“Greek god of wine,” says Tabitha. “Eight letters.”
“Dionysus.”
“How’re you spelling that?”
Precious spells it out.
“Nah, it’s got to have an “m” in it. Third letter’s an ‘m.’ ”
“Then you’ve got the other answer wrong,” Precious replies. She pulls the paper towards her and traces the list of clues with her forefinger. “There you go,” she says. “Fifteen down isn’t McCorory, it’s Ohuruogu.” Precious picks up the pencil, rubs out the mistake and makes the alteration. Her friend snatches back the paper, with a look of reluctant gratitude.
They continue with the crossword until supper is finished. Tabitha takes the plates back into the kitchen. From the other room, she says, “We got another letter from Howard Holdings.”
Tabitha said it so casually that Precious has not heard. She repeats, more loudly, “We got another letter from Howard Holdings.”
“Where is it?” Precious replies, immediately this time. She gets up from the table and begins to cast around the flat, lifting towels and strewn clothes. “What are those bastards up to now?”
“It’s in the drawer beneath the keys.”
Precious goes over to the cabinet and finds the letter, returned to its envelope, mixed in with other post. “When did you open it?”
“This morning. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d get angry. Like this.”
“Damn right.”
Precious pulls the letter from the envelope and unfolds it. As she does, Tabitha relates its contents, “It’s basically exactly what you predicted.”
“They’re trying to tip us over the edge.”
“Probably.”
“They want us out.”
“Maybe. Could be they’re just trying to squeeze out more money.”
“No way,” says Precious. “I’ve dealt with people like this before. And I’ve been watching it happen all over the neighborhood.”
Precious reads the letter a couple of times, then she tightens the strings of her dressing gown and lets herself out the flat, leaving the door open behind her. She walks along the corridor. Some of the doors have signs to indicate that their occupants are busy with a client, others don’t. She knocks on a couple of the doors and stands back to allow their owners time to answer.
A door is pulled open and a face peers out. Seeing Precious, the woman pulls the door wider, and steps into the threshold and leans against the frame. She is wearing a full pink tracksuit, which tells Precious she is taking a day off. Her long hair is dyed a reddish purple and tied in a tight ponytail. “I thought I’d be seeing you this evening,” says Candy.
“Read the letter?”
“Yep.”
“What do you think?”
“You were right and I was wrong. They won’t stop until we’re out. Did I tell you I spoke to some of the girls from Brewer Street and they’re actually facing proper evictions now. Sorry, not evictions. Tenancy terminations. Contract non-renewal, or whatever.”
Precious crosses her arms. She is still holding the letter in her right hand and it crumples in the crook of her left elbow. “I can’t even,” she says. This is what she says when she is too angry to construct a proper sentence.
“I know, love,” Candy replies.
“It’s not even the money. It’s not really even the prospect of moving, though obviously I don’t want to. It’s just the fact that these bastards think they can treat us like this. It’s the lack of respect.”
“I know, love,” says Candy again.
“Look, have the other girls got letters too?”
“I assume so.” Candy walks across the hall and hammers on another door. Shouting comes from within, first a man’s voice then a woman’s. There are footsteps and the door opens a crack, steadied by the safety chain.
“What is it?” whispers Young Scarlet between her teeth.
“What the fuck?” shouts the man from within. “I hope this’ll be coming off my bill.”
Young Scarlet turns back to her client and puts on a voice that is sweet and pliable, a voice she reserves for men. “Just a minute.” She turns back to Precious and Candy and her voice returns to its normal pitch. “This better be good.”
“Did you get this letter?” Candy asks. She indicates towards the letter in Precious’s hand.
“Does it look like I’m in here reading?” Young Scarlet replies.
“It’s from the landlords,” says Precious.
“Oh fuck. Is it curtains?”
“Not yet. Just a rent increase, only it’s not a small one this time.”
“For fuck’s sake. If I wanted to lose eighty percent of my income each month I’d still have a fucking pimp.”
The man’s voice comes from within. “I’m in here losing eighty percent of my erection.”
Candy cannot help but laugh.
“Don’t laugh at that,” says Young Scarlet, “he’s funny but he’s a total twat. Listen, I’ll just finish him up quickly and come and find you. Get the other girls, yeah?”
“My place as soon as you’re free. I’ll get Tabitha to boil the kettle.”
“Bugger tea. Tell her to open a bottle or two. And none of that rubbish from the corner shop. We all know what you two have got hidden away from your France trip.”
Après nous
“It would be easier for everyone if they left of their own volition.”
“Clearly, but Roster tells me the ratio of rent to custom is too good, even with the increases we’re enacting. The level of footfall, the Soho address, the circumstances of their lease. These things are all too advantageous to expect a voluntary departure. But if we raise the rent enough—as much as we’re allowed to—and make life inconvenient for them in other respects, when we ask them to leave they won’t make as much fuss as they otherwise might. They will just move somewhere new—to a part of London more in keeping with their profession.”
Agatha Howard holds the phone flush against her ear. The
