating with a whole group of well-wishers.
It was not until she had handed Susanna her cup that the woman noticed the ring. Ellen took her time in explaining how she’d obtained it; first needing to reassure herself that, since she and Susanna had no friends in common, the woman was safe as a confidante.
‘Oh, Ellen, you’ve been had! That whole ring thing is a scam. I’m amazed you didn’t twig. It’s been all over the papers.’
Ellen swallowed. The word ‘scam’ had lodged in the throat like a piece of gristle.
‘Wh … what do you mean?’ she stammered.
‘Well, apparently, loads of beggars and scroungers are trying it on. They get hold of a cheap ring, spray it with gold paint, or varnish, or whatever, so it looks like the genuine article, deliberately slip it from their pocket on to the pavement, then pretend they found it by chance. And they always trot out the same story about it being too small for their finger, so that they can flog it for cash to some unsuspecting person. But I can’t believe you fell for it! I mean, there was a piece in the Daily Mail, just last week, warning people off.’
‘I don’t read the Mail,’ Ellen countered, uneasily aware that perhaps this was a punishment; her parents proving the error of her ways, even from the Other World.
‘It’s been in the Standard, too – you know, saying how widespread it is and advising people to be vigilant. It’s mainly women who are gulled, they said, because us females are more likely to fall for a sob-story – and, of course, more interested in rings!’ Susanna gave a guffaw, which made her fat face wobble. Little wonder, Ellen thought, surveying her shapeless bulk, that she, too, was single, at forty-eight. But perhaps she was one of those radical feminists who regarded men as the enemy and marriage as legalized rape. A ridiculous opinion. Didn’t most fairy-tales end with a wedding and ‘happy ever after’?
‘The Mail piece said a lot of these fraudsters work the same pitch night after night, often in the rush-hour and usually somewhere posh – all of which fits your own experience. I mean, the King’s Road must be full of wealthy bods to dupe.’
Bristling at the word ‘dupe’, Ellen sought to justify herself. ‘But he showed me the hallmark, Susanna.’ Hardly had she spoken, when she realized that wasn’t true. Certainly, he’d made a pretence of examining the hallmark, but she’d be too stupid to check on its authenticity herself.
‘If there’s a hallmark, I’ll eat my hat,’ Susanna crowed, with another infuriating laugh. ‘Here, let me see.’
Ellen eased the ring from her finger. Already, it felt lighter and less precious, as she passed it to her friend. No, Susanna wasn’t a friend. Just as the ring wasn’t valuable – only a painted sham. Could you trust anyone or anything?
Susanna held it up to the light and peered at it closely. ‘I’m sorry, Ellen, but you’ve been well and truly conned. This is no more gold than I’m Napoleon! I just hope you didn’t give him too much cash.’
‘No,’ she lied. ‘Only a couple of quid.’
‘It’s probably worth a few pence, in fact, but never mind – no harm done.’
Harm had been done, Ellen reflected, miserably, and it wasn’t just a matter of deceit. Her twenty-four-carat-dream of future happiness was now revealed as base alloy.
She sprang up in sudden fury. ‘I’m going back,’ she announced, ‘to have it out with him. How dare he cheat members of the public!’
‘Don’t be daft! He won’t be there now and, anyway—’
‘You just said they worked the same pitch,’ Ellen interrupted, ‘and in the rush-hour. And since it’s only five past seven, there’ll still be plenty of people around – more
dupes for him to fleece.’
‘Ellen, it’s cold and dark, and if he has pissed off home, you’re just wasting time and effort for the sake of two measly quid.’
‘It’s not the money,’ she fumed. ‘It’s the principle.’ Hope was as precious as gold and, unusually for her, she had allowed herself to hope. After all, Connect’s scientific expertise in matchmaking, the in-depth interviews they insisted on conducting before registering any client, and their wide-ranging compatibility-checks, there’d been an excellent chance that she would, at last, have met a decent, honest, efficient, tidy man. Of course, any personally tailored introductions agency was bound to charge over the odds and, although her salary covered not just the basics, but even extras like inexpensive holidays and occasional visits to a nail-bar, it certainly wouldn’t stretch to paying Connect’s high fees. Which is why the ring had seemed a gift from the gods – a gift now proved a sham.
‘Ellen, do calm down! Let’s finish our coffee and have a good old natter.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ellen countered, ‘but I’m determined to find that swindler, even if it takes all night.’ No way could she stay here ‘nattering’, while the bogus Russian laughed all the way to the bank. He was probably not Russian at all, but a Pole or Lithuanian – someone with every right to be in the country and no reason to fear the police.
Susanna gave a shrug; drained her coffee in a couple of noisy gulps; grabbed her shoes and strolled barefoot to the door.
‘Don’t forget your coat,’ Ellen said, fetching hers at the same time, although giving the woman time to disappear, before emerging into the corridor herself. It was inexcusably rude to have banished a harmless neighbour so abruptly, but she was just too het up to engage in vacuous chat.
In less than half an hour, she was back at the exact same spot where the man had first waylaid her. Frustratingly, there was no sign of him, although the King’s Road was still crowded, as always. Well, she would simply wait, despite the sullen weather. At least the rain hadn’t started again and she was so hot with indignation, even the cold no longer seemed to register.
Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers Page 8