Moonlight on the Thames

by Lauren Westwood

  After saying his goodbyes, he made his way out the door into the freezing night. His breath came out in great white puffs that curled skywards, like spirits of winter. As he walked to the Tube, he considered his options. Go home to the flat in Clapham, a nice upper-floor two-bed in a red-brick Victorian conversion, or go and seek some company. Go to a different bar, find a woman, buy her a drink, let things take their course. No names, no questions, no exchange of phone numbers.

  Inside the Tube station, Dmitri pinged his Oyster card on the reader. He went down the escalator. The platform on the left led south to home, the one on the right to the north – to central London and all that the night might have to offer. As he reached the bottom, he still had no idea which one he was going to choose.

  4

  4th December

  ‘I think that’s the final point,’ Nicola said. ‘Shall we leave it to the lawyers now to redraft?’

  The man on the other side of the conference room table nodded. Carl Anderson was a director of a Danish consortium that was looking to acquire a controlling interest in ‘Timeless’, a French luxury watch manufacturer, in order to take the brand global.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, standing up and offering her his hand. ‘You’ve done a brilliant job, Nicola. If we sign by Christmas, then I shall personally make sure that your whole team has Timeless watches under the tree.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to that.’ Nicola kept her smile just the right side of professional as they shook hands. Carl had already asked her out for a drink twice in the last two months. She’d turned him down, of course, but in a way that had left the door open – in his mind at least. In her experience, until the deal was signed and the ink dry on the page, it was best to keep all possibilities alive.

  She gathered up her papers and led her team: two analysts, a senior associate and two lawyers, out of the room. This was what she lived for – the buzz of adrenalin after a negotiation. Knowing that in this aspect of her life, at least, she was in control.

  Outside in the corridor, she thanked her team and made sure everyone was clear on who was doing what to get the deal over the line. Then she went back to her office and closed the door. It was nearly six o’clock. Time to catch up on the day’s emails over an early-evening Americano. She was even feeling good enough that she might have a look online about ordering that Chelsea away kit for Ben—

  ‘Ollie’s office – five minutes!’ Despite the fact that the door was firmly shut, Nicola heard the summons. Ollie’s PA was doing the rounds with gusto, summoning everyone to action.

  The adrenalin ebbed away. Nicola had already deleted this morning’s email with ‘This Week’s Advent Calendar – Christmas Jumper Day!’ in the subject line, hoping that by doing so, it would just go away. She opened up her diary, but even that had conspired against her. For the first time all day, it was clear. Nicola skimmed her emails frantically – there must be something needing her immediate attention or an emergency conference call—

  A knock on the door and Chrissie, her PA, poked her head into the office. ‘Come on, Nicola, it’s time.’ Chrissie’s voice was gratingly cheerful. She was wearing a light blue jumper with a fuzzy white penguin on it, the eyes and scarf done in sequins. She also had a clip in her white hair with a sprig of sparkly holly on it. That hair clip reminded Nicola of the women in the choir at Waterloo Station, and then, by association, the choir director – with his bright festive gloves and amused dark eyes. Maybe he hadn’t been laughing at her – who knows? Either way, she still felt ashamed and angry whenever she thought about the scene she’d made, three nights ago now. She’d been feeling low ever since, but that couldn’t be blamed solely on what had happened at the station. That was down to the choices she’d made.

  ‘I can’t, Chrissie,’ Nicola said. ‘I’ve got things I need to finish up.’

  Chrissie put her hands on her hips and scowled in a very unfestive manner. ‘It’s mandatory,’ she said, ‘CEO’s orders. Now, come along and at least have a glass of mulled wine.’

  Nicola got slowly to her feet and picked up her phone from the desk. Even though she towered over Chrissie in her Jimmy Choo stilettos, she still felt like a naughty child being sent before the headmistress. For all her bluster and froth, Chrissie had a tough streak that Nicola liked and admired. Chrissie had been working at Privé Capital for over twenty years. This place was her life, which was something Nicola could relate to. And at this moment, she could tell that Chrissie wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  ‘One glass. Then some of us have work to do,’ Nicola said pointedly. It was ridiculous the amount of time-wasting that went on around the office at this time of year. Deals needed to close by year-end, and it fell to people like her – people without other commitments – to get them done. Another tick against Christmas, in her mind, at least.

  ‘Yes, Ms Scrooge. And if you go without a jumper, it’ll cost you a pound. I’ve got an extra one at my desk if you want to borrow it.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ Nicola said.

  Chrissie gave an exasperated little sigh and tsk and walked out of Nicola’s office. Her penguin jumper had a white pompom stuck on the back – the penguin’s tail. Not that real penguins had tails like that. The jumper was probably made in some sweat shop in Bangladesh by women chained to sewing machines who’d never even seen a proper picture of a penguin, let alone a real one. She’d have to point that out to Chrissie.

  As Nicola made her way down the hall, she felt more and more tense and on edge. Around the corner, a bottle of champagne popped and there were cheers. Then, someone started an up-tempo round of ‘Jingle Bells’. Her head began to ache. She went around the corner and saw a large gathering of people midway down the corridor. Just about everyone had on a tacky Christmas jumper: elf jumpers, Christmas tree jumpers, two other penguin jumpers identical to Chrissie’s.

  Ollie’s door had been decorated with red and green tinsel garlands and a sprig of mistletoe was hanging in the centre. Just outside, a table had been set up with mulled wine, mince pies, a charity collection box and some homemade-looking biscuits in the shape of angels, stockings, snowmen and bells. That was how ‘Advent Calendar’ worked. In mid-November, a calendar went up in the kitchen at Privé Capital and people would sign up for each day of advent. Each person would have a little – or not so little – ‘do’ outside his or her office or cubicle. What might once have started out as an informal holiday bonding event had spiralled out of control. Now, the partners and executives tried to outdo each other with festive holiday tat. Last year, Brian, the CEO, had brought in an entire hunk of venison, had it begrudgingly cooked by catering, and carved it in front of his office. Icicle lights, smoke machines, full-sized trees, chocolate fountains, a visit from Father Christmas… nothing was too over-the-top.

  Nicola never signed up. For one thing, she was too busy. For another, she despised the fact that because she was a woman, she was expected to want to participate in the proliferation of Christmas cheer.

  Her phone vibrated with a text.

  Meet me under the mistletoe? – O

  Nicola didn’t even feel a trickle of joy. Ever since Ollie had cancelled on her, they’d barely spoken or had any contact. In the past, such a thing would have set her on edge – worrying, fretting, feeling insecure. Now, though, she just felt numb.

  The singing finally fizzled out. She joined the throng near the back. As soon as she’d seen Ollie’s name up on that damn calendar, she should have made a plan to avoid this particular do. For the most part, she had no problem interacting with Ollie as a colleague around the office. But this was different. Nicola could almost sense the presence of Ollie’s wife – no doubt she had done all the shopping for food and decorations – and his kids had decorated the biscuits.

  She moved through the sea of PAs and analysts towards the wine station. Nearby, Ollie was chatting with another partner and two junior associates. Ollie’s Christmas jumper was red, with a lopsided Christmas pudding on it that l
ooked hand-knit. His wife again, no doubt. Nicola took a plastic cup of mulled wine and drank it down quickly – she could barely even sew on a button let alone knit a jumper. She grabbed a second cup of wine.

  ‘Isla’s really looking forward to the nativity play this year,’ Ollie was saying, a mince pie in one hand and a cup of mulled wine in the other. ‘She’s going to be the Angel Gabriel. And Chloe’s helping make the costumes. All the stuff behind the scenes is so important—’

  Ollie noticed her standing there just as she’d heard enough and felt her drink go down the wrong way—

  ‘Nicola! Good – you’re here!’

  She turned around to see Brian, the CEO, coming up to her. In his late fifties with thinning white hair combed over his scalp, he was wearing what was by far the tackiest jumper of all – Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer with a fat light-up nose.

  ‘Hi Brian.’ The jumper aside, at least he would want an update on work. ‘Things went well today with “Timeless”. I think Carl will be ready to sign before—’

  ‘Where’s your jumper, Nicola?’ Brian interrupted. Unlike the looks she was used to getting from other men, his gaze downwards at her chest held no ulterior motive.

  ‘Forgot it at home,’ she said with a shrug. So much for talking shop.

  ‘Too bad. But look at this.’ Brian pressed a button somewhere, and Rudolph’s antlers began to twinkle with fairy lights. ‘Pretty cool, huh. Melissa made it herself.’

  Brian’s wife was an interior designer, and this just proved what Nicola had thought all along from the choice of ties she bought him – that she really had the most appalling taste.

  ‘Look, she used battery-powered lights.’ He held up the hem of his jumper and Nicola saw the strings of lights taped to the underside.

  In spite of everything, Nicola had to laugh. The CEO of one of London’s most exclusive private equity boutiques was wired up like a suicide bomber!

  ‘Um, very tasteful,’ Nicola said. ‘I’m sure you’ll win the prize for best jumper – what is it? – two years in a row.’

  ‘Three,’ Brian corrected. ‘Speaking of which, Ollie’s just reminded me that it’s been a while since we had the pleasure of you doing an Advent Calendar, Nicola.’ Brian’s enthusiasm was bad enough, but the fact that Ollie had a hand in it annoyed her no end.

  ‘All the places were taken before I could sign up.’ Nicola wasn’t quite sure why she was lying. Probably because Brian seemed so genuinely clueless – the holiday season seemed to do that to people.

  ‘Well, you may be in luck,’ Brian said. ‘Charlie’s mum is getting in just before Christmas to have her hip done. He was down for the twenty-second. You’re the only partner who’s not signed up. So we’ll need you to work some holiday magic.’

  ‘Brian, you know I’m not good at that kind of thing,’ Nicola began, knowing it was futile. That day, of all days. Fuck. Well, she wouldn’t do it.

  Brian gave her a fatherly look. ‘You know, Nicola, you are in such a unique position. To be a mentor and a role model. I mean, look around you.’ He waved his hand. ‘The campaign to recruit more women has really taken off. And when those junior analysts see you, they want to be you. Have it all, just like you do – or could, if you wanted to.’

  Nicola gripped the empty plastic cup so hard that it popped. Brian knew damn well that she didn’t have it all. Far from it. And one thing she’d never be was a role model. She did what she had to do in order to succeed and do her job. Despite the fact that Privé specialised in finance for fashion and luxury brands that might appeal to women, behind the scenes it was still a difficult, sexist environment. Just like the earlier exchange with Carl, for her it had become almost unconscious: dressing the part, keeping just the right side of the line between flirty and professional – occasionally crossing over when required. Hardly something to be encouraged at a brown bag lunch for female empowerment.

  ‘Brian, I don’t want to do an Advent Calendar.’ She heard the pleading note in her own voice. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not my thing. I’m sure you can find someone else who’d love to do it.’ She indicated the Christmas jumper brigade, snapping selfies and getting increasingly rowdy with the mulled wine.

  ‘Come on, Nicola. It’s fun. And so good for morale. I’ll tell Chrissie that we’re all systems go, ready for take-off.’ With a full-on grin, he pressed the button and Rudolph’s lights twinkled again. To her relief, he turned to speak to someone else.

  Nicola tossed the broken cup in the bin and began contemplating her exit. An arm brushed hers – Ollie’s. He’d heard the whole conversation with Brian, she realised. All that rubbish about being a female role model. How he must be laughing.

  ‘You OK, Nic?’ He held out a new cup of wine.

  ‘Not really,’ Nicola said, taking the cup. ‘Nice jumper, by the way. Did your wife knit it?’

  He gave her that cocky grin she used to love, but at this moment, set her teeth on edge. ‘Her mum, actually.’

  ‘Great.’ Nicola felt a helpless surge of rage. ‘You must really love Advent Calendar, Ollie.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Bringing in all this tat, having the darling little angels decorate the biscuits. Why don’t you take on the twenty-second too, since it’s so much fun?’

  ‘Well, it is, I mean, I love Christmas.’ Ollie looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Don’t you?’

  Her hand shook with the urge to tip the cup of sweet, sticky red wine straight into his face. Mustering as much dignity as she could, she turned and walked away.

  5

  Dmitri poured boiling water over the black tea leaves in the pot, stirred in two teaspoons of strawberry jam and put the lid on for it to steep. He took out a glass from the cupboard and sat down at the table. The little tree made him smile – Tanya had bought it for the table and decorated it with iced gingerbread hearts and stars. It was a nice thing, especially since she was home so rarely. Most nights she stayed with Mark, her boyfriend, at his place. Mark owned the bakery and they’d been together for almost three years.

  Dmitri now mostly saw his sister at choir rehearsals and at the pub afterwards. She’d been very bright and cheerful for the last several days – since the night of the carolling at the station, he thought.

  For him, the opposite was true. As much as he tried to hide it from everyone, the holiday blues had set in like a thick, impenetrable fog.

  In the end, he’d gone home that night after the pub. Gone home to the flat and sat downstairs, drank tea and thought about the woman at the station – ‘The Heckler’ – what she’d said and done, and why she’d unsettled him. Wondering why at this time of year, even when he was busy and so often surrounded by people, the dark hours seemed so long.

  He looked up at the pictures on the wall above the table. Pictures of his mother: some on her own, some with her long-time partner, Phil. Photos of Dmitri dressed in his black tie and tailcoat, getting ready for a choir performance; Tanya and their mother standing on the risers, singing; Tanya, kneading bread, her face covered with flour as she made a funny face at the camera; the three of them eating ice cream in St James’ Park. The most recent photo had been taken a few months before their mother’s death, just over three years ago now. The oldest of the photos had been taken when Dmitri was about twenty, not long after they’d come to the UK. There were no photos of before, no photos of his father. It was like the time he’d spent in Russia – over half his life – had never been.

  When they’d first come to England, his mother had exchanged the roubles she’d had left for exactly eighty-two pounds. He remembered their arrival in London, his first impressions as they got off the bus: the rain, the cloying greyness – so different from the vast skies and snowy expanses of home. Those early days had been hard, but they were luckier than many and had met people who had helped them. People like his friend Kolya at the mission. Now, seventeen years later, the difficult times were like a hazy nightmare only half-remembered. There was so much to be thankful for.

  He took out his phone and
went through his schedule for the upcoming week. Private singing lessons at the local sixth form, children’s choir rehearsal at a prep school in Wimbledon and two other local schools. Music had been both his doom and his salvation, but now, he mostly saw it as the latter. In his early twenties, he’d worked two menial jobs, studying at night to get a degree in music education. From there, he’d never looked back. He loved working with the children – loved their energy and innocent enthusiasm – almost more than the adult choir. When she was annoyed with him, Tanya would say that he was still the same nineteen-year-old boy who had come here so many years ago. She was right… and wrong.

  He scrolled on. Tonight, rehearsal began at seven o’clock. If he left now, he might have time to go for a run or the gym. The choir was rehearsing the Messiah, one of his favourite pieces of choral music. He’d been rehearsing the soloists for two months now, but the choruses still needed more work—

  The key turned in the back door. Tanya came inside, a little out of breath, hefting two large carrier bags.

  Smiling, he stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Tanusha,’ he said. ‘I was not expecting you.’ He spoke in English. Tanya had struggled to learn the language when they had first arrived, and it had long since become a habit. He took the bags from her and lifted them on to the worktop. ‘What is this?’ he said.

  ‘Some mince pies for tonight,’ Tanya said. ‘And because I’m sure you have nothing in there.’ She pointed to the fridge, walked over and opened it. Rounding back on him, she tsked and shook her head. ‘Anyone would think you were still in Russia.’

  He gave her the goofy smile that had made her laugh when they were kids. Shit, he’d been meaning to stop and get some food, but he’d been too busy. The jar of jam, half a loaf of bread and an unopened pack of cheese were unlikely to impress Tanya, who loved to cook and bake.