She took up her position in a doorway, so as not to block access to the crossing, but which afforded her a view in four directions, so that, if the bloke did show up, she could accost him instantly. All she could see at present were people – mainly couples – linking arms as they sauntered down the street, or striding into restaurants with the in-built confidence that came with being a twosome. Another person completed you; gave you worth and validation, but, in light of her age, any such completion for her was now extremely unlikely. Forty was a watershed – not just the worrying issue of one’s biological clock, but the fact that men were evolutionally programmed to seek younger, fertile partners. Which made it all the more galling that she had lost her chance of signing up with Connect. According to their brochure, they specialized in older clients: discerning professional people with experience of life, so, with the agency’s skilled help, she might have met a surgeon or an Oxbridge academic.
Again, she stared down at the ring – furious with it now, yet somehow reluctant to remove it from her finger. Suppose Susanna was wrong? The woman was hardly an authority on anything, considering her slovenly habits and dead-end job. And, even if she was correct about the whole business of the scam, and the Russian had deliberately slipped the ring from his pocket, then pretended to see it glinting in the gutter, this particular ring could still be valuable. Perhaps it had belonged to his grandmother or even great-grandmother, and was worth money on account of its age and provenance alone.
All at once, she froze. The bloke had suddenly appeared, on the opposite side of the road – the same grey coat; the same greasy, unkempt hair. Her mind was in a turmoil as she watched him walk towards the traffic lights, anger and resentment battling with a last desperate spark of hope. Despite her bitterness, one part of her yearned to believe in him. He hadn’t looked like a crook. His eyes had an honest expression and he’d sounded genuinely hungry, and truly frightened of the police. If only she could question him about the ring’s antiquity or origins, but his English was far too basic to understand such subtleties.
Still torn between longing and suspicion, she saw him sidle up to a small, slender girl waiting at the lights, then, exactly as he had done with her, stoop down to pick up something from the ground. Her former indignation reignited like a firework, as she realized that the poor young girl would imagine – as she had done herself – that the ring was just a lucky find, discovered by pure chance. Susanna was right. It was a con, and he did work the same profitable pitch; probably duping scores of women, as he repeated the ruse again and again. No doubt he had hundreds of rings; mass-produced for him, most likely, by a whole gang of imposters, all with a stake in the swindle. Yes, she could see him in his true colours now, as he laid the ring on his palm and held it out for the girl to see, just as he had done before.
Enraged, she darted across the street, weaving her perilous way between the oncoming traffic, yet willing to risk an accident in her haste to warn the girl. The poor creature looked barely out of her teens and seemed so trustingly vulnerable, she would have no idea she was the victim of a scam.
‘Don’t give him money!’ she cried, seeing the girl already opening her bag. ‘That ring’s completely worthless. It’s just tin, or brass, or something. He’s simply taking you for a ride.’
The girl rounded on her in annoyance. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are, but piss off, OK, and mind your own bloody business!’
‘I’m only trying to spare you,’ Ellen retorted, still determined to warn the girl, despite such base ingratitude. ‘He conned me, too, an hour ago. There’s a whole load of them trying it on. Don’t fall for it! We have to take a stand.’
The girl’s only response was a vicious shove that left Ellen not just winded but with no choice save to back off. Shakily, she edged away and went to lean against a shop-front, watching the girl hand over at least three banknotes, although she couldn’t tell their value in the dark. Maybe she, too, was in the grip of a dream – a dream that could only be fulfilled by selling a precious ring. Perhaps she, too, craved a partner, even at her young age. After all, women were evolutionally programmed, just as much as men – in their case to find a mate and reproduce.
As Ellen thought of her own mate, now never to materialize; of her own might-have-been children, now so cruelly aborted, she stepped towards the gutter, about to wrench the ring from her finger and hurl it down the drain. Why kid herself any longer? She was alone and on her own, with no happy ending, no perfect, hand-picked spouse.
But then, all at once, she heard, in her head, the sneering manageress’s greeting: ‘Just yourself?’ How dare she be so dismissively patronizing? How dare anyone belittle her, simply because it was, indeed, ‘just herself’ against the world? She would keep the ring and wear it; glory in it, even; resurrect the thrill she’d felt when she’d first slipped it on her finger. The important thing was not its actual value but the fact it made her feel so different – transformed and validated – and was thus precious in itself.
Moving a little closer to the lamp-post, she admired its gleam and sparkle on her hand. In the world’s eyes – and in hers – this was genuine gold. And even her parents were strangely, mercifully silent, perhaps glad, for once in their lives, that the daughter they had never wanted now actually felt loved.
Presents
If Roddy were a train, Debs thought, he would fling himself about with the same headstrong fits and starts as this lurching, jerking tube. At the next disconcerting judder, she all but lost her balance and fell against the knees of those lucky enough to be sitting, reminded again of her obstreperous younger brother. Born in an unseemly rush when her father’s frantically speeding car failed to whisk her mum to the labour ward in time, he’d developed into a hyperactive boy, constitutionally incapable of cruising along at a smooth and steady pace. However, not even madcap Roddy could dislodge her from cloud nine, where she’d been blissfully perched since viewing the Archway flat for the third and final time. On the previous occasions, the snooty estate agent had treated her like a child – and no wonder, with her parents in tow – so she had insisted on going alone today to signal her independence.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, as an extra violent jolt sent her reeling into the woman standing next to her – a woman not unlike her mother, being overweight and shabby. Not that she was in any mood to criticize her parents, since it was they who were providing the deposit on the flat. And her father had even offered to help her with the decorating, while her mum had been touring the shops in search of curtain-material, and was already talking pelmets and tie-backs. Curtains were just so uncool, but it was decent, nonetheless.
That was the trouble with her parents. They were decent but over-protective, generous but smothering. If she ventured too far from their boring suburban semi, they imagined she’d be instantly raped or mugged, and kept issuing dire warnings about the dangers of North London! As for Roddy, he was probably jealous of her leaving home, since, at thirteen-and-a-half, he could hardly follow suit. He was bound to miss her, though, if only because he’d no longer be able to nick her Clearasil, or ‘borrow’ her magnifying mirror, and then drive her insane by leaving them in his room.
The train rattled into Camden Town, where a crowd of people jostled their way out. Gratefully, she plumped into a free seat; booted Roddy from her mind and began deliberating on paint colours. The shade-cards were pure poetry: Frosted Grape, Sunday Sonata, Oriental Coral. She would definitely go wild, if only as a reaction to her parents’ tame Magnolia. Maybe Roasted Red for the sitting-room; Thunderous Sky for the bedroom, and something really zany for the cupboard-sized kitchen and—
A sudden racket at Euston interrupted her thoughts, as a gang of black lads pushed into the carriage; all shouting, swearing, and determined to make their presence felt. Now she was the one with someone pressing into her knees, since the tallest of the blokes loomed hot and huge above her; his muscly arms sheened with sweat and rippling with tattoos. They were all so physical, for God’s sake
; big, burly types, with shaven heads, and wearing aggressively ragged jeans. As she peered through the cluster of bodies, she saw that one of the guys was carrying a puppy – a poor wretch of a thing, yelping piteously. The man was clutching it too tightly, ignoring the fact it was a living, breathing creature – too young to have left its mother, by the looks of it – and not a piece of baggage that could be jammed against his chest.
All thoughts of the flat vanished, as she imagined its possible fate. They might drown it, just for a laugh, or fix a firework to its rump and stand jeering and applauding as it careered around in panic, unable to throw off the exploding, sparking coat-tail. She knew nothing about dogs, so she couldn’t tell what breed it was and, anyway, it was half-concealed by the cruelly clamping arm. But suppose it was a pit-bull? Just a month ago, she’d seen a TV programme where pit-bulls were pumped with steroids to bulk them out and make them more belligerent. And the owners filed their teeth into sharp, unnatural points, to intimidate the public, and used the dogs almost as gang-members, to secure better terms on drug-deals.
She longed to grab the pup and take it home, but that was out of the question, with her mother’s allergy to animal fur. The only family pets were goldfish, but a goldfish was so soulless. It couldn’t sleep on your bed at night, or snuggle close when you were feeling a bit hopeless and needed a wet nose on your face or a consoling paw in your hand. Perhaps she could keep the dog in her flat, though. Admittedly she’d be at work all day, but she could take it out in the evenings in the two small parks nearby. In fact, wasn’t that the perfect way to make friends? People always said dogs broke the ice and prompted conversations. She might even meet a guy and, since there’d been no one around since the disastrous bust-up with Jake, she was pining for some love interest – maybe an older man, this time, a snazzy dresser, with cash and class. Jake wore a gross red anorak, and still liked One Direction – pathetic for a guy of nineteen.
She closed her eyes to set the scene more clearly, the crowded carriage fading into a secluded little park. And, yes, a posh-looking golden retriever had come rushing up to her dog, and she and its distinctly fanciable owner were bonding every bit as firmly as the two sniffing, circling dogs. Love at first sight didn’t have to be corny.
Come off it, Debs! Get real….
Roddy’s voice shattered the romance. Her brother was so basic; failing invariably to grasp that dreams could be reality. She wouldn’t have the flat, for instance, if it hadn’t started as a dream. And Roddy it was who had first shortened her name to ‘Debs’, which, much to her annoyance, soon became ‘official’. If she met the golden-retriever-man, she would use her full name right from the start. ‘Deborah’ had class.
At Charing Cross, there was a further disturbance, as the rowdy group began shoving out of the carriage – all except the one with the dog. As the closing doors cut off their yells and curses, she fixed her attention on the pup once more. It was clearly terrified and still squealing in a sickening way. Her natural instinct was to report the bloke to the RSPCA, but how could she, when she didn’t know his name? Maybe better to be less hostile and simply offer to buy the dog at a price he couldn’t refuse. OK, she didn’t have that sort of cash, but her dad might shell out – again. She was his favourite, after all. His ‘little girl’, he still called her – and would probably continue calling her, even when she was an ancient thirty-something.
Shit! The train had reached Waterloo where she was meant to change for the mainline. If she didn’t get back to Tolworth soon, her parents would start imagining that she’d been raped at knifepoint by some psychotic maniac. But how could she shrug off responsibility and abandon that helpless creature to its fate? No one else seemed bothered. The majority were elbowing their way out – irritable commuters dashing for their trains – while the others slumped heedless in their seats, distracted by their headphones, or riffling through the Standard. Not that she was any better, when all she had done so far was fume in silence. She needed a plan of action – maybe approach the guy and get into conversation, then ask him outright about the dog, to see what he intended. But the thought of going over to him, with a dozen people watching, and having to raise her voice above the rumble of the train, held her rigid in her seat. Wouldn’t it seem more natural to wait till he got out, then dart up to him in the street; make it appear a chance encounter, not a calculated stalking?
As the train rattled on its way, past Kennington, the Oval, Stockwell, Clapham North, she deliberately kept her eyes down, to avoid the bloke’s attention, so that, when she finally confronted him, he wouldn’t twig she’d been tailing him since he first got on at Euston.
At Tooting Bec, he made a lunge for the doors, hoisting the puppy over his shoulder, like a small, saggy refuse-sack. Grimacing in fury, she followed him out of the carriage, keeping him in view as he hurtled up the escalator. Once in the street, he maintained the same frenetic speed and she had to run to keep up; weaving in and out of infuriating people dawdling along at a snail’s pace or blocking the pavement with their great, clumsy, show-off buggies. And, because it was scorcher of an evening, clusters of drinkers were standing outside the pubs, all blithely assuming that other people had nothing else to do but tip lager down their throats.
Although out of breath and sweaty and still blundering along in her not-meant-for-running shoes, she tried to work on her action plan. She couldn’t involve the police – it wasn’t a crime to carry a dog – but, if she tackled the brute on her own, he might turn violent and pull a knife on her. Yet her mind was seething with horrendous images of the dog-abuse she had seen online: owners starving their pets until they were living skeletons, or keeping them tied up all day on tight, neck-strangling chains. Some monstrous individuals even tortured dogs deliberately: beat them, stabbed them, left them to die. One sadist had cut the ears off his bull terrier, to make it look more macho, and an unspeakable Hitler-clone had actually put his pup into a washing-machine running at full speed, then dumped its sodden corpse in the municipal rubbish-tip. If this puppy suffered such horrors, she would be to blame in part, just for standing by and doing nothing.
The guy continued striding down the street, until, all at once, he lurched to a halt and paused a moment outside a seedy café. Concealing herself a pace or two away, she watched, appalled, as the pup struggled to escape. He simply gripped it tighter, ignored its agonizing cries, then sauntered in to the café; the dog of no more importance than the canvas bag slung across his shoulder.
Cautiously, she edged a little nearer and peered in through the café window; saw him slouch over to a table for four and plonk himself down on a chair. Was he about to meet some new gang-members – sell the dog to them, perhaps, to treat in that brutal fashion? Noiseless as a shadow, she slunk in through the open door and took a seat in the corner where she could escape the fellow’s notice yet watch his every movement.
He ordered a coffee – she did the same, keeping her voice as low as possible. She must screw up her reserves of courage and approach him now, before any more of the gang showed up. He could hardly knife her in front of the staff: two hulking waiters who looked reassuringly streetwise. Nonetheless, her heart was thumping in her chest as she rose to her feet, determined to measure up to her father’s lofty standards, his unshakeable belief that a single individual with a conscience and integrity could actually make a difference in the world. It only took one voice, he said; one brave person who dared to take a stand.
But as she stepped purposefully towards him, there was a sudden jangle of bracelets and a waft of sickly scent, and a big, curvaceous black lady erupted into the café, a gangly black youth following close behind. As the pair lumbered towards the table, the bloke jumped up to greet them and there were hugs and kisses all round – the poor puppy squashed still further as it was momentarily engulfed in the woman’s mountainous boobs.
However, to Debs’s sheer surprise, the guy used his free arm to fumble in his canvas bag and drew out a fuzzy pink blanket, patterned with cutesy
paw-prints, and, having wrapped it round the dog, then transferred the creature from his arms to the woman’s.
‘Happy birthday, Mum!’ he said. ‘Meet Lucky.’
The woman’s smile was so wide it split her face, and her eyes crinkled up with pleasure as, tenderly, she cradled the dog and rocked it like a baby, gently cooing and clucking. The boy seemed just as fond; stroking the puppy’s floppy ears; even planting a kiss on its head. Its cries stopped, miraculously, as it snuggled closer to the woman’s pillowy chest, daring to relax, at last. Debs’s own surge of relief was mixed with shame about how wrong she’d been. He wasn’t cruel at all – probably just embarrassed to be carrying a scrap of a puppy in front of his macho mates, and clearly not accustomed to handling new-born creatures.
She sat back in her chair; glad there was no one else in the café, so that she could tune in to the family, feeling almost part of their cosy little circle. The guy ordered tea and cake for his mum, and Coke and ice-cream for the boy – his younger brother, presumably, since they looked noticeably alike.
‘Anything else for you, miss?’ The waiter had returned to remove her empty cup.
‘Yeah, I’ll have another coffee.’ Somehow, she couldn’t tear herself away and, in any case, she needed a second caffeine shot. All her gruesome imaginings – which now seemed horribly unfair – had left her as limp as a lettuce-leaf.
She kept her eyes on the mother, who obviously doted on her sons, reaching out affectionately to pat the elder one’s hand, or ruffle the younger’s hair. Yet, never for a moment did she ignore the little dog; one arm circling it securely, as it nuzzled against her chest. And, when the tea arrived, she poured milk into her saucer and held the puppy up, so it could lap the milk from a comfortable position. Once the milk was finished, the boy smeared his fingers with ice-cream and held them out to the dog to lick. And, judging by its response, ice-cream was a number-one hit. The small pink tongue flicked back and forth so fast, it seemed to have a life of its own, quite separate from the dog itself.
Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers Page 9