by Thomas Waugh
Grace yawned again, for real, but still, she worked through a couple more emails on her tablet. She was starting a small business and was conscious that people would soon be relying on her for their livelihoods. It felt good to be doing something different. She breathed in the air when getting off the plane. It wasn’t the cleanest air in the world. But it was home. She was free.
For too long the fashion model had lived in a gilded cage. She lived in an apartment overlooking Central Park. She had a personal assistant, branding manager and cleaner. She could secure tickets to whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. Most of her clothes were given to her. She dated actors and dot.com millionaires, who thought that the size of their bank accounts could compensate them for being morally bankrupt. Most of her dates were arranged through publicists. She ate at the finest restaurants (although she had to severely limit what she could eat), holidayed in the best resorts. Photos of dates were leaked to the press. She was an ornament to most of her boyfriends, to be shown off and displayed like a diamond engagement ring. Everyone said how “fabulous” and “gorgeous” she was, as if a Chorus to her life. Most days were spent reading, going to the gym in her apartment building and attending meetings, photoshoots and fashion shows. Foul, egotistical photographers would hit on her as par for the course. The only ones who didn’t were the pederasts. Cocaine was placed on glass coffee tables in front of her, far more than cups of coffee. Friends constantly popped pills and attended therapy, believing that they were tortured and interesting. A gilded cage is still a cage. Grace had begun to hate her life – and herself – in New York. She wanted to turn the page. It was good to be back in England. Back for good. She missed marmalade, the countryside and sarcasm.
Grace finally turned off her tablet and drifted off to sleep, debating to herself whether she preferred Shakespeare or Chekhov.
11.
Marshal, as per the itinerary Grace emailed him with, was waiting in the car at 7.00. There was a chill in the air, not just emanating from his passenger. The former model wore a cream blouse and pencil skirt, which showed off her tanned legs and the svelte lines of her figure. She wore little make-up. Her hair was pinned up. She issued a formal “good morning” and offered up another forced smile, before sitting in the back and immersing herself in her tablet.
She tapped away furiously, as well as took a series of calls. Half her conversations were with estate agents, relating to buying a property in the Chiswick and Turnham Green area of London. Grace was precise, clinical, with her instructions. Her budget was two million. She wanted a garden, and to be in walking distance from the river. She also wanted sufficient room to have two spare bedrooms for guests, and an office. Other calls were devoted to Grace setting-up a business, a shop located in Chiswick. She received one call from a friend.
Grace didn’t have time for any small talk with her driver. Or she didn’t want to apportion any time for it. Occasionally she sighed, when the car slowed to a crawl, for being caught in traffic. She kept herself to herself, which was fine by Marshal as he did the same. Some clients in the past endlessly talked, or boasted, to the driver about their life. Or they thought that the Jaguar was some kind of confessional. At least there was no danger of the model getting drunk, overeating and being sick in the back of the vehicle. Marshal craved a cigarette but sensed his passenger would complain if he lit up or opened a window. He was mindful of not driving too fast or too slowly. Goldilocks in the back would want things just right, he mused.
The weather was clement. A canary-yellow sun hung in the sky. Wisps of clouds marked a shimmering blue sky. He did his best to tune out the growling traffic and abrasive car horns, full of sound and fury – signifying nothing.
Marshal thought about Delroy Onslow. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. The West Indian gangster had come over from Jamaica in his teens. He wasn’t quite the Windrush generation. Onslow had been in and out of prison in his twenties, for various drug and violent offences. For the past ten years, however, Onslow had got smart, and rich, off the back of the capital’s appetite for weed and cocaine. He brought over an army of personnel from Jamaica. He was also rumoured to have recruited a number of small youth gangs in South London, who distributed product and attacked rival teen gangs. He owned a nightclub in New Cross, The Rum Punch, as well as a West Indian bakery. Onslow was on the backfoot, in relation to his turf war with the Albanians. He could be desperate rather than defeated. He could use an ally, although Marshal wondered if he could trust the gangster. Similarly, why should Onslow trust him? He could well suffer a beating, or worse, if he just walked into the Jamaican’s club and presented himself to the psychotic crime boss. Marshal also didn’t want his ears assaulted by the grime and drill music they reportedly played at The Rum Punch.
Whilst gridlocked in traffic outside of Hammersmith, Marshal tracked his recent online purchases. They were due to arrive tomorrow. He had arranged for his neighbour to accept the parcels for him.
Marshal’s first stop was at the estate agents, Biddingtons, on Chiswick High St. Grace asked Marshal to wait in the car. The large glass front of the outlet meant that Marshal could observe the whole office leap up from their chairs to greet the minor celebrity (and client, looking to spend two million pounds on a property). From their body language alone, he could discern their attitudes. Some leered. Some fawned, wringing their hands and bowing their heads slightly. A couple of attractive women offered the model a less welcoming expression, when Grace’s back was turned. Marshal found their reactions amusing and contemptible in equal measure.
He welcomed the break and smoked a couple of cigarettes in a row, before heading across the road to grab a coffee. Marshal shunned the chains to pop into an independent shop. The morning rush had ended. A father, with his toddler son, sat in the corner. A couple of postmen stood waiting for their order, either winding down from a shift or gearing up for one. Marshal asked for a black coffee and then headed to the facilities at the back of the establishment.
He entered the white-tiled toilets. There were two cubicles and three urinals. There were also two youths – one black, one white – by the sinks, bending over and doing a line of cocaine. Marshal sighed. His shoulders slumped and he rolled his eyes. Disappointment eclipsed anger. He wondered if he went looking for trouble, or trouble found him. The black twenty-year-old, Trevor (he gave himself the more glamorous nickname of “MC Razor”), had the taut, wiry build of a welterweight. A logo, which Marshal didn’t recognise, had been shaven into his head. He was wearing a black tracksuit, high-top trainers and a baseball cap (back to front, of course). He was dressed like a Scouser, which was crime enough for Marshal. His pasty friend next to him, Nigel, was wearing Lycra cycling shorts and a waterproof jacket, with a “Radiohead” concert t-shirt underneath. A trendy record bag and Giro cycling helmet lay at his feet. Marshal suspected that the gangly, lank-haired adolescent was a bicycle courier, student or, God help him, he worked in the media. His cheeks were hollowed out. A small earring hung out of his left cheek. He appeared half spaced-out and stared at Marshal as if he was trying to bring him into focus.
“Fuck off, or I’ll cut ya,” Trevor warned, his eyes bloodshot. Wired. The plumber’s son from Ealing put on his best patois accent.
“You haven’t seen nothing,” Nigel added, slightly slurring his words.
Marshal wasn’t quite sure what irritated him more, the insult, threat or use of the double negative. He thought how the likes of Luka Rugova only existed because of the likes of the two specimens in front of him. He pictured the scene of the father and son outside walking in on the pair – and being threatened and suffering abuse. Somehow the possible bike courier represented every self-righteous, fascistic cyclist who ever jumped a red light or wore a GoPro camera.
“Drugs can be bad for your health,” Marshal drily advised. He would have found it difficult to remove the mocking tone from his voice, even if he tried to.
Trevor walked, or rather strutted, over to the stranger. The drugs emb
oldened the youth to front up to Marshal. He could smell weed on his breath.
Nigel nervously sniggered. He wanted his friend to shame and humiliate the straight-laced guy in the suit, to send him packing so he could do another line.
“I can be bad for your fucking health, bruv,” the drug dealer exclaimed, as he started to suck air through his teeth. He was angry at the stranger for disturbing them. He was just about to convince his regular customer to buy what he called a “bargain bucket”. Five grams of coke for £200. Before he could finish sucking air through his teeth and make a dismissive kissing sound, however, Marshal delivered a brutal haymaker and floored the youth, like a middleweight knocking out a welterweight. The ex-Para, who had experienced plenty of bouts of milling over the years, knew how to direct a powerful punch without injuring his own hand. The sound of the stranger’s fist crunching against the cartilage in his friend’s nose made Nigel’s stomach turn.
He wasn’t sniggering any more, but gulping, as Marshal approached and came into focus. His muscles twitched around his mouth and he let out a whimper. Marshal glanced at the aluminium foil, razor blade and remnants of a line of cocaine on the sink top. The sight disgusted and angered him. He also noticed an enamel badge on the cyclist’s jacket, “Jeremy Corbyn is Our Saviour,” as he grabbed the druggie by the throat, as if he were a scrawny-necked chicken, and shoved him against the wall. Nigel’s bladder gave way a little. His face was contorted in dread, whilst Marshal’s expression remained almost equitable, as the soldier covered the youth’s mouth with one hand and pulled the earring out of his cheek with the other. Despite muffling the scream, the snivelling was still audible. The small tearing sound of the skin was succeeded by a jet of blood spitting across the toilet and marking the white-tiled floor.
“I did warn you that drugs can be bad for your health,” Marshal remarked, before dropping the earring in the sink and walking out the room.
Marshal understandably ordered his coffee to go. He left a healthy tip for the barista, hoping the small courtesy would balance out the account for his venial sins in the toilet. He bought a couple of burner phones on the high street, headed back to the car and read a few chapters of Dostoyevsky, whilst waiting for Grace to return.
Marshal’s half-smile was made of stern stuff, and it still lined his features, despite his altercation at the coffee shop, and despite being greeted by Grace’s serious, if not stern, expression as she got in the car.
“How did your meeting go?”
“I think that every fifth word which came out of the estate agent’s mouth may have had a semblance of truth about it.” Grace replied. After being clear that she had a ceiling of two million to spend, she was exasperated to find that the cheapest property they suggested cost two and a half million. “I imagine that’s quite a high ratio in their profession.”
For once a quirky, wry half-smile broke out on the model’s face. Perhaps she did have a sense of humour, as well as a sense of style, Marshal considered.
“One in five? You may well be dealing with the most honest estate agents in the capital then. With integrity like that, they could qualify to work as a Treasury official or BBC news editor.”
“I’m not sure if it’s refreshing, or tiresome, that some things in London never change. Lies come as easily to some people as breathing. Tamara, from the agency, said she will be out in a minute or two – which probably means over five minutes – to show us to the first property,” Grace said. As she finished speaking, she noticed the paperback on the dashboard, her eyes narrowing to discern the title of the book. Her half-smile increased, and she gazed at Marshal with a sense of curiosity, instead of indifference, for once.
“What are you reading?”
“Dostoyevsky. The Idiot. It’s heartening to know that there was once someone on the planet as depressed as I am,” Marshal said, drolly. Grace couldn’t quite tell if he was being serious or not.
“I remember reading the book, many years ago. I went through a Russian phase. Tolstoy, Pushkin, Chekhov. It was all food for thought. It’s the only kind of food an agent allows a fashion model to eat,” Grace half-joked. “Not only did I love to read when waiting around on shoots – and there was plenty of waiting around – but fewer people disturb you when you appear engrossed in a book.”
“I have outlived my aspirations,
I have outloved my every dream,
Suffering is my sole persuasion,
My heart feels only what has been.
Green was my garland – it has faded,
Blown by a destiny severe,
But I live on, alone and jaded,
Wondering if my end is near.
Defeated by the autumn frost,
With winter whistling down the heath,
On a bare branch, alone and lost,
I’m a forgotten, shivering leaf.
Pushkin. I read quite a bit whilst waiting around as a soldier.”
Grace appeared astounded, if not mesmerised, by Marshal’s recital of the poem, impressed by his memory and performance. Her mouth was agape, forming a small circle, as if she were about to be kissed. Her skin tingled. His words and melancholy voice resonated, like music. Grace was used to men who could only quote Donald Trump’s tweets, or Drake lyrics.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever met a chauffeur before, who could quote Pushkin.”
“And I’ve never met a model who has read Tolstoy. It’s a novel experience.”
“Is that a bad pun?”
“No, I think it’s a terrible one. I apologise,” Marshal said, with a lop-sided grin.
Grace noticed how Marshal usually had a half-amused, or bemused, expression on his face, as if he were sharing a private joke with himself. She liked how he had the ability to laugh at the world – and himself.
“I should apologise too. I behaved pretty awfully last night, at dinner. I was far from at my best.”
“You were tired.”
“No, I was terrible. I need to get out of the professional habit of acting like a bitch. It’s almost a clause in the contract for being a model. In New York, if you don’t treat someone like shit then they’ll treat you like shit. It’s the law of the urban jungle. But it’s no excuse. Not that it’s going to wholly make it up to you, but feel free to smoke. You will be fine to open the window. It’s about time I had a bad hair day. It’s probably been fifteen years since the last one. You can play some music too. Just so long as it isn’t trance music or jazz. Or Bono. Also, I would love it if you could attend a meeting with me this afternoon. I’d welcome your opinion on a few issues. I’ll go through things when we get there, if that’s okay?”
For the first time in a long time, Marshal was curious and intrigued. What was the meeting? What advice did she want?
“Just so long as you know beforehand that my opinion will probably be ill-informed and underwhelming.”
“With qualifications like that, you could well get a job as a Treasury official or estate agent.”
Marshal grinned again. They both did. During the rest of the day, he would infrequently look in his rear-view mirror and snatch clandestine glances at his passenger. His features remained impassive, masking the fact that Grace was beginning to impress him. She sometimes appeared pensive, or wistful. They were not the expressions he usually associated with fashion models, he somewhat uncharitably thought. Like Grace Wilde, James Marshal was not immune to pride and prejudice.
12.
Tamara, a thirty-year-old platinum blonde wearing a short skirt, silk-like suit jacket and cherry-red blouse, came out ten minutes later. Her heels clicked on the pavement, her perfume scented the air more than Marshal’s cigarette smoke. She was pretty, busty, fake-tanned. Either consciously or consciously, she walked like Barbara Windsor – her hips pneumatically powering the rest of her body. Her eyelashes were false, and Tamara had expertly applied lipstick to make her mouth seem fuller, riper. She smiled broadly, winningly, and Marshal imagined that she had worked as an air stewardess in a previous
life. Tamara greeted the driver with a sunnier attitude to that of her client, eyeing up Marshal like a new property that had come onto the market.
“If you would like to follow me. It’s only a short drive to the first viewing. If you get lost, just call me,” Tamara brightly remarked, handing her card to the attractive chauffeur. She liked the way his body filled out his suit. His car was reasonably expensive. But his watch was very expensive, she noted. No wedding ring either. Not that it would much matter.
“Thanks, Tamara,” Marshal replied, flashing a smile which was bright and friendly too.
“Ciao for now,” the estate agent said, fluttering her elongated eyelashes, before using her well-oiled hips to walk to her white Audi TT, two cars down.
Grace refrained from taking out her tablet during the drive. Perhaps she thought the journey would be short. Or perhaps she didn’t wish to be rude – and wanted to chat to Marshal more. She asked him a few questions. Where did he live in London? When did he first meet Oliver? Marshal duly took an interest in Grace in return. How long had she lived in New York for? What did she miss most about being away from England?
The conversation flowed, with the ease of a babbling brook. They made each other laugh, more than once. Grace thought him smart, self-effacing. He was attractive, without being vain. Confident without being arrogant. When Grace laughed or cracked a joke Marshal noticed how her refined accent slipped a little and the girl from Southend could be glimpsed behind the couture model. But he liked that.
Marshal waited in the car again as they arrived at the townhouse on Airedale Avenue and Tamara showed Grace the property. He tried to read but found himself distracted. Not by Albanian gangsters. But by Grace. When he first met “the English rose” the previous evening Marshal had judged her as being thorny. But he had been wrong. Or at best only half-right. She had a softer, wittier, wiser side, he realised. Not many fashion models, let alone people he knew, had read War & Peace and could quote Milton.