“Henrytheeighth,” she said, as if this was explanation enough. “Henrytheeighth and the six wives of.”
Precious later deduced Tudors were kings and queens from a while ago, but she cannot grasp the fascination. Tabitha once gave her a book on the history of the British monarchy, and Precious was more interested in the Civil War period, in which the monarchy was briefly deposed.
Precious has turned onto her side and is dozing off when Tabitha says, “Did you know in Paris in the Middle Ages a bunch of prostitutes banded together and tried to offer some money for the construction of a stained-glass window in the Notre Dame cathedral?”
“No, I did not know that. Is that what it says in your book?”
“No, this book is about Elizabethan London, not medieval Paris. I read it in another book ages ago and just remembered it.”
“Right,” says Precious.
“Did you know in Tudor times all the brothels were south of the river in Southwark and it was only much later that they moved up this way to Soho. Stews, they were called then.”
“Yes, you have told me that before.”
Precious shuffles her body to shift some of the duvet over to her side of the bed. Tabitha has a habit of hogging it.
Minutes pass and Precious is again on the cusp of sleep.
“Elizabeth I was dead into the occult. It’s unbelievable when you think about it,” says Tabitha.
Precious tries for a couple of minutes to sleep, then realizes it is impossible while Tabitha is reading. There is a constant threat of interruption. She turns over to face her friend. “What do you think the modern-day equivalent of the cathedral thing would be? All us doing a fun run and collecting donations for Children in Need or something.”
“Yeah, or donate a day’s takings to the RSPB. Birds4Birds.”
Precious giggles into her pillow. Unable to sleep, she pulls herself up to a sitting position and leans back against the cushioned headboard. She lifts a gossip magazine from the drawer of the bedside table. She turns the pages with the tip of her index finger and stares at photographs of minor royals in front of large fireplaces and luxury cars. Britain is weird, she thinks, not for the first time.
“If we do have to leave here, will you come with me?”
Tabitha closes her book but she leaves her thumb between the pages to mark her place. “I suppose that depends on where you go. Have you had any thoughts about that?”
“Not really,” says Precious. “I’ve not had a proper think. Maybe back to Peckham to be near Marcus and Ashley.”
Tabitha creases her face. “I don’t fancy Peckham. I’m in my sixties. It’s not exactly an enticing retirement destination.”
“I like Peckham.”
“So do I, in a way, but I always thought I’d end up in a pretty cottage in the countryside.”
“What work would I get in the countryside? We set up in Chipping Norton so I can service the local Conservative Club?”
“Why not? That’s the way it’s all moving, I hear. You rent an Airbnb in the country for a month or so and advertise your services online. Then you move locations before the police start sniffing. Pop-up brothels. It opens up your business to a whole new market.”
“Like that organic pop-up farm they’re setting up in Soho Square?”
“I suppose so. Move the pigs into Soho and put the tarts out to pasture.”
“You know those countryside brothels are all trafficked girls,” says Precious.
Tabitha re-opens her book.
Neither of them like to talk about sex trafficking. It is only possible to speak casually about such things if they are many steps removed. If there is only a translucent membrane between your own world and its hellish simulacrum, it is better to look the other way.
“I’d miss all the bright lights,” says Tabitha, returning the conversation to their own situation. “Wherever we go that’s not here, I’d miss all the noise, and the sense of being at the center of things. I like that it’s busy. I’ve always liked it. If we go anywhere else, it will seem so quiet.”
Steam
Bastian stops on the pavement outside the club and puts in his earphones. He scrolls on his phone for some music and returns the device to his inside jacket pocket. The earphones fit snugly; the plastic beads like tiny snails curled in their shells. The music dampens the city and makes him feel as if he could be anywhere, doing anything.
He walks to the Tube. Bastian is making his way home alone. Rebecca wanted to stay out and go dancing with her friends. He could read her well enough to know she wasn’t completely happy about his early departure, but she didn’t make a fuss. He told her he had a headache, which was partly true, as in, he could feel a kind of discomfort in his head, even if it wasn’t physical pain.
After bumping into Glenda on the stairs, he returned to the table and told Rebecca who he had just seen.
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“We were at uni with her.”
“I have literally no memory of that name. What does she look like?”
Bastian described Glenda’s appearance as best he could.
“That could be about five hundred different people.” The conversation was taking place in front of the group, and Bastian could tell Rebecca was enjoying the performance.
Bastian tried again with some more descriptive material, then mentioned a couple of events and anecdotes about Glenda that might jog Rebecca’s memory. The trouble was, Bastian hadn’t known Glenda well either. He knew her friend Laura, whom he was emphatically not mentioning to Rebecca, but there were very few defining incidents involving Glenda that he could call to mind.
“I think she was on the committee for that Syrian refugee fundraiser
