The Make

They sat at the table and chatted and ate. She told him what projects she was working on, showed him stuff from her daughter Emma who worked in PR in Hong Kong, asked him what he was doing with himself . . . hours passed, they just flew.

They had been lovers, but that was never mentioned or even hinted at any more. Harry knew that she was embarrassed by what had happened between them on the first night they met, and he was diplomatic enough never to bring it up in the course of conversation.

Harry was a little puzzled over exactly why he so enjoyed this woman’s company. Was she some sort of mother substitute? Suze wasn’t anyone’s idea of ‘parent of the year’, so maybe it was that? But he doubted it. He had just clicked with Jackie; he liked her. There was no sexual spark there, not really, although there was a definite connection. Their sleeping together had been a one-off, an aberration, not to be repeated. Neither of them wanted that.

‘Can you come over for dinner on Friday night?’ asked Jackie, pouring him more coffee.

‘What’s the occasion?’ asked Harry. He’d escorted her to various parties now, and he was getting used to it all. But by now they’d developed a code. When she said, ‘Can I book you’, that meant work. When she said, ‘Come over’, she meant as a friend.

Jackie beamed at him, her pale eyes lighting up. ‘It’s so exciting,’ she said, almost hugging herself with glee.

Harry looked at her and remembered the woman he had first seen weeks ago, shivering with nerves and wrecked with grief. Jackie’d come a long way since they’d first met, and he thought that maybe he’d been instrumental in helping her get over the intensity of her loss. He hoped so. He liked to see this big smile on her face; he loved to see her so animated, so happy.

‘Well come on,’ he said, grinning himself now. Her joy was infectious. ‘Spill the beans.’

‘It’s Emma. She’s coming home, and I want you to meet her.’

Harry felt the smile freeze on his face.

‘Oh,’ he said flatly.

‘What do you mean, “oh”?’ asked Jackie, half laughing, delighted with her news and wondering why he wasn’t instantly delighted too. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? She’s only back for a fortnight, of course, but isn’t it wonderful?’

‘Yeah,’ said Harry. He put down his coffee cup. ‘Yeah, it is wonderful, but . . . Jackie, I can’t meet her.’

Jackie stared at him. ‘Why not?’ she asked.

‘Why not?’ Harry gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Jackie. I’m an escort. I’ve been squiring you around town for money. Do you honestly think your daughter is going to understand that? Much less actually like it?’

‘Well . . .’ Jackie shrugged her shoulders. ‘All right, we won’t tell her that’s what you do.’

‘Then what will we tell her? The same lies you’ve been telling all your friends and colleagues? That I’m an architect or some damned thing? What about that woman in Covent Garden? She thinks I’m a friend of Emma’s from uni. Jackie . . . this is all going to get too tangled. Too bloody messy.’

Jackie’s smile had faded while he spoke. ‘But . . . I’d love you to meet her.’

‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’ Harry looked awkward. ‘But think about it. It won’t work. The escorting . . . well, that’s business. But meeting Emma, that makes it something else. I’m very fond of you, but I don’t want to get into this, lying all the time, I really hate it.’

Jackie looked stricken now. ‘I didn’t know you felt like that.’

‘I just don’t want to blur the lines, that’s all,’ said Harry.

‘But haven’t we already done that? You come and eat breakfast with me. Would you feel better about that if you charged me for your time . . .?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘I’d just like you to meet Emma, that’s all.’

Harry stood up. ‘Jackie, no. It’s not going to happen.’

Jackie stood up too, her eyes hurt, her mouth trembling. ‘You’ll still escort me tonight?’ she asked, not looking at his face.

‘Yes.’

‘Because that’s business. Because you’re being paid.’ Now her eyes flicked up to his face. She was looking at him with dislike. ‘Okay. So what if I pay you for next Friday? Book your services?’

‘Then I’d have to turn down the booking,’ said Harry. ‘I’m sorry.’

Jackie snatched up the cups and turned away, crashing them into the sink.

‘I’d better go,’ said Harry unhappily.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even turn around.

Harry left.

Chapter 26

‘We’re wasting our fucking time here. Don’t you think, Lefty?’

Mona was still living up to her name, going on and on again about she was tired, she was usually in bed by this hour, her mum would complain because she was babysitting and she would want to get on home. They were looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, why wouldn’t he see sense?

‘Will you shut the fuck up,’ snapped Lefty, taking a long, sweet hit from his can of butane and instantly feeling slightly calmer; better.

Mona was watching him with distaste. ‘You are gonna kill yourself with that crap,’ she warned.

‘This rate, I’m gonna kill you first,’ he muttered, wondering if Gordy really was as smart as all that; he’d told Lefty to bring along Mona with the sweet face, but Mona didn’t have a sweet mouth to match.

They were standing outside Canary Wharf tube station. They’d been down there, talking to staff, buskers, to anyone they could lay hands on – but no good. They came up on to the street and it was as dark as your armpit now, sleety rain in the air, a little slush underfoot. Traffic zipping past. Christmas lights twinkling. It was bitingly, toe-numbingly cold.

Lefty was flagging down cabs, saying, You seen a big dark-haired geezer with a little blond boy a few nights back? He was spelling it out for them. The time, the exact location, asking one after another, and he was getting so bloody desperate now. He’d tried so many of the London cabbies. They’d swerve hopefully into the kerb, thinking he was a fare, and then he’d start in with the questions.

You see a big chunky guy, dark-haired, with a slim blond boy the other night?

He must have pulled over a dozen, thought Mona, before it happened.

It was something that later she couldn’t even bear to think about. The night was crawling on, and the traffic was thin now; it was gone two in the morning.

‘Let’s pack it in, Lefty,’ she told him. Her ma was going to give her a lot of grief over this, she knew it. She’d phoned earlier, said she’d be late.

‘How late?’ Ma had demanded to know.

It was a question Mona couldn’t answer. Ma had every right to be upset about it; this wasn’t the first time it had happened, after all.

‘We’re not going to find a damned thing tonight,’ whined Mona.

But one more cab was approaching, its orange light glowing through the frost-misted air. Lefty flapped his hands and it pulled over. The driver looked young, pale – maybe Polish – and he didn’t seem to understand what Lefty was saying to him.

‘You see this guy, big guy, dark hair, and a boy, blond, the other night?’

The driver shrugged, bewildered. He’d expected a fare, not questions.

‘You speaka de English?’ snapped Lefty. He was nearly dancing from foot to foot, so extreme was his