‘Strong as you can make it, please.’ Light-headed with lack of sleep, I collapsed onto a boomerang-shaped leather chair outside Bailey’s office and, spotting a big glass ashtray, delved for my cigarettes.
‘It’s strictly no smoking.’ Charlene pursed her thin lips and thrust a paper cup of very weak coffee at me. She had a hairy mole just below her left nostril. ‘Mr Bailey’s first meeting is over-running.’
I smiled wanly. It was only eight a.m. The man was obviously possessed.
I was nursing the unpalatable coffee when a door was flung open somewhere out of sight, smacking against a wall; angry voices crashing into the lobby. Charlene busied herself, loudly ordering a car for Bailey in ten minutes (my heart sank further at the little time this left me) – but, despite her best efforts, I caught every word.
‘You’re fucking mad, Pa. You’ll make yourself a laughing stock. You only do it to be provocative, that’s what pisses me off so much.’
An imperious Cockney drawl replied, rough as a rake on gravel, the words drowned by the phone now ringing on Charlene’s desk. She snapped into it officiously.
‘Of course it’s my right.’ The first voice again. ‘I’m embarrassed you’re even considering it. It makes us all guilty by association. Mum’ll go mental.’
‘You get on with what you’re good at, all right, Alexander, whatever that might be, and let me get on with what I’m good at.’ A chair scraped across tiles. ‘And when I want your opinion, or your mother’s, I’ll ask for it.’
‘You couldn’t give a toss about either of our opinions, that’s exactly my point. I give up.’
A tall man strode out into the lobby and then stopped at the sight of me. Furious yellow eyes blazed down at me, a newspaper rolled tightly like an offensive weapon in a rather scarred hand, knuckles grazed on two fingers. He looked like he was contemplating hitting me over the head with the paper. I attempted a charming smile.
The other voice was on the phone now. ‘And get that fucking Big Issue git out of my doorway, all right? It don’t look good for business.’
There was the clatter of the receiver being dropped into its cradle, then a barrel-chested man strolled indolently out of the office, hands in pockets.
‘Aha.’ Malcolm Bailey leaned in the doorway, studying me. ‘Maggie Warren, I presume.’ A statement: a man who always knew he was right; a strong, cruel face, a prize-fighter’s stance.
I stood quickly, aware that my flaming skin was now clashing with my hair most unattractively. ‘Yes. Yes, hello.’ I stepped forward to shake Malcolm’s hand, my cigarettes falling to the floor as I did so. The younger man and I both bent to retrieve them, clashing heads in the process.
‘God, sorry.’ I rubbed my forehead with an embarrassed smile.
He didn’t speak; just handed me the packet inscrutably. I noticed how chewed his fingernails were.
‘So you’ve met my son, Alexander,’ Malcolm smirked. He was much shorter than the younger man, but he seemed giant-like now in his superiority. ‘This is his place, you know.’ Was that pride or contempt in his tone? I couldn’t quite fathom it.
‘Alex Bailey.’ Alex shoved the rolled copy of the Daily Express into the back pocket of well-worn jeans, and rubbed his face tiredly. I had the uncomfortable notion that the paper he’d just pocketed was the copy that had originally attracted me to Malcolm Bailey. A strongly worded article on the reasons behind male-on-female domestic violence, and the rights that Bailey felt the perpetrators deserved, despite their criminal actions.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I lied, offering Alex my hand now. He didn’t want to take it, I could tell, but eventually good manners overcame his anger. ‘Are you the owner of the building? It’s amazing.’ Desperate now, I tried flattery.
‘Hardly. I’m just the architect.’ He didn’t look like an architect. He looked like a workman. ‘One of them, I should say.’
‘Pa’ ignored us both, looking at the fag-packet I clutched. ‘You don’t smoke, do you, Maggie? Tut tut. Not a nice habit for a young lady. We don’t like smokers, do we, Alex?’
‘Oh, only occasionally, you know.’ I shoved my cigarettes away. Tiredness was slowing my brain, my grandmother’s delicate coughing frame my main concern. I didn’t have the energy for a bully like Bailey right now, and this situation with his furious son was making me nervous. They’d obviously been arguing about my show. I’d built my career on coolness; on the ability to keep calm in a stressful situation. Axe-murderers, paedophiles, soapstars – I’d met the lot without so much as stuttering. So it was bizarre that I was struggling right now. As I tried to collect my thoughts, Malcolm’s gaze penetrated me like Clark Kent’s X-ray vision.
‘What can I do you for then, Ms Warren?’
I cleared my throat, wishing his son’s eyes weren’t boring into me like two yellow flints. ‘Well, Mr Bailey,’ I began my pitch, ‘it’s more what you might like to share with us.’
‘You’re desperate to hear my thoughts, you mean.’
Another statement. Unconsciously I took a step nearer his son, who considered me for a moment before heading towards the door. Then he stopped, running a hand through his short dishevelled hair so it became a mountain range of tufts and spikes.
‘Actually, you know what,’ he turned back. ‘I’ll join you, shall I? I’d love to hear what exactly my dad’s got to say.’
Oh, marvellous. I forced a smile as Alex grinned at me, his strong face illuminated suddenly, his eyes shining. ‘And I’m dying to know how you’re going to persuade him.’
‘Right. Well, yes, of course, please do join us.’ I managed to hold the false smile as I followed the two men into Bailey’s office. The fact that at least one of them possessed some kind of morals was small help. I felt exactly like I was off to face a firing squad.
During that first meeting Alex eyed me like I was an irritating child. He slumped on the sofa in his father’s office, dirty old boots on the coffee table, half-asleep, apparently oblivious to me giving it my very best shot. When I saw his eyes were actually shut, I felt incredible relief. I was suddenly struck by the uneasy feeling I was prostituting myself for my goal – but I shook it off as I got into my stride, increasingly passionate and enthused by my subject. Still, Malcolm refused to agree to anything; the most he’d promise was to consider appearing.
As I shook Malcolm’s hand, Alex opened his eyes and stretched broadly, shaking himself rather like a long shaggy dog would. He muttered something to his father as I headed out, and then he followed me, lounging opposite me in the lift. We didn’t speak as we travelled smoothly down, but when the lift spat us out, Alex ran his hand through those tufts again.
‘Good luck,’ he murmured as the doors to the street slid open, stepping back to let me go first.
Outside it was sharp and crisp, a blast of much-needed fresh air to my addled brain. ‘Thanks.’ I dug out my travelcard, just relieved the whole ordeal was over. I was buying a paper at the news-stand when I saw Alex lope across the road, a small scruffy dog at his heels now, and whistle loudly.
‘Oi, Ron!’
A bent old geezer in a filthy duffel coat and half a balaclava shuffled out of an alleyway beside Pret a Manger, clutching his stash of Big Issues and a quarter of a croissant.
‘You can go back now.’ Alex handed him a tenner. ‘Tell them Malcolm’s son said it was fine, okay?’ He clocked me as I collected my change. ‘Still here?’
I flushed angrily. ‘Not for much longer.’ I turned on my heel.
‘Hey,’ he called. I glanced over my shoulder. He was standing like an island in the midst of a stream of harried commuters. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a quick drink?’
‘A drink?’ I repeated stupidly. I looked at my watch: it was only just nine. ‘It’s much too early for a drink.’
‘Oh, live a little,’ he grinned. ‘I’ve been working all night. I need to unwind.’
‘I don’t think so, thanks,’ I said rather primly. I’d never skipped school, much less w
ork. ‘I’ve got to get to the office.’
‘But this can be your office, can’t it?’ He walked towards me and I realised just how tall he was. His dog sniffed my shoes with enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps you can persuade me to be on your show.’
‘I don’t want you to be on my show.’
‘Charming.’
We stood on the pavement amid the flow from Farringdon Station, commuters with heads down, hurrying, scurrying to their burrows for the day, no time to glance up, no inclination. We contemplated one another for a moment – and for some reason my tummy rolled with apprehension.
‘And you don’t want to be on it either,’ I said eventually.
‘How do you know?’ Alex shrugged. ‘I might have very strong views on domestic violence.’
‘Have you?’
‘Maybe. They won’t be the same as my dad’s, though.’
‘No, well, I have to say that would be a relief.’
‘Yes, I expect it would.’ He zipped up his jacket and looked down at me. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t offer.’
I tried to read the expression in those sloping eyes that crinkled at the corners.
‘Last chance, Blue Eyes.’
My computer, my office, Charlie beckoned. ‘Nowhere will be serving at this time anyway.’ What was I on about? It was nine a.m. on a Monday morning and I had a show to produce with not a single guest booked yet. ‘I can’t. Really.’
‘You can if you want to.’ Alex smiled at me again. I was sure I was just a challenge he was setting himself. I bit my lip.
‘Come on, Maggie, don’t be a spoilsport. First round’s on Digby.’ He picked the dog up.
I took a final drag of my cigarette and chucked it away. Slowly, against my better judgement, I followed them.
Chapter Thirteen
In the early hours I woke shivering with cold, back on the sofa, my coat draped over me and a wineglass empty on the floor. Digby had been huddled at my feet, but he was gone now. He was gone – but there was someone else in the room, I sensed it.
I lay stock-still in darkness so inky I couldn’t make much out, my heart pounding so hard I thought it must be visible to the intruder. I tried desperately to gauge the distance to the stairs and the front door. How long would it take me to get down them, champion sprinter (now crippled) that I once was?
A soft footstep. Fear gripped me round the throat. Should I play dead or should I run? And where the hell was Digby? Oh God, where was he? A sob of terror escaped me as the footstep trod nearer.
‘What do you want?’ My voice sounded tiny in the darkness of the night. ‘My purse is in –’
There was a crash, followed by a laugh. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ a voice said. More than a little drunk.
A fury more pure than any I remembered seized me now. The voice banged into something else in the darkness – something that fell with a clatter – and swore softly. I threw my coat off and stood to snap on the lamp. Alex swayed gently in the shaft of light that fell towards him now, the dog clutched like a baby in his arms, the key bowl upended, keys all over the floor.
‘You’re drunk, Alex.’
‘I’m not.’ He swayed again. ‘Not very.’
‘What the hell are you doing here? You absolutely terrified me.’
‘I came to get my stuff, like you said.’
‘What are you talking about?’ My brain was scrambling. ‘What time is it?’
He dropped Digby onto the sofa, and I felt him summoning something. ‘Actually, I was wondering – would you mind –’ He blinked sleepy and unfocused eyes at me. ‘Can I stay here tonight?’ he muttered eventually.
‘What?’ I snapped, rubbing sleep from mine.
‘Please, Mag. I’ll go in the morning, I promise; I won’t make a fuss.’
Speechless, half-dressed for the freezing autumn night, I stood and stared at him.
‘Please let me stay. I don’t want to be on my own,’ he pleaded pitifully. But he would make a fuss; and I was exhausted by it, by my love for him. It had lacerated me for too long.
‘Alex, please.’ I turned away. I hardened the heart which he’d shattered so long ago. ‘You’re doing my head in. You’ve had loads of time to see me. Why now, in the middle of the night?’ There was too much alcohol under the bridge anyway, a veritable flood of the stuff. ‘I’ll ring you a cab.’
‘Maggie –’
‘Alex –’ I summoned every ounce of willpower I possessed, clenching my fists unconsciously. ‘Alex, please, just go.’
He looked at me then, and I looked straight back. I realised what had been scrawled across his face when I’d switched the light on. It had been hope – and it had gone now. Now his eyes just looked dead.
I had a sudden glimmer of what I’d tried so hard to forget, that terrible night in June. I grew more resolute.
We stared at each other for a minute and then, on a sudden whim, I reached up and for one short indulgent moment I pressed my palm against Alex’s face. He smelled of beer and the chill November air.
‘Your hands are cold,’ he murmured, ‘they’re always cold,’ and for a moment he closed his eyes. But I pulled back, setting the chair that he’d knocked over on its legs, and walked upstairs without looking back.
‘Let yourself out, Alex,’ I said over my shoulder, and called Digby to heel. I felt like I was acting in someone else’s play, watching myself go through the motions of telling the man I’d loved more than anyone else in the world to leave me be.
Upstairs, I lay down on the bed that we used to share, pretended I was very calm, and held my breath as I waited for him to go.
A few minutes later the front door slammed, and I began to breathe again. I didn’t cry; I was still too angry for tears. I lit a cigarette instead. After a minute I got up, zombie-like, and went to the window very slowly, like I was sleepwalking. I watched Alex as he opened the door of a silver car I didn’t recognise, probably one of Malcolm’s. I knew it was pointless trying to stop him driving in his state; I’d learned the hard way that it was impossible to ever stop Alex doing exactly what he wanted. In a pool of light under the lamppost, he stopped at the car door –then he ran back across the street. My heart missed a beat. It wasn’t over; of course it wasn’t. It couldn’t really be over, I’d known that all along … He disappeared from sight, and I held my breath again …
Then I heard something thud through the letterbox. And I knew without even going to check what Alex had just posted: his keys to the flat. He got in the car and slammed the door shut, then he drove off. He hadn’t looked up once.
I lay down again. I couldn’t deny that I’d been hoping that when he turned around he was about to come running up those silly steel stairs and be the funny, decisive Alex I’d first met two years ago. Before he’d got too drunk to even make it to the bedroom.
But really I knew that if that had happened, it would only have prolonged the madness.
Chapter Fourteen
The purr of my mobile woke me but by the time I’d scrabbled to find it, the ringing had stopped. My head was pounding as hard as my heart had last night; my hair was stuck all sweaty to my cheek; my mouth felt like I’d just licked an ashtray clean. Digby was running in ever-decreasing circles at the foot of the bed, whining frantically, desperate to be let out. Through one bleary eye I checked the time on the phone’s display. I’d overslept again.
After Alex had gone I’d found I couldn’t sleep so eventually I’d opened a bottle of wine to calm me down. I’d forgotten to set the alarm, and I’d left the heating on, desperate to get warm again after the chill that Alex had left, a chill that pervaded through my bones to my heart. Now I felt like I’d just slept in a sauna; I was sweaty and horribly headachey.
Another Monday morning yawned in front of me, another week, another month of nothing to look forward to except a lonely Christmas. I stumbled into the shower and set the temperature as cold as I could bear it, but it just made me feel grumpy. Goose-pimpled and shivering, I was towelling my hair
dry when I thought I heard a door creak downstairs.
‘Digby?’ I croaked. But I could hear him barking at the pigeons on the roof-terrace. Dragging on my jeans I tiptoed to the top of the stairs. A shadow fell across the oak floorboards below me.
‘Alex?’ I whispered. But it wasn’t him; I could see that straight away as the top of a man’s head came into view. A shorter, fat man, with a balding crown, holding a bunch of lilies. An icy sweat broke across my top lip. Desperately I sought a weapon – the nearest thing to hand was an Art Deco ashtray on the landing that had belonged to Gar. I picked it up and crept down a few stairs. The lilies were so pungent I could smell them from here. Suddenly the top of the ashtray detached itself and clattered down the stairs. The man looked up, startled.
‘Ooh, you scared me! I thought everyone was out.’ He held his heart with a rather camp hand. ‘Sorry – you must be Ms Warren?’ Collecting himself, he extended that pudgy hand towards me, the lilies clamped beneath the other shiny-suited arm.
‘And you are?’ Half-dressed, still clutching the ashtray stand, I felt a little ridiculous now.
‘Stefano Costana of Costana and Mortimer. I’ve got a card somewhere.’
I frowned. ‘Costana and Mortimer?’
‘Estate agents, Borough High Street. Mr Bailey asked me to pop round for a valuation. He gave me a set of keys.’ He patted his pocket cheerily. ‘Said you’d be at work, said he’d told you.’
‘Oh.’ I tried to recall yesterday’s conversation. ‘Well, he didn’t.’
‘Oh dear. I didn’t mean to scare you. I tell you, if you’d seen some of the things I’ve stumbled across –’ He trailed off, catching the look on my face. ‘Right, then. I’ll – I can come back another time.’
Bad Friends Page 11