Hill Gate, and from there the Central to Tottenham Court Road with its heady miasma of exhaust fumes and its pushing crowds of a Friday night.
She made her way quickly to Soho Square. Here, the patrons of nearby peepshows were milling about, their voices ringing with every possible accent as they exchanged lewd evaluations of the titillating sights they'd had of breasts and thighs and more. They were a surging mass of prurient thrill-seekers, and Tina knew that on another night she might have considered one or more of them as possibilities for an amusing encounter of her own.
But tonight was different. Everything was in place.
In Bateman Street, a short distance from the square, she saw the sign she was looking for, swinging above a malodorous Italian restaurant. Kat's Kradle, it announced, with an arrow pointing into an unlit alleyway next door. The spelling was absurd, an attempt to be clever that Tina always found especially repellent. But she had not been the one to select the rendezvous, so she made her way to the door and descended the stairs which, like the alley in which the club was housed, were gritty and smelt of liquor and vomit and plumbing gone bad.
In nightclub hours it was early yet, so the crowd in Kat's Kradle was small, confined to a scattering of tables that surrounded a postage-stamp dance-floor. At one side of this, musicians were taking up a melancholy piece of jazz on saxophone, piano and drums while their singer leaned against a wooden stool, smoking moodily and looking largely bored as she waited for the appropriate moment to make some sort of noise into a nearby microphone.
The room was quite dark, lit by one weak, bluish spotlight on the band, candles on the tables, and a light at the bar. Tina made her way to this, slid onto a stool, ordered a gin and tonic from the barman, and admitted to herself that, for all its grime, the location was truly inspired, the best Soho had to offer for a liaison meant to go unobserved.
Drink in hand, she began to survey the crowd — a first viewing that gleaned nothing but an impression of bodies, a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke, the occasional glitter of jewellery, the flash of a lighter or a match. Conversation, laughter, the exchange of money, couples swaying on a dance-floor. And then she saw him, a young man seated alone at the table farthest from the light. She smiled at the sight.
It was so like Peter to select this sort of place where he would be safe from the mischance of being seen by his family or any of his posh friends. He ran no risk of condemnation in Kat's Kradle. He faced no fear of trouble, of being misunderstood. He had chosen well.
Tina watched him. Anticipation curled in her stomach as she waited for the moment when he would see her through the smoke and the dancers. Oblivious of her presence, however, he looked only at the door, running his fingers through close-cropped blond hair in nervous agitation. For several minutes Tina studied him with interest, seeing him order and down two drinks in rapid succession, noting how his mouth became harder as he glanced at his watch and his need expanded. From what she could see, he was dressed quite badly for the brother of an earl, wearing a tattered leather jacket, jeans, and a T-shirt bearing the faded inscription Hard Rock Cafe. A gold earring dangled from one pierced earlobe, and from time to time he reached for this as if it were a talisman. He gnawed continually at the fingers of his left hand. His right fist jumped in spasms against his hip.
He stood abruptly as a group of boisterous Germans entered the club, but he fell back into his chair when it became apparent that the person he sought was not with them. Shaking a cigarette from a pack that he removed from his jacket, he felt in his pockets but brought forth neither lighter nor matches. A moment later, he shoved back his chair, stood, and approached the bar.
Right to Mamma, Tina thought with an inward smile. Some things in life are absolutely meant to be.
By the time her companion nosed the Triumph into a parking-space in Soho Square, Sidney St James could see for herself how finely strung his nerves had become. His whole body was taut. Even his hands gripped the steering-wheel with a telling control which was inches short of snapping altogether. He was trying to hide it from her, however. Admitting need would be a step towards admitting addiction. And he wasn't addicted. Not Justin Brooke, scientist, bon vivant, director of projects, writer of proposals, recipient of awards.
'You've left the lights on,' Sidney said to him stonily. He didn't respond. 'I said the lights, Justin.'
He switched them off. Sidney sensed — rather than saw — him turn in her direction, and a moment later she felt his fingers on her cheek. She wanted to move away as they slid down her neck to trace the small swell of her breasts. But instead she felt her body's quick response to his touch, readying itself for him as if it were a creature beyond her control.
Then a slight tremor in his hand, child of anxiety, told her that his caress was spurious, an instant's placation of her feelings prior to making his nasty little purchase. She pushed him away.
'Sid.' Justin managed a respectable degree of sensual provocation, but Sidney knew that his mind and body were taken up with the ill-lit alleyway at the south end of the square. He would want to be careful to hide that from her. Even now he leaned towards her as if to demonstrate that foremost in his life at the moment was not his need for the drug but his desire to have her. She steeled herself to his touch.
His lips, then his tongue moved on her neck and shoulders. His hand cupped her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple in deliberate strokes. His voice murmured her name. He turned her to him. And as always it was like fire, like loss, like a searing abdication of all common sense. Sidney wanted his kiss. Her mouth opened to receive it.
He groaned and pressed closer to her, touching her, kissing her. She snaked her hand up his thigh to caress him in turn. And then she knew.
It was an abrupt descent to reality. She pushed herself away, glaring at him in the dim light from the street- lamps.
'That's wonderful, Justin. Or did you think I wouldn't notice?'
He looked away. Her wrath increased.
'Just go buy your bloody dope. That's why we've come, isn't it? Or was I supposed to think it was for something else?'
'You want me to go to this party, don't you?' Justin demanded.
It was an age-old attempt to shift blame and responsibility, but this time Sidney refused to play along. 'Don't you hit me with that. I can go alone.'
'Then, why don't you? Why did you phone me, Sid? Or wasn't that you on the line this afternoon, honey- tongued and hot to get yourself laid at the evening's end?'
She let his words hang there, knowing they were true. Time after time, when she swore she'd had enough of him, she went back for more, hating him, despising herself, yet returning all the same. It was as if she had no will that was not tied to his.
And, for God's sake, what was he? Not warm. Not handsome. Not easy to know. Not anything she once dreamed she'd be taking into her bed. He was merely an interesting face on which every single feature seemed to argue with all the others to dominate the bony skull beneath it. He was dark, olive skin. He was hooded eyes. He was a thin scar running along the line of his jaw. He was nothing, nothing… except a way of looking at her, of touching her, of making her thin boyish body sensual and beautiful and flaming with life.
She felt defeated. The air in the car seemed stifiingly hot.
'Sometimes I think of telling them,' she said. 'They say that's the only way to cure it, you know.'
'What the hell are you talking about?' She saw his fingers curl.
'Important people in the user's life find out. His family. His employers. So he bottoms out. Then he—'
Justin's hand flashed, caught her wrist, twisted hard. 'Don't even think of telling anyone. Don't even think of it. I swear if you did, Sid… if you do…'
'Stop it. Look, you can't go on like this. What are you spending on it now? Fifty pounds a day? One hundred? More? Justin, we can't even go to a party without you—'
He dropped her wrist abruptly. 'Then, get out. Find someone else. Leave me bloody well alone.'
It was the only answer. But Sidney knew she couldn't do it and she hated the fact that she probably never would.
'I only want to help.'
'Then, shut up, all right? Let me go down that sodding alley, make the buy and get out of here.' He shoved open the door and slammed it behind him.
Sidney watched him walk halfway across the square before she opened her own door. 'Justin—'
'Stay there.' He sounded calmer, not so much because he was feeling any calmer, she knew, but because the square was peopled with Soho's usual Friday-night throng and Justin Brooke was not a man who generally cared for making public scenes.
