With no further ado, he disappears through the doorway, taking the steps back down to the gallery and leaving an uneasy silence in his wake.
I glare at Lucy.
‘I can’t go to New York.’
‘Are you a complete fucking moron? He wants to push you.’
‘Yeah, but why?’
‘Because of your talent.’
‘You think? Champagne, Lucy. He’s bought me champagne.’
‘And?’ She watches me. ‘Oh, you think he …’
‘Champagne. Dinner. New York. He’s chucking money at me. And he couldn’t take his eyes off that.’ I nod at the triptych.
‘God, you’ve got an overblown sense of yourself. Ever since Dan, you think you’re some sort of sex siren.’
‘He wants to get into my knickers, and that’s a fact.’
‘You’re in full control of your knickers. Another fact. And don’t think the flying thing’s going to get you out of this. You’ve already flown and you can do it again. You and me are going to New York,’ she growls, waving a champagne bottle at me for good measure. ‘And that’s another sodding fact.’
Chapter Six
I really should have chosen the other queue. It’s moving far more quickly than this one. It’s taken half an hour to almost reach the front, and now I’m here the customer ahead of me is taking his time, changing his order over and over again. I’m sorely tempted to kick him up the backside and tell him to get on with it, but that wouldn’t be the right way to go. Instead, I settle for rubbing my hands together, trying to work a little life back into them while I politely wait my turn. A couple of ancient radiators are no match for a London winter. After a morning’s work in semi-Baltic conditions, my fingers are numb and I’m glad of a chance to escape.
After a quick sandwich and a mug of tea, I’ll return for the afternoon session, watched over by Barry’s ridiculous calendar – November’s kitten wrapped up in a tiny, kitten-sized scarf and posed next to a vase of cheap red roses. Every time I look at them, I think of Boyd. At least once a week, the roses have continued to arrive. I’d love nothing more than to tear November out of the year, but I won’t be beaten. Besides, December’s only a few days away. I’ve already had a quick peek. I’ll be passing the time in the company of a pair of kittens disguised as reindeer, curled up next to a fake poinsettia.
‘Can I help you?’
I’m yanked out of the kitten trance by the grumpiest woman in the world. Clutching a bread knife, she glares at me from beneath a hairnet. I swallow hard, temporarily forgetting my order, fixated on a pair of lips that seem to be curling into a sneer.
‘Prawns …’ I stammer.
‘Just prawns?’
‘No, no …’ I shake my head. ‘Prawn salad on white … no, brown.’ And now I know why the previous customer was so indecisive. I’ve got the distinct feeling this woman’s silently planning my demise. ‘And BLT on white.’ My voice jitters with nerves. ‘Extra mayonnaise please. My friend’s not on a diet.’
Ignoring my pathetic attempt at humour, she sets about preparing the order while I watch an endless parade of downcast faces passing by the window. Winter’s thoroughly staked its claim on the city, stripping it bare of colour and imposing a reign of cold, grey misery. Why the rest of humanity has descended into a mire of gloom, I have no idea. I can only vouch for myself. Still no contact. Still no news.
And faith’s at breaking point.
‘Your phone’s ringing.’ Grumpy woman points a knife at me.
With a start, I pull my mobile out of my pocket and check the screen. Lucy.
‘How’s it going?’ she demands.
‘I’m being served now.’
‘You need to get back here.’
My God, I knew she was hungry, but I didn’t realise she was this desperate for a bite to eat.
‘I can’t help it. There was a queue and …’
‘Never mind that. There’s a woman waiting for you. Posh sort. Wants to talk.’
For the first time in weeks, my heart quickens. Lily Babbage. Now, there’s a ‘posh sort’ if I’ve ever seen one. And if she’s come to see me, then I could be in for some news.
‘What does she look like?’ I ask eagerly, watching as two huge wrapped sandwiches appear on the counter in front of me.
‘A high-class prostitute.’ Lucy cackles. ‘Skinny. Red hair.’
It’s a brief description, but enough to banish any further excitement. My heart’s still racing, but now it’s all down to anxiety, because unless Lily’s opted for a radical change of hair colour, I’m pretty sure my visitor is a certain kinky madam.
‘Nine pounds eighty,’ grumpy woman says gruffly.
Absent-mindedly, I reach into my pocket, pull out a twenty and hand it over.
‘What does she want?’ I ask.
‘She’d like you to clean for her.’
‘What?’
‘She wants to talk to you about painting something for her, twat brain. Why else would she be here? Now get the sandwiches and get back, pronto. She practically stinks of money.’
Grabbing the lunch, I flee the delicatessen, ignoring the bad-tempered calls that follow me. I didn’t collect the change, and I don’t care. I’ve got more pressing matters on my mind.
Half-running along Frith Street, and nearly dropping the sandwiches in the process, I arrive at the door to Slaters within a minute. Coming to a halt, my pulse racing, I edge forward and peer furtively into the front window. My suspicions were correct. There she is, facing away from me. Perfectly poised on a sofa, it’s Claudine Thomas. Taking in a gulp of wintry air,
