Moonlight on the Thames

by Lauren Westwood

  She also searched the web for more about the Care charity and pulled up their latest statutory accounts from Companies House. The charity seemed to be in difficult financial straits. How many homeless people and refugees this Christmas were going to be on the streets when Care had to start closing its shelters? It wasn’t something she wanted to think about. Yet from what she’d seen of the management at the Richmond shop, it was hardly surprising.

  The manager. Oh God. Dmitri had mentioned the fact that she, ‘The Heckler’, had been spotted by someone in the choir, but why, of all the flaming people in the borough of Richmond, did she have to have run into that particular man? Would he share this new ‘funny story’ down the pub after the next bout of carolling? Would Dmitri laugh, or show no interest at all? She’d already been dubbed ‘The Heckler’. What would it be now: the ‘Knicker Queen’ or ‘Santa’s Little Helper’? Fuck.

  To prepare for the call, she poured herself a glass of wine, printed and read through the info memo. The words on the page, the columns of numbers, the facts and figures, calmed her a little. She finished reading the document just before eleven. Two hours later, when the call ended, her head was drooping from exhaustion, but at least it had been a much-needed, if temporary, distraction. She made herself a cup of lapsang souchong tea and took it to her bedroom, breathing in the steam and almost burning her throat on the hot, smoky-tasting liquid. She lay down in bed but sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, she got up and plugged her phone into the adaptor of her surround-sound music system. Turning off the light, she lay in the dark, floating in a sea… of Rachmaninov, Chopin, Beethoven… until the early hours of the morning.

  *

  He’d broken his promise to fill in the application, but what did it matter? It was four o’clock in the morning before Dmitri finally left the church, and the piano. It was freezing and he’d had to wait twenty minutes for the night bus. His hands ached, his neck ached. But still, it had been worth it.

  He’d been in a bad mood after the conversation with Phil – ashamed of his own behaviour at alienating a man who’d done so much for him. And hearing about Irina…

  It had taken all his willpower to go up to the choir loft and open the lid of the grand piano. He sat down and adjusted the bench, took off his gloves and began to play. As his fingers took on a life of their own, his muscles striving to remember what had once been second nature, his mind grew quieter too. He didn’t play Rachmaninov, but tackled Chopin, another of his one-time favourites. As he launched into the Fantaisie Impromptu, he felt his hands stretching closer to their old twelve-note reach. He lost himself in the tension between the slow beauty of the middle section, and the almost infernal complexity of the allegro section.

  Moving on, he tried Pictures at an Exhibition, a virtuoso piece for solo piano that Mussorgsky composed as a tribute to an artist friend. There was a recurring promenade theme representing a person walking around a gallery in St Petersburg. Each ‘painting’: from chicks in a barnyard, to an old castle, to Baba Yaga’s hut on chicken’s legs, to the Bogatyr Gate of Kiev, was a brilliantly coloured musical motif.

  Playing through it took an almost athletic endurance, and by the time he reached the end, he was sweaty and exhausted. But as the last chords died away, he felt radioactive with adrenalin. He’d done it! It hadn’t been perfect – not by a long way. Nonetheless, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a sense of achievement. If Nicola had heard him playing like this, she would be proud of him… Nicola. The thought of her turned his fingers to ice. She would never hear him playing like this. Not now, or ever.

  Dmitri had got his things together and left the church. If Nicola had walked through the door, as she had on that one, impossible night, he would have told her to go away.

  The night bus dropped him at his stop and he walked slowly home. There were a few stars out, and the moon was bright in the sky. All the houses in the terrace were dark. He let himself inside the empty flat, went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He hadn’t eaten since—? He couldn’t remember. The flat was freezing. The heating, on a timer, had long since gone off. There would be no hot water either, but that didn’t matter. He really needed a shower.

  When the kettle boiled, he poured the water over the tea leaves to steep. Then he went to the bathroom, turned on the shower and discarded his clothes. The water was icy and felt like a million pinpricks to his skin. By the time he stepped out of the shower, he was shivering. He’d grown so soft since he’d come to this country. In his youth, hot water had been a rare luxury, and even in the dead of winter, cold or tepid baths were normal.

  He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and got out his razor. Squirting some shaving lotion on his hand, he rubbed it on to his face. He paused, looking at his hand in the mirror. Nicola had believed the story he’d told her – so he thought, anyway. Believed that it had been a silly, unfortunate accident, and that, really, everything was fine.

  But everything was not fine.

  As he picked up the razor, his eyes were drawn, as they always were, to what else he saw in the mirror. His own body, but even after all these years, the sight still horrified him.

  Skin melted and twisted into a desolate landscape of scars. Covering his chest, his forearms, his wrists, his hands – everywhere that the flames had touched as he’d crossed his arms, doubled over in agony. His torso was criss-crossed by a patchwork of scars from those months in the burns unit, when overzealous doctors had diligently – but unsuccessfully – attempted skin grafts. Even now, so many years later, the skin sometimes felt painfully tight and hot, as if his own body was consuming him from inside.

  He forced his eyes back up to his face, the part of him that the world saw, the part that made people question his ‘choice’ to be alone.

  They didn’t know what lay beneath.

  You look like a monster.

  Irina had spoken the truth that night when everything fell apart.

  He began to shave. Sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if his entire body had been consumed. If his face and manhood had gone, would he still feel this desperate, unfulfilled need for love? Or would he have been purified, like Handel wrote of the refiner’s fire?

  Of course, in hindsight, it should have been blindingly obvious that no woman, certainly not one like Irina, would want to bind herself to a freak. Everyone: his mother, Phil – even Tanya, had warned him that the relationship was doomed from the start. They’d said it in different ways: Irina was from a different world, Irina was young and naïve, or, in the words of Tanya, Irina was an ice queen and a pig. But he’d been so crazy, stupid in love. In his mind, he’d built her up as the perfect woman – one who, like his mother and sister, would love him despite his disfigurement. But she was his fiancée, not his mother or sister. She needed – expected – different things.

  It never should have got as far as it did. In the normal course of things, he would have taken Irina out a few times; they would have gone to bed – or not. Either way they would have got the measure of each other much sooner. As it was, he did take her out. They had a good time. All the people who had warned him about her didn’t realise that underneath that ice-queen exterior, she could be warm and funny, accepting of the fact that their circumstances were very different. They’d been like any other young couple, he thought. In love with the idea of the other. They’d fooled around, of course, but Irina was a devout Catholic and wanted to stay a virgin until marriage. He’d obliged her by asking, giving her a ring that had belonged to his grandmother, one of the few things of value that they’d brought with them from Russia. Putting that ring on her finger… it was by far the best moment of his life. She’d kissed him goodbye and left to go back to uni. They’d kept in touch every day by email, and she’d agreed to set a date when she graduated. And then, she would be his.

  That day had never come.

  She’d seemed different that final year when she came home for Christmas break. He remembered feeling worried
but didn’t want to admit it. For one thing, she was busy with family and friends, and he’d barely seen her. When he did see her, she wasn’t wearing the ring. To keep it safe, she’d said. Then, one night just before New Year’s, she came to see him. She’d been out drinking with friends and had acted like her old self. And she was wearing the ring. He’d been so happy; he’d showered her with words of love and she’d rewarded him. She’d seemed up for anything that night, and it was she who had suggested they lie naked next to each other in his bed. It was she who had taken off his shirt in the circle of light given off by the bedside lamp.

  In hindsight, he didn’t blame her. The look of horror on her face. She’d known that he had burns on his chest – back then, he hadn’t kept that a secret. But he had never shown her. That sound that caught in her throat… She’d thrown herself off him and put her top back on with frantic haste. And then her parting words: ‘You look like a monster.’ The ring left on the bedside table…

  Afterwards, she’d sent an email of apology, tried to smooth things over. They had grown apart; there were things he should have told her about sooner. Her feelings had changed. She really was very sorry; it was nobody’s fault—

  But it was someone’s fault. His fault. In the aftermath, Dmitri had spiralled downwards to the darkest place he’d ever been. Irina had changed him. He’d seen himself through her eyes. And was disgusted by what he saw.

  He frowned so deeply that his face twitched and he nicked himself with the razor. A small cut on his cheek began to drip blood. He let it drip, watched as the tiny droplet rolled down his face and plopped into the sink.

  Irina had got married to Andrew, an American friend from uni, not even six months later. Her parents threw the happy couple a big Catholic wedding at a cathedral in North London. As family friends, Phil and Marina had been obliged to attend. Dmitri had been sent to stay with Kolya, who’d been charged with making sure he didn’t do something stupid. Though he’d barely touched alcohol since leaving Russia, he’d found solace in vodka, longing to escape the pain through oblivion. Kolya had poured bottle after bottle down the sink, even locked him in a room like a prisoner. But by then Dmitri had become resigned to the course of his life. He would never love again, never allow anyone close enough to hurt him again.

  He finished shaving, put the razor away and stuck a piece of toilet roll over the cut. It was always a relief to get dressed. Even in the height of summer he always wore long sleeves, and he had never let a woman see or touch him without his shirt. He put on a T-shirt and a long-sleeved pullover. Now the man reflected back looked completely normal. He left the bathroom to get a few hours of sleep before it was time to start another day.

  Part IV

  ‘The wolf took Ivan to the ends of the earth, to the enchanted realm of the sorcerer. In the dead of night he entered the forbidden palace. His eyes were blinded by the sight of the bird in all her fiery glory, imprisoned in a golden cage. She wept molten tears and sang a mournful song, bewitching him.

  “I will free you!” Ivan whispered.

  But just then, the sorcerer came upon them.

  “You will never free her,” the sorcerer said, his eyes dark and dead like burned-out coals. “Because only the greatest act of love will free her. Are you so brave and so foolish, young Ivan, that you are willing to take her place?”

  “No,” cried the bird, imploring him. “Do not do this!”

  But young Ivan, so brave and foolish, did not listen. He remembered the old man and the old woman and their daughter Snegurochka. He threw himself against the bars of the golden cage, where he was consumed by tongues of flame, and the Firebird’s blazing heart.’

  – ‘The Firebird’, The Anthology of Russian Tales

  21

  7th December

  ‘Chrissie, do you have a minute?’

  Nicola ignored a familiar tug of annoyance as Chrissie looked up, startled. Not from doing any work, but from the conversation she was having with the two other PAs.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll be there in a second.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Nicola went into her office and shut the door. She took a sip of coffee, so hot it burned her throat, but she’d been up most of the night, and right now she needed a jolt of energy. It was Monday morning, and the week was going to be busy closing the ‘Timeless’ deal. Thankfully, Ollie was in Frankfurt for the early part of the week. There was bound to be a break in the barrage of texts, and she could put off the conversation that needed to be had.

  In fact, she had no idea how Ollie would react when she told him things were over. Their ‘relationship’, such as it was, had gone on for a long time. She hoped that the ending would be quick and easy; a little death.

  The door opened and Chrissie came in carrying her notebook. She was wearing a black pencil skirt, sensible M&S court shoes and a blue chenille jumper with gold, purple and green stars embroidered on it. Chrissie really did have the largest collection of Christmas jumpers that Nicola had ever seen. This was by far one of the more tasteful ones.

  ‘Shut the door, please,’ Nicola said, taking another sip of coffee.

  The older woman did so and sat down in the visitor chair opposite the desk. ‘You OK, Nicola?’ she said. ‘You look a little tired.’

  ‘I had a late-night call with New York. But, guess what, Chrissie,’ Nicola gave her a sly smile, ‘I’ve got a special project for you.’

  ‘A project?’ Chrissie looked wary.

  ‘A special project.’ Nicola leaned forward. ‘One that I think you’ll like.’ Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she explained what she needed Chrissie to do.

  ‘OK…’ Her PA’s eyes got rounder and wider as she listened. ‘So you’re saying that you want me to go on eBay – during work time – and see if this charity called Care has any listings?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve told me that sometimes charity shops list things, right? So see if this one does.’

  ‘Some of the charities are also signed up to get a percentage of private listings.’

  ‘What?’ Nicola frowned.

  ‘You can list things, and give, for example, ten per cent of the proceeds to charity. I can check if Care is one of the ones listed. Amazon has a programme too, I think.’

  ‘Yes, do that. And I want a full set of their accounts printed off. And if there’s a set for the Richmond shop, I want that too. Give the head office a call if necessary. Finally, I want to know what this stuff is worth – roughly.’ She handed Chrissie the list she’d made in the middle of the night. A list of most of the clothing that she owned, including quite a few pairs of her beloved shoes.

  Chrissie frowned down at the list. ‘Am I allowed to ask what this is about?’

  Nicola turned in her chair, looking sideways out the window. The sky was hazy and grey. From this high up, the rest of London looked far away. With a long sigh – she knew this was bound to be a mistake – Nicola recounted to Chrissie the overview of her weekend adventure at the charity shop. Minus the part about the knickers and the Christmas decorations.

  By the time she turned back, Chrissie was trying hard, she could see, not to laugh. ‘So, let me get this straight. You went to a charity shop, took over, made a sale and helped them get the shop tidied up for the holidays.’

  ‘I directed them to tidy it up.’ Nicola lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘And you’d better not breathe a word about it to anyone.’

  ‘Mum’s the word.’ Chrissie put a finger to her lips.

  Yeah right, Nicola thought, ruing the bad decision she’d made to tell Chrissie the ins and outs.

  ‘But what about the clothes? You want me to list this stuff for you? You’ll need to take photos.’

  ‘Right now, I’m not sure what I’m doing. The charity seems to be haemorrhaging money. I just want to see the full set of accounts. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’m hoping I’ll know it when I see it. In the meantime, if I do drop anything off at the shop, I want to know what the price ought to be, becau
se Shelley and Charles certainly don’t.’

  ‘Got it,’ Chrissie said, raising a bemused eyebrow.

  ‘And while you’re at it, get me a rundown on Privé’s charity donations. It’s all good and well making a few quid from Christmas jumpers, but I want the complete picture of the corporate contributions. Are we giving enough, taking advantage of all the tax breaks – that sort of thing. Ask Brian’s PA.’

  Chrissie made another note on her list. ‘And can I ask what has prompted this sudden new interest, Nicola?’ she said.

  Fragments of the Saturday, which she’d omitted entirely from her account to Chrissie, flashed into her mind. The music of the carousel, the view from the bridge, the smell of the soup kitchen, Kolya, the voice of an angel, moonlight on water, snow swirling behind glass. His lips on hers, energy flowing through her body like a lightning rod. She swallowed hard and swept them away into a corner of her mind. Yes, those things made a difference, she supposed. But this project – if it could be called that, and if she was really going to take it on – was not because of any of those things.

  ‘It’s the right thing do to,’ Nicola said.

  ‘OK.’ Chrissie gave her a maddening little wink. ‘Is there anything else for now?’

  ‘No.’

  Chrissie stood up to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ Nicola said.

  Chrissie paused at the door.

  ‘How’s your family doing?’

  ‘My family?’ Chrissie looked utterly surprised at the question. Nicola tried to remember the last time she’d asked Chrissie – anything, really. She couldn’t do so. It was probably too late to make up for lost time, but right now, she felt determined to try.

  ‘Yes. Is everyone all ready for Christmas? Are you having it at your house?’

  ‘Well…’ She hesitated. ‘Yes. My daughters are coming down from Sheffield. One of them is bringing a boyfriend.’

  Nicola smiled at Chrissie’s clear motherly concern.