Finally, one afternoon I was called in to show Mickey some proofs I was working on. Ridiculous I knew, but my hands were shaking as I picked up my file. I’d worked so bloody hard for this; I couldn’t bear to blow it. I was terrified of Mickey; that he’d discover I was a fake; that he’d see the truth and turf me out.
When I knocked, Mickey was on the phone; he beckoned me in and I hovered near the door. Waiting for his attention, I absorbed the room. No photos, no personal paraphernalia, just one exquisite orchid and what looked like a Tracey Emin original on the wall. He hung up without saying goodbye. How rude, I thought, but secretly I was impressed. It was just like they used to do in Dallas when I was small.
‘I like her stuff.’ I pointed at the picture.
‘Do you?’ Mickey was browsing through the proofs I’d handed him; he didn’t bother to look up.
‘She’s a bit of a head-case, though, isn’t she?’
‘Is she now?’
‘I think that’s probably what gives her art its—you know. Its verve.’
‘Is that right?’ He did look up this time. He looked up and grinned right at me. Oh God. He was even better looking close-up. I rattled on. ‘I like her spirit. Even though she always seems a little—damaged.’
I thought I caught a look, an almost wistful look, flash across his face. ‘That’s not necessarily such a bad thing, is it? Being damaged.’
I looked at him and he looked straight back. And for a second, it was very strange—for a split second it was like peering in a mirror. I felt a sudden blaze of recognition of something hidden in those dark eyes. And there was something else about him now, something I couldn’t quite pinpoint right then. For a minute he seemed like he might relax his guard. I dragged my gaze back to the picture.
‘Anyway, I wish I could draw like her.’
‘Who says you can’t?’
‘Oh, I wish.’
‘Do you not think she’s a little—overrated?’
‘If she’s overrated, why would you have her work on your wall?’
‘As an investment, mainly.’
But he was lying now, I knew. Masking himself. ‘That’s a bit depressing, isn’t it? You should have art there because you love it, I think.’ I was enthusiastic. ‘Or because it allows you to escape, or stirs up something—you know, some passion. Some big emotion.’
‘Is that right?’ He was staring at me now. I had the uneasy feeling I wasn’t meant to answer back. ‘Well, perhaps I hate it then.’
‘Do you?’
‘No. But you might be happier if I did, mightn’t you?’
I smiled nervously. He looked down at my work again. ‘You know, these aren’t bad—’
There was a pause. I realised he didn’t know my name.
‘Jessica. Most people call me Jess, though.’
‘Jessica. In fact, these are very good. You’ve really understood the brief.’
I tried to hide my blushes; I was secretly ecstatic. ‘Thank you.’
His phone rang. Answering it, he swung his leather chair around until he had his back to me. I waited for a minute then I realised that, apparently, the meeting was over. I gathered up my proofs and left; I was angry for the rest of the week. Meanwhile, he ignored me for the rest of the week, although one afternoon I looked up from the paste-up I’d been concentrating on, my tongue between my teeth, my tangled curls skewered with a lone pencil, and found his eyes burning into me through the glass divide. He smiled a very slow smile and turned away.
I went out most nights and drank too much with my new mates from St Martin’s, finally living part of the dream I thought I’d been denied, crawling home to my bedsit alone and happy.
One evening I stayed late at work to finish a job that I’d been struggling with. An unseasonably warm spring was creeping towards summer and the office air-conditioning was on the blink. I worked on until I found myself practically expiring with heat, and then I stripped to the old petticoat beneath my jersey dress. Through the open window I could hear the bustle of a Soho evening: sirens wailing, chatter and catcalls, laughter and lovers arguing, cars and running feet and the jingle of rickshaw bells. I was so wrapped up in my work that when the door opened suddenly, it made me jump. Mickey, quiet as a cat, padded across the room, champagne in hand, a couple of major Japanese clients in tow, set to close a deal in his office.
‘Sorry,’ I stuttered, jumping down from my stool. I kicked the art-school project I’d been about to start work on as far under my desk as I could manage.
‘Jessica.’ He stared at my petticoat, then glanced at his clients. Very quietly he said, ‘That’s hardly appropriate for the office, is it now?’
Mortified, I scrabbled for my dress as the Japanese woman bowed her head towards me, sublimely elegant in midnight-blue; her short, rather haughty male colleague ignoring me entirely. I nodded back, horribly conscious of my unmade-up shiny face, my scraped-back hair; and I dived into the loo to change. When I came back, Mickey had shut his office door, and I felt a twinge of something, but I soon lost myself in my work again, looking up only to see him pour the woman a drink. Soon after that, I slipped out and home.
The next morning I expected a bollocking, but instead I found an envelope propped against my computer. An invitation for a Tracey Emin private viewing in Cork Street that night, a Post-it note attached.
‘I’ll meet you there at seven. Dress for dinner. Or wear your petticoat. Your choice. M.’
I went out for a coffee on my own, my hands shoved deep in my pockets while I paced the buzzing streets around the office. I didn’t really do relationships. I had such a bad template, you see. And dallying with the boss: textbook mistake, surely? Or perhaps he just wanted to discuss art…Wandering up and down Broadwick Street, I ate some early strawberries that weren’t quite ripe and avoided glancing at the saucy underwear in the window of Agent Provocateur. Avoided thinking about Mickey’s slow smile the other day. What would someone like him see in me? We were worlds apart.
But when I went back into the office, against my better judgement, I pleaded a headache to Pauline. Was it my imagination, or did she have a knowing look about her? At home I lay on the sofa in front of Richard and Judy; I decided not to go. I had a neat vodka. Then I had one with ice. And then I dressed for dinner as best as I could in the ten minutes I’d left myself; anxious I wouldn’t get there in time, anxious that I couldn’t afford the kind of glamour Mickey was obviously used to. Anxious I was imagining a situation that didn’t exist.
When I eventually arrived in an extravagant and vodka-fuelled black cab, Mickey was slouched languidly against the wall outside. It was much chillier than yesterday, and I shivered in the breeze.
‘Hi,’ I said shyly. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’
‘Hi,’ he said calmly, kissing my cheek and leading me inside. ‘I like your plaits. And that’s a nice coat. Very Anna Karenina. Though I think I preferred the petticoat. There was something very disturbing about you in it.’
‘Really?’ My insides felt all funny. I didn’t tell Mickey I’d nicked that petticoat from my mum many years ago. I accepted the wine glass a waitress offered me.
‘You looked about sixteen.’
‘Oh. You like sixteen-year-olds then?’ I looked up at him from below my fringe.
He smiled—not quite a cruel smile; more the smile of someone used to getting his own way. Not a very nice smile. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘What did you mean?’
‘You know, Jessica…’ I liked the way he said my name, the slow drawl of it. I found myself holding my breath.
‘What?’
‘There’s something about you I can’t put my finger on.’
I looked at his long, thin fingers wrapped round his glass. The vodka was singing in my blood. ‘How do you know?’
‘How do I know what?’
‘How do you know that you can’t put your finger on it?’ I prayed he couldn’t hear my teeth chattering as adrenaline coursed round my body.<
br />
He laughed. ‘You remind me of myself, I think that’s what it is.’
‘In what way’s that then? Mean and moody?’ I looked down coolly at my nails, but I didn’t feel the least bit cool inside. I was sure I’d stepped too far this time; come Monday, I’d be collecting my cards. But he just laughed again.
‘Sure, I’m not sure. Appearances are deceptive, they say. You’re deceptive, that’s what I think. You look like you need looking after, but—well—’
‘Well, what?’ I said, taking a long sip of the cold white wine to hide my nerves.
‘I reckon you’re one of life’s survivors.’
I looked him square in the eye. ‘Yes, well. I tend to generally survive.’
‘And you’re so different—’
‘Mickey Finnegan, you old devil,’ a red-faced fat man slapped him on the back. ‘And who’s this gorgeous young thing?’
I nearly choked on my drink but Mickey didn’t turn a hair. Nor did he bother to introduce me.
‘Charles. Back from New York already?’ I half-listened as Mickey chatted to the art dealer for a while; looked around for the waitress for a refill. One of Emin’s pictures on the wall behind them disturbed me, a sketch of a naked young girl. There was something very innocent about her, I thought, despite her nudity. Something sad. I peered closer; it was called If I could just go back and start again. Finally the fat man wandered off in search of further sustenance that he really didn’t need, and Mickey turned back to me. I looked up at him flirtatiously.
‘What were you saying? I’m so—different?’
A cloud crossed his face. ‘Forget it.’
My own foolishness walloped me in the gut; I’d read things wrong. Quickly I changed the subject. ‘Don’t you think that print’s a bit—tragic?’
I pointed behind him to the picture of the girl. He swung to look at it. ‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure really. It makes me think of my childhood for some reason.’ God. I must have had too much to drink. But I caught that look again; the one I’d glimpsed in the office earlier that week. The one I’d recognised—and I realised what it was now. Sadness suddenly unveiled.
‘Was your childhood not much fun then, Jessica?’
I shrugged. ‘It had its moments.’
He reached over and stroked my naked earlobe. I caught my breath again. How could that little touch trigger the feelings that followed next? We wandered round the Emin together but I couldn’t concentrate any more. I felt Mickey’s presence at my side like a literal force of life, the energy emanating from him, despite his mood being darker than before. I saw something of me in him; some vulnerability he chose to hide—most of the time.
And afterwards we didn’t even make it as far as the restaurant that he’d booked. The minute the taxi door closed behind us, Mickey pulled me towards him—and I didn’t resist. I wanted him so badly now that I could barely think. I rarely relinquished my control to anyone—but this man, this man was very different. Slowly, very slowly, he unbuttoned the long coat that I’d done up so tight. This time it was desire I shivered with.
‘I’ve been wondering what’s under here all night,’ he murmured.
Under here was that petticoat—and nothing else at all. He ran his hands along my naked collarbone; I bit down on my lip.
‘God,’ Mickey groaned quietly. ‘There’s something about you, little Jessica. Something I want very badly.’
Then he told the driver to take us to the best hotel in town—his choice, Mickey said carelessly, and then he turned to me intently. He traced my mouth—my eager, swollen mouth—with his forefinger until I caught it between my teeth and sucked it gently. Mickey slid the other hand under my coat, across the silk, stroking the smooth flesh between my shaking legs. And then finally, just when I felt like I’d dissolve with pure anticipation, he pulled me to him again by my wildly escaping and most-deliberately-provocative plaits and kissed me hard, his teeth grazing my lips, and I kissed him back with an abandon I was glad to feel. I forgot the blackness of his earlier mood and yielded to the pleasure, proverbial putty in the hands that slid hot and hard over the sliding silk of the petticoat, tracking my body through the thin material. I didn’t even worry about the driver in front. I would have done it right there on the back seat, right there and then if he’d wanted to. I’d never felt like this before; completely floored by my own lust, so wanton and destroyed by it. Never in my whole life.
*
I didn’t speak on the way to Silver’s car, and when we got there I let Leigh go in the front though I knew the policeman wanted to talk to me. I just couldn’t concentrate on questions; my head was whirring with possibilities. Mickey travelled a lot with work, but I couldn’t think now if he had a trip coming up. Why the hell would he have his passport on him otherwise? My mind was a huge black hole churning the information round and round.
The big car purred effortlessly onto the deserted road. Anyone with any sense was tucked up safe in bed, safe from this sticky night. We circled the concrete monstrosity that crowned Westminster Bridge, crossed the top of Waterloo, heading south again. Two young girls stepped suddenly from the darkness onto a crossing, and DI Silver stamped on the brakes. We all lurched forwards as the teenagers giggled at their own daring, obviously drunk, bare midriffs milky under the fluorescent streetlights, navel rings a-glimmer. The policeman’s jaw set.
‘Bloody stupid,’ he muttered. I leant my sore head on the cold glass of the window and listened to the crackles on the police radio. My swollen bosom throbbed agonisingly. In the front, DI Silver cleared his throat perfunctorily.
‘Mrs Finnegan, I know you’re tired, but you’ll appreciate I must ask some questions. I need to take a statement from you when I get you home.’ He caught my eye in the mirror, and held it. In the gloom his eyes were almost black. ‘Until your husband regains consciousness, you’re our only connection with your son.’
Levelly I held his gaze. I knew he was right, and I was about to agree when suddenly the huge chimneys of the Tate loomed over to my left.
‘Stop!’ I shouted, and he slammed on the brakes again.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Leigh swore, pushing herself back from the dashboard. ‘It’s like the bloody Dodgems in here.’
‘I need to get out,’ I said, fumbling for the handle.
‘Are you feeling ill?’ she asked.
I shook my head impatiently. ‘No. I just need to go there now.’
‘Where?’
‘Back to the Tate. I never should have left.’
‘Jess, don’t be silly. It’s shut now,’ Leigh said, turning in her seat.
‘Not into the Tate. To the river. To where they found Mickey. Did they find him here?’ I realised I didn’t know. ‘I need to make sure Louis is not—I mean, what if he’s still here?’
‘Jess, wait! I’ll come with you,’ but I was already opening the car door, scrambling out, running across the road. Leigh’s voice faded quickly as a lone motorcycle whizzed past me, so close I felt the wind against my cheek, so near I heard the driver’s curse. But I was infallible. I was running, back to where I’d come from today, back to where I’d last seen my son. Of course-this was right! Why had I ever left? I was mad; I should have stayed. I could have found him. I ignored the voices behind me, the shouts. I ran and ran, past the shuttered coffee stand, through the high, pruned hedges, until suddenly I hit the river.
I stopped for a second. I breathed in the dark night air. The city on the other bank looked magnificent, lit up like a great fairground in the sky. And somewhere here was Louis. Somewhere near—
I felt an arm go round me, a quiet, calm voice speak in my ear, a northern drawl. I realised I was shaking.
‘Mrs Finnegan, I can assure you that our teams are out looking. They’re scouring every corner of the city. There’s no sign of Louis here, you know. And actually your husband was found some way away.’ He turned me round to face him but I wouldn’t meet his eye.
‘We should go now, do
n’t you think?’ Gently he persisted. ‘You’re going to make yourself ill and you’ll be no good to anyone. Let me take you home.’
I doubled over. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t stand it. I’d never felt so helpless in my life. I was racked with pain in every little crevice, every part of me cried out for my only child. So this was mother love. It hurt like fucking hell.
‘Please,’ I begged, and I heard my voice crack hoarsely. ‘Please, just let me look. Just for five minutes,’ and he looked at me, and he must have sensed my desperation, because he did. He held my arm and we walked up and down and round and round for a bit, and I could feel him trying not to march me. And I could see that it was all tidy, that there was no baby here. My baby wasn’t here.
But I couldn’t bear to leave. I slunk out of his grasp and sunk down on the ground and I lay my head on the tarmac still warm from the day’s sun. Tears slid down my face without sound. I put my hands flat down as if I could pick the earth up and spin it round my head, and I wondered what I’d done wrong to make me lose my son.
Eventually I let the policeman pick me up again; gently he brushed me down, like I was a child, a little child, and then he led me by the hand to the car where Leigh was waiting, smoking anxiously in the warm night. She saw my face and ground out her fag, offered me a rather grubby tissue, all lipstick-stained. Then she hugged me clumsily, and, awkwardly, I submitted. And this time I got in the front of the car, and took a pill that Leigh handed me, from Sister Kwame’s bottle, and I answered all Silver’s questions as he took me home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Someone was calling my name, over and over again. I swam up to the surface. As I bashed against sedation’s spongy crust, it was too late—I had remembered. Frantically I tried to burrow back down into oblivion, but oblivion had gone.
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