Scarlet Women

There was a pause. Constantine’s eyes slipped away from hers.

‘What?’ she asked, still teasing, but now there was a twinge of concern in her guts, and she thought, What happened? What did I do that was so terrible? Did he hate me taking the lead?

His eyes came back, stared straight into hers. Something was wrong.

‘Come on, Constantine, what is it?’ asked Annie, anxious now.

‘You don’t even know you did it, do you?’ he asked, still shaking his head slightly.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Annie, confused.

Suddenly she felt foolish, embarrassed, sitting here semi-naked with this man fully clothed beside her, this man who seconds ago had been a passionate lover but was now a cold, withdrawn stranger. She stood up, started searching around for her discarded clothes.

‘Look, I’ll go. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea anyway.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this is all too soon for you.’

That hurt. She looked at him, and the hurt showed plainly in her eyes.

‘You really don’t even know you did it, do you?’ he marvelled.

‘Did what?’ Annie demanded. What the hell was he talking about?

‘You called me Max,’ he said.

Outside the house, hidden in the shadows, Charlie Foster drew back. Thinking about what he’d just seen: the glimpse of Annie Carter stripped down to her undies, gorgeous, nearly eating Constantine Barolli’s face off before he pulled the blind down. Then, all Charlie could see was their outlines moving through the blind, obviously fucking each other senseless. Felt quite turned on himself, watching that.

What a woman. What a bitch. He promised himself that he was going to catch up with Annie Carter very soon.

There was no point in staying after that. Annie got dressed and asked if she could call a cab.

‘Sure,’ said Constantine, very cool.

As soon as was decently possible, in as dignified a manner as was feasible after being made to look like such a fool, such a complete fruitcake, she left. Constantine didn’t ask if she was still coming to lunch tomorrow, and she didn’t ask if she was still invited.

No point.

Jesus, she’d called him Max.

She sat in the back of the cab feeling choked, humiliated, bewildered, adrift. I’m a train wreck, she thought, and put her head in her hands. But then she thought of the boys— Max’s boys, who was she kidding? They weren’t hers at all, Constantine was dead right about that—and thought that it was all for the best. She’d killed it, once and for all. And that was a good thing. She kept telling herself that, all the way home.

Chapter 24

First thing next morning she phoned Ruthie and spoke to Layla, who told her about the kittens and seemed happy. Warm, caring Ruthie was more of a natural mother than she ever was, she knew that. Okay, she didn’t like it, but it was a fact. Then she left the builders to it and called over at Dolly’s in Limehouse.

‘Cuppa, Mrs Carter?’ asked Rosie, sauntering around the kitchen while Dolly badgered her to smarten herself up, which Rosie cheerfully ignored.

‘No thanks, Rosie. Got a busy day ahead. How’s tricks?’ Annie liked the girl. A real daydreamer, that was Rosie, padding around in bare feet and smiling nonstop.

‘Ticking over,’ said Rosie with a lazy grin.

‘Yeah, not ticking very bloody fast though,’ said Dolly, bustling through. ‘Go up and get dressed, for the love of God, Rosie. And tell Sharlene I want her to get down the shops—preferably before this Christmas, if she can spare the bloody time.’

Rosie strolled off upstairs.

‘Jesus, that girl,’ said Dolly with a reluctant smile.

Annie thought again of how panicked Dolly had been when she thought Rosie’d taken that escort job. Panicked beyond all reason, it seemed.

‘You okay now?’ Dolly was asking her. ‘You seemed a bit shook up yesterday.’

‘It was bloody horrible, seeing Aretha laid out.’

‘I know, I know.’ Dolly patted her arm. ‘Poor old Louella. Ten times worse for her. What you up to, then?’

‘Just work,’ said Annie, ‘what else?’

‘Ain’t it the truth,’ agreed Dolly.

An hour later she was in church again. Not her natural surroundings by any means. There was no choir today either, lifting the roof off. But the organist/choirmaster was there, playing Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring. He glanced back at her as she came in, big pop-eyes with bags underneath, balding, wet- lipped. Funny little chap. Not pretty, that was for sure.

She went up the aisle and settled herself into a pew. It was cool in here, after the heat outside. Christ on his cross up there on the stained-glass window, light filtering through, spilling jewelled splashes of yellow, red and blue on to the stone floor in front of the altar.

In actual fact, she didn’t know what she was doing here today. Knew only that she felt lost and lonely and afraid. She was losing her grip on things. Couldn’t believe what a screw-up she had become. Calling Constantine by Max’s name. But she reminded herself that it was just as well. If the boys suspected that Max’s widow was screwing the American mob boss, where would that leave her? How would they take it? Badly, she felt sure. Retribution could follow. What form it would take, she had no idea. But it wouldn’t be pleasant.

But then, we’re over, she thought. So that’s that problem solved… right?

She thought about Dolly. Maybe Aretha’s death had shaken her up more than any of them had realized, but Annie had the strong feeling that something wasn’t right there, that there was something more to it, something deeper. Rosie’s little trip out on Saturday had rattled the Limehouse madam badly too—and what the fuck was that all about?

‘Can I help?’ said a voice nearby.

Annie looked up. The vicar was standing there in his long black cassock and white dog collar. He was a thin, narrow-shouldered man, probably in his forties. His grey hair was receding and he had a neatly trimmed beard that was also grey. His face was tanned, his eyes grey, quick-moving and kind.

‘I doubt it,’ she said with a half-smile.

He smiled back. ‘Well, if you want to talk…’

‘No,’ said Annie.

The vicar watched her for another beat or two, then turned and started to walk up towards the high altar.

‘Um…vicar?’ Annie called after him.

He stopped, turned. Waited expectantly.

‘Did you know Aretha Brown?’

‘Aretha Brown.’ His face was blank.

‘I don’t know if she ever worshipped here, but you must have conducted her wedding ceremony. And her Aunt Louella sings in the choir.’