But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before.
All at once am I, seven storeys high.
Knowing I’m on the street where you live.
She began to riff on it, changing it, jazzing it. Soon she was lost in the improv, the tune a distant thread, there and not. Her fingers moved faster and faster, other instruments in her head, taking up her idea, running with it. She reached the point where she could pull her fingers away and still hear them. Hear the clarinetist taking over, soloing for a few bars, going higher into a series of shrieks. It took her a while to realize they were car horns. She got up, went to the balcony.
In the street, a jam. A delivery van was in front of the small grocery store, rear ramp down. Its driver, ignoring the chaos he was causing, had picked up another tray of baked goods from the stack, and went into the shop. A black luxury Audi was duelling to pass through the gap with a BMW coming the other way. She watched with more than simple curiosity as the white van had stopped right opposite her MG – and she perhaps had not parked it quite as flush to the kerb as she might have done. Not that Daphne would mind another scrape to her paintwork. The old girl was as battered as haddock. But both cars involved in the duel were new, black, fancy. She doubted they’d like a smear of Daphne’s rusting red on them.
The BMW surrendered, reversed. The Audi slid through, missing the MG by inches, then pulled into a parking space just beyond. For a moment she wondered if the BMW driver was going to lower his window and shout a few words. Perhaps he changed his mind when he saw the size of the man in the black suit who got out of the Audi, gave him a look, then went to the pavement side and opened the rear passenger door.
And then the BMW was gone, with Lottie’s mind anyway occupied by who the driver – chauffeur, had to be - was helping out.
The Russian escort.
Lottie stepped away from the balcony, so Sonya wouldn’t see her.
She’d forgotten her, in the words, in the music. In the farewell to Patrick. In the hello to Joe. She’d texted Sonya on a whim the night before because she’d drunk too much gin. Now she wondered. What have I done? The fuck have I done now?
Sonya looked back into the rear seat of the Audi. She’d forgotten her purse, with its accoutrements, the tools of her trade. Though most of those were for the clients she hoped to meet later in the evening, an unknown-as-yet Arab she would find in Mayfair, that film director in his ‘residency’ at the Groucho. What this girl, this Lottie, would want from her, she couldn’t know. Nothing too different, she suspected. Amidst the whirlwind in her brain, a moment of tenderness from the week before was all she could remember of her.
She leaned in for the bag. But her legs suddenly felt weak, and she kneeled on the seat.
Tadeusz was standing behind her, holding the door. He took her arm. “You okay, Tsarina?”
“I’m fine. I need just a minute.”
He glared. “That bastard client last night. The one who make you trouble.” He gestured to her cheek. “I would like to fuck him up.” He shook his head. “You take your time.”
He helped her in, closed the door, looked up and down the street, then climbed back into the driver’s seat. He studied her again in the rear-view mirror. The concern in his eyes was still there; had never left them. When he’d picked her up in Peckham, as soon as he’d seen her, the swelling around below her eye, her bruised wrist, he’d tried to get her to abandon the night’s plans and rest. But she couldn’t. If she didn’t get out tonight, she wasn’t sure she would again. And then? It was unthinkable. Everything she’d done, this whole year of whoring, a waste. Bad for her. Death for her child.
“Just a minute,” she muttered again.
He tried to distract her. “You see that fucker in the BMW, Tsarina? Coming onto my side of the road, wanting me to back up? Ha! It was, what do they all this? A Cuban stand off, eh?”
“Mexican. Mexican stand off.”
“Mexican. Is right. And me, I am… Clint Eastwood! My Audi is my six pistol, yes? “ ‘Feel lucky, punker?’ ”
She smiled. It actually hurt slightly, up the left side of her face, but it felt good. She was glad she had booked Tadeusz for the whole evening. Three hundred pounds from her profit. But if she didn’t have his car to slip into and shelter in between the gigs she had planned, she wasn’t sure she could make them.
She took a deeper breath. Reached for the door. And her phone rang. She hoped it was a client, a regular. She could do with the certainty. Then she realized it was the FaceTime sound, not the regular phone. It was her husband’s name that came up. When she clicked ‘accept’ though it wasn’t Georgiy’s face that appeared. It was his aunt’s.
“Ludmilla, what’s wrong? Is it Maria - ”
“No, no, Sonechka. She’s here, she’s…”
The screen was shifted over, to Maria at the table. “Marusya! Are you alright?”
She heard her daughter’s cry of “Mamoshka!” but didn’t see anymore as Ludmilla pulled the phone back to her own face. “It is not her. It is Gosha. He’s - ”
She hesitated, and the pause was filled with terrors. “Tell me.”
Ludmilla swallowed. “He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Not here. Gone. Not - ” The older woman swallowed. Her face, grey as a winter morning in Moscow, creased up. “He left this morning. He didn’t get Marusya from school. They called me. He hasn’t come back.”
“Have you phoned everyone? The family?”
“Of course. Went to the club he likes. Some bars. I could not - ” Tears came to her eyes, overflowed. “And I have his phone. Why does he not take his phone?”
I can guess why, Sonya thought. “Have you tried Artem?”
Ludmilla sniffed. “Who is Artem?”
“Artem Solyansky. He is an old…” she wasn’t going to say it, “… drinking buddy. From the army. He may be with him.”
“How do I find him?”
“His number will be in the phone. Call. Leave a message. And try Petya too. Petya Igorovitch. Yes, try him too.” Petya might be a better bet, she thought. He was a drinker, like them all. But he wasn’t into the smack.
“I… I will call.” Ludmilla sucked back the tears. She was tough enough, had spent time in a gulag with her parents when she was a child. “But Little Marusya is very sad.”
“I know. Put her on.”
Her daughter’s face appeared. Sonya kept her own turned half away, only showed the good side. Maria was upset enough. “Marusya. Dumpling. Everything will be fine. Daddy’s fine.”
“He was very angry, Mamoshka. I don’t know why. Maybe I was slower than usual to go to school. He left, even before the bus came. Left me at the stop. He never does that.” Tears ran from her eyes. “Will he come back soon? I want to tell him I am sorry for being so slow.”
Sonya focused hard, held back her own tears. They would not help – neither her daughter, nor her own looks, already compromised by men. “Listen to me, it is not your fault at all, my doll. Poppa is fine, he just… just needs to hang out with his friends sometimes. He’ll be back soon.”
Maria wiped a hand across her eyes. “Promise?”
“I promise. And here’s something else I promise.” She brought the screen closer to her face. “I will be home next week.”
Maria’s eyes went wide. “For a visit?”
“For good.” She raised her voice over the gasp. “And then you and I will take a trip. A wonderful trip together.”
“A trip? Where to?”
“America.”
“Am…er…ica?” She dragged out the word in her wonder. “And Poppa? Poppa comes too?”
The truth was not needed. “Of course.”
“Oh, wonderful.” Maria beamed, tears forgotten. “Auntie says I do not have to go to school tomorrow. I will make a big drawing for you and Poppa. A drawing of us at Disneyland.”
“Do that, sweetheart. Lots of colours, eh? America has… lots of colours.”
“Of course! I�
��ll start tonight. Just a little before bed. I’ll start now.”
“Do that. But not for long. You need your sleep.”
“Yes, Mamoshka.” She leaned in, and they did the three kiss thing, each side, last one on the screen. Then she ran off.
Ludmilla reappeared. “Call those numbers,” Sonya told her. “You will find him, I think. If you do not,” she ran her tongue over her lips, “try the hospitals.”
“I will. Right now.”
Without a goodbye, she hung up. Sonya held the phone to her mouth, stared at the leather seatback before her. It was even more dangerous now, the drug scene in Moscow. Anywhere. Before there were the dirty needles, the uncertain quality of the heroin, the crime. Now there was a super drug, she forgot its name. Too strong, and people died all the time, and fast.
No, Gosha, she thought. Not now. Not when we are this close.
She still didn’t allow her tears. She had more reason to cry them – and even more to keep them in. She had this night to make the money they needed. It all came down to her.
“OK, I go,” she said, grabbing her bag. Tadeusz was out in a moment, holding the door open for her. “Wish me luck.”
“Luck, Tsarina,” he said. “I can’t stay here, fucking traffic warden is giving me the funny eye. I will park up close. You call, I be here in a minute, yes?” He leaned in a little closer, his concern clear. “You sure you are ok?”
She was, now. “Yes. I’ll call. Two hours, at most.”
He nodded, got back in the Audi, started the engine. She let him pull away before crossing the street and walking up the front steps of Number 42.
17
Mr Phipps sat at the window of the pub, watching the beautiful woman walk up the steps of the house opposite. One of the other tenants, he thought. Richly dressed, as suited the area. He remembered when the Portobello was still scruffy, market stalls with a load of old tat. Decent boozers, not this gastro rubbish.
Not tenant - visitor, he realized, as he watched her press a buzzer and, after a moment, be admitted. When he’d parked the Beamer down the road – resident’s bay but it couldn’t be helped – he’d quickly walked up the steps and snapped a photo of the door entry system. He looked at it now – three names, one English, one Greek, one he didn’t know what ‘cos it was in a Middle eastern script. One just said, ‘Flat C’. Her flat, this Lottie Henshaw. Who he was collecting from.
Another light went on in the flat above ‘C’, the penthouse. The beauty had gone there, no doubt. And she’d got out of the car that had blocked him earlier, the flash Audi. Was a time when he might have stepped out of his car to remonstrate with the driver. That time when he’d have been drinking more than the lime and soda in front of him. But now, he needed to keep everything on the downlow. Besides, the Audi’s driver, who’d pulled up and opened the door for the beauty had been a wide fucker. Eastern European by his pudding face. Filling his black suit. Malcolm wide. He could be tasty, and Phipps, even if he’d been interested, knew he wasn’t at his best. His right arm was still numb, the fingers tingling when he flexed them.
Besides, attracting attention was the last thing he wanted. He needed to be in and out fast. The girl was in the house, she’d appeared on the balcony once since the duel with the Audi. Still, he’d sit and wait a little longer. He wanted to be sure – sure! – because what his daughter would call his Spidey sense had been tingling ever since he drove out of Soho. Sebastien had said they only had tonight, that the Shadows had been rumbled and only a ‘friend’ was giving them even this amount of time. But he didn’t trust Sebastien or his fucking friends. Too many people knew too much. He’d driven strange routes to get to Portobello. No one car had followed him he was pretty sure. But lots of cars had been behind him, and spotting tails wasn’t a big part of his skillset. He could kill. He could collect. And he’d probably need to do both tonight pretty sharpish.
Still he sat. He’d learned during his Para days that before you went in – to a suspected IRA farmhouse, into Argentine trenches - you always made sure there was a good line of retreat, with none of the oppo astride it. So he’d sit, watch a while longer.
He finished his drink. It tasted even blander than usual. Fuck it, he thought, and went to the bar.
“Another, sir?”
“No. Whisky and ginger.”
“We’ve a special on doubles.”
Mr Phipps shrugged. “Why not?”
By the time the lift pinged its arrival on the third floor, Sonya had herself together. The conversation with her daughter, and Georgiy’s aunt, had done that. She’d learned as a young recruit in the army: deal with what’s here, right now, right in front of you. Actually, she’d known that going into the army. Her father, by his behavior, had taught her that. Rely on no one but yourself.
She’d been playing a role for a year now in London. One more night and the acting was over.
She pushed the door open – and there she was, waiting at the end of the corridor.
“Hello,” Lottie said and stepped aside to let Sonya into the flat.
It was strange. Unless they were regulars, she would forget people quite quickly. Forget the places where she’d met them, the samey hotel rooms, or the service flats in mansion blocks that were her main arenas. But step back in a second time, see that same face, and it all came back. This Lottie with her crazy eyebrows and her perfect figure, in miniature. Sonya had her fuck-me heels on, an essential for later and the Arabs who always wanted tall. So she guessed she was nearly a foot taller – especially as Lottie was in her bare feet. The room too, the memories came fast. Three people, leaders and followers, taking turns. Here was the deep sofa. There, through the back, that comfy bedroom, and a lovely walk in shower. One of the things she’d brought was the simplest – a shower cap. She’d need to clean Lottie and whatever they made off her. And she wouldn’t have time to wash and restyle her hair.
She looked all around before dropping her bag behind the sofa, moving around and sitting. “Anyone joining us?”
“No. I told you. Just me here. Patrick is - ” Lottie came around, sat herself, but on the short end of the L, a distance away. “Patrick is… no more.” She frowned. “I don’t mean, you know. I mean he and I are… over.”
“Oh?” Sonya raised a thin eyebrow. “Should I be sorry to hear that?”
“Not really, no.”
“He was very beautiful.”
“He was. Is. And he is also a bit of a dick.”
“I see. It happens. Especially when… he liked this quite much, yes?” She tapped her nose, left the finger there.
Lottie nodded. “Too much. But it wasn’t just that, there was other stuff…” She broke off, leaning closer, peering. “Are you alright? That’s quite a bruise you have.”
Sonya dropped her finger, leaned back. No make up totally covered such a thing. But this room was quite well lit, with all its gleaming white, metal and glass. She could only hope that the bars she’d go too later would be… kinder. “Well,” she said, “I met a bit of a dick too.”
“I’m so sorry. Men eh?”
“Men, yes.”
Lottie turned away, to the balcony, but not quite quickly enough to hide the tear that ran down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said, giving a little laugh, running the heel of her hand up her cheek. “It’s all a little new. A little complicated. There’s… someone else too.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
As she asked, Sonya glanced at the clock on the cooker. 8:49. In her plan she’d allotted two hours for this visit. She didn’t mind how it was spent. In fact if talking ate up much of the time, that would be fine. Sometimes, more often than she’d have believed when she started in this trade, talk was what many of her clients wanted most. Bernard, missing his dead wife, was only one.
She patted the sofa beside her. “Why don’t you come over here and tell me about this man.” She raised one eyebrow. “If this someone else is a man?”
“He is. He… owns this fla
t. He’s - ” She broke off. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can go through with this.”
“Go through? I do not know what this means.”
“Uh, you know. Like the other night. The sex.”
“You do not wish to make love with me?”
“No. Yes but… I mean, it’s not really my thing. With a woman. It was Patrick. I think I thought it was a way to hold him. Fuck!” She shook her head. “Stupid.”
Sonya looked at the clock. 8:50. Already the plan was going wrong. Fear made her angry, and with her, anger was always cold. “I do not do this for fun. This is my business.”
Lottie say up to the edge of the sofa. “Oh, I know. I’m sorry. I was drunk when I called and - ” she shook her head. “I’ll still pay you, of course I will. Eight hundred, yes?”
“Yes.”
“The man he… he left some money. I’ll take it from that.” She stood up. “I’ll get it now if you like. You could go. If you need to that is.”
Sonya looked at the clock. 8:51. The earliest the Arab millionaires would be hitting Shepherd’s Market would be 10, maybe not till 11. She could sit in Tadeusz’ car and wait. But then she’d only have her thoughts for company. This sofa, this girl, this was better, for now. “No hurry. Maybe we just talk, for a while?”
Lottie nodded. “Sure, I’d like that.”
Sonya lifted her left arm, her good arm because her right wrist still hurt. Opened it wide. “But why don’t we talk with you over here?”
Without another word, Lottie came over, sat – and immediately folded herself into Sonya, whose arms closed around her. “There, little one. There. Better?”
And then Lottie began to shake, making a sound deep in her throat, part moan, part sob, part cry. And Sonya put her right hand, even though it was a little painful to do so, to Lottie’s hair and gently began to stroke her head, murmuring as she did. But she was not murmuring in English, she only knew the terms for her trade in English, the jokes, the innuendoes, the ‘ropes’. She murmured in Russian, because she knew those endearments. “Milaya,” she crooned. “Liubimaya, Malyshka. Darling, beloved, baby. Holding Lottie as she would hold Maria, as she had missed holding Maria all this time; not holding this English girl as she held her English men, but as her daughter, her daughter in pain, different but still pain, not just for a man or men. For being alone in the world.
One London Day Page 16