Before I Met You

25


1995




WHO WAS THIS woman, thought Betty, peeling through the black-and-white photographs on her lap? It was Arlette, of that she was sure. But which unknown, unfamiliar version was this? In all the photos she’d pored over in Arlette’s boudoir – of sailing regattas and picnics on clifftops, of terriers in open-topped cars and building sandcastles with the infant Jolyon – Arlette had always been immaculate in tailored dresses and court shoes, always a hint of a smile through painted lips, always cool, always covered, always slightly removed from the centre of the photograph. And now here she was in these new photos, a slight gleam of sweat on her forehead, feathers in her hair, smoking! Smoking a cigarette, through a holder! Laughing, showing her teeth, leaning into the embrace of a variety of young men, in nightclubs, in lounges, one showed her sitting on the floor. Sitting on the floor. With her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. On the settee behind her were the disembodied legs of men, one of them dangling a cigar casually between ringed fingers on a black-skinned hand. And then there was one that was so extraordinary that every time Betty looked at it her head swam. It showed Arlette standing, one slim leg pointed ahead of her, in a sequined flapper dress, her arms around the waists of two black guys in dinner jackets and waistcoats. She blinked. She stared again. The black guys were still there. Handsome black guys. With their arms around Arlette.

Betty grabbed some coins from her purse and ran down to the payphone in the hallway.

‘Mum! It’s me! Is Jolyon there?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I need to talk to him! Now!’

She heard her mother pass the phone across to Jolyon and she heard Jolyon clear his throat; she pictured him straightening his tie or his collar or his cuffs.

‘Good evening, Lizzy. What can I do for you?’

‘Arlette,’ she began abruptly. ‘Did she ever say anything to you about being in London?’

‘No. She never went to London. She always said she hated the place.’

‘Listen. She’d hired a private detective. To find this Clara woman. He’s dead now, but his ex-wife gave me all his files on her and there are these photos, Jolyon, of Arlette, in London.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Hmm what? I’ve got them in my hands. Evidence. Actual photos. She was here. And not just here but, like, partying. Big time.’

The line fell silent and Betty could hear Jolyon’s big, soft brain trying to rearrange the facts he’d just been presented with into something he could agree with.

‘It sounds a bit ... well, unlikely.’

‘Well, of course it does. That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’

The line fell silent again and then Jolyon sighed and said, ‘What else was there? What else did he have, this private dick?’

‘Nothing really: the photos, a programme for a jazz concert at a nightclub, some sketches on paper of Arlette, unsigned, matchbooks from lounges and bars, and some printed notepaper with a London address on it, no writing. And some photocopied correspondence with that address on St Anne’s Court – you know, the one where Clara Pickle was supposed to have been living. Nothing new there, just saying sorry, we’re non-residential. And another one from the landlord of the house on the headed paper, saying it was split up into flats in 1961. And that’s it.’

‘What was the London address?’

‘Erm, hold on, let me see ...’ She pulled the paper from the green folder. ‘It’s twenty-one Abingdon Villas, W.’

‘The Millers,’ said Jolyon. ‘Of course.’

‘Who are the Millers?’

‘They were this crazy family. My mother was always talking about them, Leticia was the mother. She was an old school friend of my grandmother’s and she had these four wild children. Mummy would get letters from the daughter sometimes – Lilian, I think she was called. Drank herself to death in the end, I think. Or killed herself. Either way, very young. Very sad.’

Lilian, thought Betty. Leticia. Arlette had called her those names sometimes, in the night, when she didn’t know who Betty was. She’d read nothing into it at the time. Arlette had been so full of strange words and confused memories. She bit her lip, wondering now about all those hours Arlette had talked and talked of things that made no sense, all those hours that Betty had tuned out of, comments she had responded to with half-hearted, distracted oh reallys and gosh, is that trues. But maybe within all that flabby blabber there was some reality, some proper memories. And she hadn’t even been listening.

She wished now she’d recorded everything, wished she’d wired the house up, caught every utterance on tape. But no, all she had was some photos, some sketches and the name of a woman who even a private detective had been unable to find.

But still, she thought, maybe this Peter Lawler had been too sick to do his job properly. Maybe there were more leads at these two addresses, the St Anne’s Court address, the Holland Park address. Maybe she should prod them with a stick and see what she could scare out of them.

‘What do you think happened to those letters?’ she asked. ‘The ones from the family in London?’

‘No idea,’ said Jolyon. ‘We’ve totally emptied Mummy’s rooms now, found some love letters from Daddy. Found my letters from boarding school. Some official bits and bobs. But that was it. Nothing from London. Nothing to do with London. Nothing at all.’

‘I’m going to chase it all up,’ Betty said to Jolyon. ‘Leave it with me.’

‘God,’ said Jolyon, ‘I feel a bit sick.’

She laughed. ‘Why?’

‘Because ... I don’t know. Because I had Mummy all decided in my head. And now she’s gone, I’m not sure I can face having her undecided again. Not now. Not when it’s too late to do anything about it.’

Betty dropped another coin in the slot and sighed. ‘It’s not too late,’ she said sternly. ‘It’s not too late at all. Leave it with me. Next time I call, I’ll have something amazing to tell you. I promise.’





26




THE DOORBELL RANG and Betty groaned. She’d only just climbed into the bath. She waited a beat, hoping that it was a mistake, a drunk. The doorbell rang again and she sighed and climbed out of the bath, pulled a towel around herself and stomped to the front door, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake.

‘Hello!’ she shouted into the intercom, water dripping from her elbows and onto the floor.

Silence.

‘Hello!’ she shouted even louder.

She heard the crackle of the street outside and then she heard a voice: ‘Who’s that?’

‘What do you mean, who’s that?’ she demanded. ‘You’re the one who rang my doorbell.’

‘Is that Betty?’

‘Yes! Who’s this?’

‘It’s me. John.’

‘Oh.’

‘You missed him.’

‘Who?’

‘Dom Jones. He was just at your door. He’s gone now.’

‘What! Shit! Can you still see him?’

‘He’s headed back down Peter Street.’

‘F*ck.’

‘He’s probably just gone home.’

‘Yes. I know. But ... urgh, never mind ...’

‘You all right?’

‘Yeah. I’m fine.’

There was a brief silence.

‘Don’t suppose I could come and use your toilet, could I?’

‘I’m naked,’ she said.

John Brightly laughed. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t mind.’

Betty laughed too. ‘Give me five minutes. I’ll give you a shout.’

She glanced through the window. It was sunny. She pulled through her clothes on the rail beneath her mezzanine until she found her favourite summer dress, then she smoothed her hair back with an Alice band, put on some red lipstick and buzzed John Brightly in. It was the first time she’d seen him since the party two days earlier. Their schedules had kept them apart. Now she breathed in deeply, sucked in her stomach and listened to his footsteps up the stairs, wondering how she would feel when his face came into view.

She pulled open the door at the sound of his knuckles on the other side and decided that she felt excited. John looked fresh and cool in a white polo shirt and jeans, a hint of a tan, and sunglasses on his head. His arms were heavy and toned. He smelled of sunshine. ‘Yeah,’ he began, ‘cheeky. I know. But I figured after our little bathroom interlude on Wednesday ...’ He raised an eyebrow at her and she smiled.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I always wondered where you went to pee.’

‘Well, usually I use the pub over the road, but then so does every other sod on the market. And it looks like it.’

‘Well, you’re welcome to use mine whenever you like.’

‘Cheers,’ said John Brightly, and headed towards the bathroom.

Betty filled the kettle.

‘So,’ said John, a moment later, emerging from the bathroom and rubbing his hands against the back of his jeans, ‘how’ve you been? Haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘Good,’ she said, ‘I’ve been great. Working hard. Hanging out with Dom Jones, that kind of thing.’ She smiled.

John’s eyes widened. ‘Really? And how ...?’

She smiled again and said, ‘Nothing like that. Just helping out with his kids. He has too many of them. That’s probably why he was ringing at my door just now.’

John raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope he’s paying you well,’ he said. ‘He can afford to.’

‘He is. At least, he did. I’ve only done it once.’ She glanced out of the window, as though Dom himself might be sitting on her windowsill. ‘Tea?’ she suggested. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yeah,’ said John. ‘I’d love one. I’ll have to take it down with me, though. I’ve left some twelve-year-old in charge of my stall; he’s probably just wandered off somewhere.’

Betty made him a milky coffee and passed it to him.

‘Well,’ said John, taking the mug, ‘thank you for that. I’ll bring the mug back later.’

‘No rush,’ she said lightly. ‘Actually, give me two seconds, I’ll come down with you.’ She picked up her sunglasses and her bag and together they left the flat.

She stared at the broad set of his shoulders as she walked behind him down the stairs. His hair was so thick, even at his crown, the kind of hair that looked like it would still be there when he was an old man.

‘What happened to you, anyway?’ he said suddenly, without turning round.

‘What?’

‘At the party? You were going to come out and find me. You didn’t.’

He sounded diffident, curious.

Betty thought about her proximity to the front door of Candy Lee’s flat and said, ‘Ah, yes, sorry about that. It’s a very long story. And one best saved for another time.’

He turned then and said, ‘Tonight?’

‘Tonight ...?’

‘Yeah. Tell me the story tonight. I’ll buy you a drink.’

‘I’m working tonight,’ she said, too fast and too carelessly. ‘Sorry.’ She immediately cringed at the sorry. Sorry implied that she was letting him down, implied that she had taken his power away in some way when all he’d done was suggest a quick drink. ‘I mean –’

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘You’ll just have to save it for me for another day.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will.’ She inhaled and then said, ‘Tomorrow? I’m free mid-evening?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m DJing. Most nights, in fact. I don’t get much free time.’

Now he was reclaiming his power. He was too busy for her. It was tonight or never. She smiled tightly and said, ‘Ah well, never mind.’ They left the building and John slid his sunglasses down onto his face and smiled at her nervously.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Although ...’

‘Yes?’

His body slackened again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing. I’ll see you around.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes. You probably will.’


‘Oh, thank God. Thank God. Come in.’ Dom Jones ran his hands through his unruly hair and pulled the front door closed behind him. In the background Betty could hear a baby screaming and someone else having a tantrum.

‘Listen. What are you doing today?’

She opened her mouth to reply but he talked over her as he led her into the kitchen. ‘I’ll give you two hundred quid,’ he said, scooping the baby from a bouncy chair and stepping over a prostrate Donny on the floor. ‘For the day,’ he continued. ‘I’ve got to go out, like, now. I mean, like an hour ago. I’ll be out all day. Don’t know what time I’ll be back. Will you do it? Please?’ He looked at her with angel eyes. ‘Please say you can do it?’

Betty looked from Dom to the screaming baby, to Donny on the floor, to Acacia sitting on the kitchen table eating an overripe mango, sticky juice running down her face and onto her white cotton T-shirt. Then she thought about two hundred pounds. A week’s rent. A new hair colour.

‘I’m supposed to be working tonight,’ she said, ‘but I suppose I could call in sick. What time, roughly ...?’

‘No idea,’ he said snappily. ‘Could be late.’

‘So you want me to put them to bed?’

He shrugged and moved the convulsing baby onto his other shoulder. ‘Yeah. I don’t know. Probably.’

She smiled and nodded. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘sure.’

‘You little star,’ he said. ‘You perfect little star.’ He looked at the clock again, looked at her, handed her the wailing baby and said, ‘I’m going to have a shower. Help yourself to anything. And yeah, thanks. Really. You’re the best.’ He smiled cheekily, the stress leaving his demeanour almost immediately.

Betty smiled back. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said.

She waited until he’d left the room and then she finally exhaled.

The baby quietened in her calm embrace, Donny had stopped yelling and was looking at her curiously through a gap under his arm. Another stream of mango juice dripped down Acacia’s chin. It was silent.

Dom poked his head round the door a few minutes later.

‘Wow,’ he said, surveying the scene. ‘You really do have the magic touch. Here,’ he passed her a piece of paper. ‘My mobile number, if you need to call me. I’ll ring when I’m on my way back. And, you guys,’ he addressed his children, ‘be good, otherwise Betty won’t come back and look after you again. OK?’

He threw Betty a smile and said, ‘Got everything you need? All cool?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘All cool.’

He glanced at Betty. ‘You look lovely today, by the way.’

Betty blushed and buried her face in the baby’s hair, but couldn’t think of anything to say in reply.





27


1920




ARLETTE COULD NOT think what to wear for such a meeting. Lilian lay upon her bed, still in her nightdress at almost eleven o’clock, watching as she pulled items from her wardrobe. She had a cup and saucer balanced on her stomach and was tickling the cat with her big toe.

‘No,’ she said, ‘absolutely not. Mr Beach will think you are a nun. A nun with very poor colour sense. Don’t you have something, I don’t know, something green?’

Arlette shook her head. Her mother’s friend had once told her in a very disdainful tone of voice that no one with even a hint of red to their colouring should ever wear green. Red and green should never be seen.

‘But, you aren’t red,’ cried Lilian when Arlette repeated this aphorism. ‘Where are you red? You are brown! Brown hair, brown eyes, brown brown brown! Brown and green, looks like a dream.’ She laughed gently at her little joke and pulled herself up to a sitting position. ‘I have the loveliest green jacket. And a matching hat. I’ll get them for you.’ She put the teacup and saucer onto Arlette’s nightstand and collected the cat to her chest.

Arlette grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. She’d learned how to dress herself very well during these weeks in London. She knew exactly what was à la mode and precisely how to wear it. But this event was so unaccounted for, so beyond the realms of any fashion mores or rules of etiquette that she was lost entirely. How did one present oneself to have one’s portrait painted with a famous negro?

Lilian returned, clutching both the cat and a bundle of clothes.

‘Here,’ she said, throwing cat and clothes upon Arlette’s bed. ‘This is perfect.’ She held up the jacket. Not the drab bottle green that Arlette had been expecting, but a soft sage, and not the harsh tailored shape that Arlette favoured, but a floppy angora affair with a huge pearl button at the front and a velveteen collar.

She slipped it on and knew that Lilian was right. She looked soft and fresh and young and vulnerable. The matching hat was a beret shape with a velveteen bobble and a pearl stitched to the rim.

‘You look so lovely,’ said Lilian, curling herself into a ball around the cat and stroking her cheek against the fur on its face. ‘You should keep them. I’ve never worn them. Keep them. Oh, Arlette, I’m so jealous of you, so jealous I could almost vomit.’ She sighed and lay down her head, staring mournfully and theatrically at the ceiling. ‘Imagine,’ she said, ‘having your portrait painted with a world-famous musician. And not just that, but a negro. I mean, how utterly, utterly, utterly glorious ...’


‘Miss De La Mare, how lovely to see you.’ Gideon held her hand in his and kissed the back of it. Arlette removed her hat and her gloves and passed them into Gideon’s waiting hands.

‘Lovely to see you, too, Gideon.’

She looked to either side of Gideon and across his shoulder but could see no sign of his other sitter. According to her wristwatch it was already ten minutes past two – she had planned her journey meticulously to ensure that she arrived later than Sandy Beach.

‘I’m afraid Mr Beach is not here yet,’ said Gideon, placing Arlette’s things upon the sideboard. ‘I do hope he hasn’t got lost. These Chelsea backstreets can be terribly confusing, especially for a tourist.’

He made her some tea and she took it in his sitting room, a small and familiar ritual by now, but one that did nothing to quell her rising anticipation. She watched the hands on her wristwatch move from two sixteen to two seventeen and breathed deeply to slow her heart. Two outcomes were now likely. The first was that at any moment there would be a knock at the door and then Sandy Beach would be here in this room, with his smell and his eyes and his teeth, and she would have to find a way to feel normal in his presence for the remainder of the day. The second was that there would be no knock at the door and that Sandy Beach might have found something more pressing, something more appealing to do with his precious day off, and that she and Gideon would sit here in an uncomfortable state of limbo until they had both accepted that he wasn’t going to come. Either way, Arlette felt vaguely nauseous.

She was about to start making small talk with Gideon when it happened.

Knock knock knockity-knock.

Arlette and Gideon smiled nervously at each other and Gideon went to his front door. Arlette listened to their greeting, to the incongruous honey tones of Mr Beach’s voice in Gideon’s hallway.

‘Come in, come in,’ she heard Gideon implore.

And then there he was, smart in a starched white shirt, white waistcoat and dove-grey double-breasted suit, his shoes polished to a dazzling gleam and a single yellow gerbera daisy in his hand.

‘Miss De La Mare,’ he said, greeting her with a slight incline of his head, his left hand flat upon his stomach. ‘Enchanté.’

He handed her the gerbera and Arlette blushed, as she’d known she would, and smiled. ‘Likewise, Mr Beach.’

‘And, please,’ he said, ‘now that we are outside the realms of my professional persona, call me Godfrey.’

‘Godfrey?’

‘Yes, miss, for that is my real name, the name my mother chose for me twenty-eight years ago. Godfrey Michael Pickle.’

Arlette attempted to stifle a smile. Godfrey Pickle. It was no less unlikely than his stage name.

‘What a wonderful name, Mr Beach,’ said Gideon, entirely missing the point. ‘Now, let me pour you some tea.’

‘So, Miss De La Mare, you too have an interesting name. Lady of the sea. What is the provenance of such a name?’

‘I’m from the Channel Islands, Mr Pickle. A small cluster of rocks between the south coast of England and the north coast of France. It is a melting point of both English and French cultures.’

‘Ah,’ his yellow-tinted eyes lit up, ‘so you understand the island life. Like myself. The limitations and the joys of being hemmed in on all sides by the sea.’

‘Oh, yes, I certainly do. Although I should imagine there are more joys involved being hemmed in by the Caribbean Sea, than there are by the cold dark waters of the English Channel.’

Godfrey smiled. ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘indeed.’

‘Do you get back at all?’ she asked.

Godfrey Pickle shook his head and said, ‘I have not been back to my island for eighteen looong looong months. And neither do I have any plans to return. The orchestra is booked up for the next year ahead. It’s possible that I may never return.’ He shrugged. ‘And what about you, Miss De La Mare ... will you be returning to your rock in the English sea?’

‘I honestly do not know, Mr Pickle. I’ve been here for only four months. I’m certainly not ready to return yet, but maybe one day. If my mother needs me.’

Godfrey’s eyes clouded over. ‘Ah, yes, the poor mothers. My mother sits in my heart like a piece of grit every day of my life. She feels I am punishing her by leaving her without me. All the money in the world doesn’t appear to be compensating for my absence ...’ he sighed.

The three of them fell silent for a moment, until Gideon slapped his hands down upon his thighs and said, ‘Well, I suggest we crack on. The light will begin to fade away soon; better move fast.’

In his studio upstairs, Gideon had arranged a striking tableau: a daybed draped with red chiffon and ivy, three church candles on towering sticks behind, and parlour palms in copper pots to either side. He asked Godfrey to remove his jacket and unbutton his waistcoat, and then Arlette to take off her angora jacket, under which she was wearing a cream blouse with a ruffled collar.

‘Would you mind, Miss De La Mare, just to pull open the top two buttons? Just to give me more skin to ... to make a feature of. And yourself, Mr Beach. Mr Pickle. I think we do need to see just a fraction more of your ... complexion.’

Godfrey and Arlette glanced at each other and Godfrey laughed. ‘You have a certain way with words, Mr Worsley. But let me first check with Miss De La Mare before I put any more of my complexion on display. Miss De La Mare,’ he turned back to Arlette, ‘if you are comfortable with the opening of extra buttons, then so am I. But I will not undo a single fastening if it any way offends you.’

Arlette smiled. And then she put her fingers to her top buttons. ‘It is only buttons, Mr Pickle, and it is only skin – how could I find it offensive?’

Godfrey looked at her through his velvet lashes, and his full lips turned up into a sensual smile. ‘Indeed, Miss De La Mare,’ he said, his eyes still upon hers, his fingers now on the buttons of his own shirt. ‘It is only skin ...’

Arlette felt herself redden under his gaze, felt the erotic suggestion of what they were both doing, the unbuttoning of clothes, the beginning of the process of getting undressed, an act normally carried out in the privacy of their own sleeping quarters. She smiled and looked away.

‘Now,’ said Gideon, ‘if it is agreeable with both of you, I would like you, Mr Beach – Mr Pickle – to sit upon the daybed, at this end,’ he patted the mattress at the left end. ‘And you, Miss De La Mare, to sit in the middle here, facing this wall,’ he indicated the right, ‘with your back leaning against Mr Pickle’s shoulder.’

Arlette looked from the bed to the wall and then back to Gideon. ‘So,’ she said, ‘where are my legs to be?’

‘I thought,’ he said, walking to the bed and demonstrating the pose himself, ‘that maybe you could hang them over the side, crossed, like so, and if we could have your hair untied, Miss De La Mare – would that be all right? So that it hangs down Mr Pickle’s shoulder, here, and Mr Pickle will be looking, like this, directly at me – if that is agreeable with you, Mr Pickle? And you, Miss De La Mare, will be staring at this point, just beyond my easel, see, at that damp patch just there.’ He clambered from the bed and let Arlette copy his pose. ‘Yes, like that, but possibly if you could just press yourself a little closer to Mr Beach. Mr Pickle. As if you were, well, I suppose as if you were a romantically entwined couple, possibly pondering the future of your relationship, possibly wondering if your love could ever be realised. Do you see?’

Godfrey laughed. ‘Yes, I see, Mr Worsley. The Love That Shall Not Speak Its Name.’

‘Well, yes, something like that. Something illicit, dangerous, yet also something beautiful, something ... grand. A grand, grand love, one that has brought both joy and heartache. Yes?’

Godfrey looked at Arlette and Arlette looked at Godfrey. ‘Is there to be a suggestion that myself and Miss De La Mare have ...?’

‘Hmm?’ Gideon looked up at him sharply, a finger held thoughtfully to his lips.

‘I mean, is an observer to draw the conclusion that there has been something ... carnal between us, between this couple.’

‘Oh, oh, I see. Well, yes, I mean, I suppose, possibly. Although –’

Godfrey cut him off and turned to Arlette. ‘Does this make you feel uncomfortable in any way?’

Arlette considered the question. She was still a virgin. She had not yet experienced any of the emotions that Gideon was asking her to portray. Yet, sitting here in this room, with this man, her blouse unbuttoned to her collarbone, her hair falling down around her face, she could grasp the tips of those feelings, she could imagine it, and so she smiled at Godfrey and whispered, ‘No, it does not make me feel uncomfortable in any way.’

She saw Godfrey’s eyes widen in surprise at her acceptance of this scenario and she felt her heart swell with anticipation. In opening her buttons she had opened a door into a part of herself she had not known was there.

Gideon moved from behind his easel towards the pair of them and teased the long tendrils of Arlette’s hair into a more pleasing form, his eyes narrowed with concentration. Behind his easel again he peered at his tableau and then he smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes. I think that’s just right. Maybe an inch further back, Mr Pickle. Yes. And your head, Miss De La Mare, a fraction to the right. Yes. Now. That is truly perfect. Truly something to behold ...’

The three of them fell silent, while Gideon put down his first marks. Outside Arlette could hear, just as she’d imagined before, the bleating of a passing barge, the metallic rattle of a carriage on the street below. But not just that. She could also hear the sound of Godfrey Pickle, breathing in, breathing out, his heart pattering lightly beneath his ribs. She could feel the solid mass of his body underneath his crisp white shirt and feel the first flush of warm sweat against the cotton. And there, across the room, she saw Gideon, his soft handsome face aglow with excitement, clearly seeing something remarkable before him. Her eye caught his for a brief moment and she smiled, encouragingly.

‘Are you comfortable, Miss De La Mare?’ he enquired gently.

‘Yes,’ she said assuredly, ‘I am most comfortable. Most comfortable indeed.’





28


1995




BETTY WAS ASLEEP on the sofa, pinned beneath Astrid, who was slumbering on her chest when Dom Jones finally came home at twelve forty-five.

She opened her eyes and stared at him blearily. Her neck sang out in pain when she straightened it. She clutched it with her hand and grimaced.

Dom smiled at her fondly, and then at Astrid.

‘Couldn’t settle her then?’ he asked.

‘Mmm,’ she said, through a yawn. ‘No. Miss Astrid did not want to go in her cot. So she watched TV with me instead.’

‘Sorry I’m so late,’ Dom said.

Betty shrugged. ‘No problem. You told me you probably would be.’

‘How was it?’ He leaned down to take the baby from her and the smell of tobacco on his breath reminded her that she had not had a cigarette in over eight hours and hadn’t even noticed.

‘Fine,’ she said, through another yawn. ‘Good. Well, once I’d worked out how to put that double buggy up.’ She gestured towards the hallway. ‘That took nearly an hour.’

‘You took the kids out?’ He looked surprised.

‘God, yes,’ she said, stretching out her arms. ‘Would have gone crazy stuck in here all day. We walked down to St James’s Park. Fed ducks. Went on swings. That kind of thing.’

‘Wow,’ said Dom, looking pleasantly surprised. ‘Cool.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘it was fun. We had fun.’

He looked at her in awe. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘you’re either lying, or you are, genuinely, Mary Poppins. Either way is fine with me. As long as you promise you’ll come back.’

He smiled at her. His eyes creased at the corners and he looked tired and sad.

‘Of course I will,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘When do you need me?’

‘They’re with Amy tomorrow, but she’s dropping them back early evening. Could you do a late one? Possibly, like, early hours?’

She would have to phone in sick again, break Rodrigo’s little heart, but it was worth it. Dom was paying her more than three times her Wendy’s hourly rate. ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘yes. What time?’

‘Come at five,’ he said, ‘if that’s OK?’

He saw her to the door, the baby sleeping across his shoulder, and as she left he said; ‘Oh, wait, hang on,’ and pulled a roll of notes from his back pocket. ‘For you,’ he said, ‘and well worth every penny. Will you be all right walking home?’

‘Er, yes,’ she said, rolling her eyes. She tucked the roll of notes into her shoulder bag without looking at them. It felt strangely unseemly to accept such a large sum of money from someone for a day’s work. But then she thought of supermodels and decided that it was fine. And supermodels did not, after all, have to clean anyone’s bum.

‘Thank you, Betty,’ Dom said. ‘I’m glad we met. I feel good about this. I really do.’

He closed the door quietly behind her, and she headed back towards Berwick Street.

It had not been an easy day. The logistics of getting three small, uncooperative people from place to place had been challenging and exhausting, and there had been a moment after the tenth time she’d come back into Astrid’s room to attempt to settle her, when she’d had to keep herself from crying with frustration. But really, she’d enjoyed it. They were nice children. And it was all worth it to see Dom’s face soften with gratitude, to hear him say he appreciated her. Because Betty liked being appreciated and she missed looking after someone.

She rolled a cigarette as she walked, quickly and clumsily, and was about to head straight up to the fire escape and smoke it when she noticed a card in the wire basket beneath the letterbox in the front door with her name scrawled on it. She picked it out and stared at it for a second. It was a flyer for a club night in Windmill Street. The club was called the Matrix and the night was called Lovecats. With DJ J.B. on the decks.

J.B.

John Brightly.

She turned the flyer over and read: ‘I’m here 10 p.m. to 1 a.m. Come and sit with me if you’re not too whacked, John.’

Betty looked up at her window. She looked down at her clothes. Her summer dress, creased and vaguely stained after her day with Dom’s children, battered Converse, pale legs. She imagined her face: make-up long crumbled away, mascara long picked off. She thought of her breath, stale from the hour’s sleep she’d had on Dom’s sofa, her hair unbrushed and flat at the back.

And then she thought of John Brightly, alone at his decks, his strong toned arms gleaming under the disco lights. DJJ.B. It was nearly one o’clock. She was just in time. She lit the cigarette and smoked it urgently as she turned back to the front door, opened it and headed back out into the night, towards Windmill Street.


The Matrix was in a basement, the only outward signifier of its existence being a piece of paper taped to the wall imploring patrons to respect the residents of the area by leaving the building quietly, and a dusty blue light above the door with the letter M painted on it in black.

Beyond the grubby entrance, however, the Matrix was a gloomily glamorous place clad with tatty red velvet, scuffed gilt and chandeliers. She followed the sound of 10,000 Maniacs into a small room at the back, where around fifty people danced beneath a disco ball and another thirty or so stood around the edges drinking beer from bottles, smoking and looking quite serious. She saw John at the back, squashed into a small corner behind his decks, pulling a vinyl album from its sleeve and examining the surface of it under the dull lights.

She queued for a minute at the bar and bought two beers, which she carried over to the DJ booth.

‘Hi!’ she said, holding a bottle aloft.

John looked up at her and she saw his face turn from steely concentration to something suggestive of pleasure. ‘You came,’ he said, pulling his headphones from his ears and accepting the beer. He looked at his watch. ‘You just finished work?’

She nodded.

‘Wow, that was a long day.’

‘Babies, not burgers. Dom Jones gave me two hundred quid for it.’

John’s eyebrows jumped towards his hairline. ‘Seriously?’

She pulled the roll of notes from her shoulder bag and showed them to him.

‘Christ,’ he said, ‘you should be careful with that.’

‘I know,’ she said, putting them back in her bag and holding it close to her stomach, ‘I’m being very careful. And straight to the bank first thing. But in the meantime,’ she smiled, ‘beers are on me.’ She knocked the bottle against his and he held open the door of his booth so that she could squeeze in next to him.

‘Bit of a squash,’ he said, offering her his stool.

‘No problem,’ she said, feeling the heat radiating from his body. ‘It’s cosy.’

He smiled at her and said, ‘Stick with me. I won’t be able to chat much, but I’ll be off in a minute and then we can find a quiet corner. Unless, of course, you want to dance?’

She looked at him in horror. ‘No!’ she said. ‘No thank you.’

He smiled down at her as if to say, ‘Good,’ and then he put his headphones back on and lifted the needle from Tom Tom Club, while on the other turntable the needle came down on the opening bar of ‘Papa’s Got a Brand New Pigbag’ and every thirtysomething ligger at the back of the club let go of the wall and headed for the dancefloor, eyes shining with nostalgia.

Betty glanced up at John, watching him work. She saw sweaty clubbers walk across to the booth to shout in John’s ear, asking for requests. She saw a pretty girl in a négligée and thick black eyeliner pass him a beer with a smile. She saw him examine each disc of vinyl as if it were a rare diamond, searching it for flaws, before placing it gentle as a baby onto the felt-covered turntable. She felt his body move in time to the music, smelled his sweat, damp and musky, through his thin T-shirt, watched his strong brow furrow with concentration every time he faded one song into another. She noticed that he never smiled, not at the pretty girls, not at the euphoric, sweat-drenched dancers. Every few minutes he would lean down and shout something in her ear. She only heard half of what he said, but she noticed that every time he looked at her, he allowed himself a half-formed smile.

At one fifteen John finished his set with ‘Born Slippy’ and took her to a small bar two doors down. He came back from the bar with two pints of lager and two whisky chasers, which he placed on the table in front of them alongside his packet of Lambert and Butler and Betty’s tobacco pouch. Betty had watched him at the bar. The barmaid knew him, had smiled warmly and flirtatiously as she’d served him. He’d nodded and winked at people sitting at a couple of tables on his way back and she’d heard someone call out, ‘All right, J.B.?’

‘This is your local, then?’ she enquired.

‘Yeah. Kind of. It’s my club.’

‘Your club?’

‘Yeah. My club. Mostly market people. Some sex workers. Dom Jones’s got the Groucho. I’ve got the Windmill. Cheers.’

She raised her pint glass towards his and appraised him under the slightly liverish lights. She barely knew the man, yet he was growing layers day by day. A man of twenty-seven, brought up by an antiques dealer, obsessive about music, obsessive about vinyl, a smoker, a drinker, a man who liked hats. He was fit and he was a night owl. He worked fourteen-hour days, did not blanch in the face of a bucket-load of someone else’s vomit, but did not smile at pretty girls in négligées who gave him beer to drink.

‘Where do you live?’ she opened, wanting to flesh out the picture with yet more layers.

‘Paddington,’ he said. ‘Harrow Road.’

She nodded. It meant nothing to her. ‘Is it nice?’

He laughed and shook his head. ‘I live in a shit hole,’ he said. ‘Rising damp. Subsidence. Dry rot. Water comes down the wall when it’s raining. The place should be condemned. If I had the time I’d find somewhere decent to live. But I haven’t got the time, so I’m stuck there.’ He flexed his knuckles on the table top, and winced. ‘It’s affecting my joints, you know, the damp. That’s why I have to go so easy with the vinyl when I’m DJing, have to really move slowly otherwise I’d drop stuff or miss the beat. And then of course I spend all day outside, which doesn’t help ...’

‘What about your sister?’

‘What about my sister?’

‘Couldn’t you live with her?’

He looked at her aghast. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Eighteen years living with her was plenty long enough, thank you all the same. I’d rather put up with the dry rot.’

Betty nodded, as if she knew what he meant. But she had no idea. She was an only child. ‘And your mum and dad?’

‘Mum lives in Hastings. Dad lives in Bedford. It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I only sleep there. You know, most nights, when I’m DJing, I crash out like a light, one, two a.m., then I’m up and out again at five thirty.’ He shrugged.

‘Why don’t I ask Marni?’ Betty said, filled with horror at the thought of this fine man living in squalor, his strong hands growing weak with the damp. ‘You know, the girl who found my place for me. I bet she’s got loads of places round Paddington. Loads of places you could see.’

He smiled and nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘you’re right. Maybe I should. It’s just like a vicious cycle. I don’t want to go home so I make sure I’m busy and then I’m too busy to find somewhere decent to live.’ He sketched a circle on the tabletop with a square fingertip, before drawing his hand back into a fist.

‘I’ll call her,’ said Betty, ‘tomorrow. If you want.’

John looked down at her. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s really kind of you.’

‘That’s OK,’ she said. And she patted the hard ridges of his knuckles, fondly.

He looked at her in surprise and Betty put her hand back in her lap.

‘You know,’ he said, after a short pause, ‘when I first saw you ...’

‘You thought I was a stupid bint,’ she finished for him.

He laughed gently. ‘Well, no, not quite. I just thought, I don’t know, you seemed like one of those Trustafarian types, playing at being grown up, Mummy and Daddy paying for you to live life on the edge, that kind of thing. And then I’ve watched you these last few weeks and I can see how wrong I was. You’re the real deal, you know. A real, proper person.’

Betty gulped. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Thank you. And since we’re being honest, when I first met you I thought you were a total wanker.’

John threw her a look of injured surprise, and then he laughed. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘most people think that when they first meet me. It’s why I haven’t made any new friends since I was eight years old. So,’ he turned to face her, ‘have I done anything to disavow you of your first impressions?’

She gave him a stern smile. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You have.’

‘So you don’t think I’m a wanker any more?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I think you’re ...’ she paused. She had no idea what she thought he was. ‘I haven’t made my mind up yet,’ she finished.

He laughed. ‘Fair enough. I can’t say I’ve really made my mind up about myself yet, so no reason why you should have.’

Betty turned down John’s offer of a cigarette and made herself a roll-up. For a moment they sat in silence. But it wasn’t an awkward silence, it was more a moment of reflection between two people who’d had a long, hard day, sitting late at night in a scruffy members’ bar in Soho.

‘So,’ said John, inhaling on his cigarette and resting it in a glass ashtray, ‘tell me about Dom Jones. What’s the deal there?’

Betty shrugged. ‘Well, Amy Metz has sacked the nanny and keeps leaving the kids with him at short notice. So I’m saving his bacon, basically.’

‘And what’s it like,’ he continued, ‘you know, behind the doors?’

Betty threw him a patronising smile and said, ‘Oh, come on now, John, surely you don’t have the slightest interest in the domestic minutiae of some boring megastar pop singer. Surely you’re far too cool to give a shit.’

John smirked. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, ‘I’m not really interested, just, you know, making conversation. Taking a polite interest in your job.’

Betty laughed. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Sure. But unfortunately I am not at liberty to divulge any personal details about Dom Jones’s private or domestic life.’

‘What, he’s made you sign something, has he?’

‘No! Right now we’re just working on a gentleman’s agreement. He trusts me. And I don’t want to abuse that trust.’ She pursed her lips piously and lit her roll-up.

John nodded at her approvingly and said, ‘Good on you. I respect that. But seriously, what’s he like? Is he a total nob?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘he’s a bit vague, a bit scatty. But from what little I’ve seen of him, I think he’s quite decent. Loves his kids. Keeps a nice house. Eats well ...’

‘A lot of cheese, yeah?’

‘A lot of cheese,’ she laughed. ‘Tons of fruit. No crisps. And believe me, I looked for crisps.’ She stopped and put her finger to her lips. ‘But that,’ she said, ‘is more than enough. No more Dom talk. Let’s talk about you.’

‘Oh God, no way. Number one: I hate talking about myself, mainly because, number two: there is nothing to say. And anyway, what I really dragged you out tonight for was to find out the long story. The night of the party. Why you disappeared, left me sitting on a fire escape for half an hour with ten Polish language students.’

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘yes. Of course. Candy Lee.’

‘Candy Lee?’

‘Mad Chinese lesbian. From the flat downstairs. Cornered me in the bathroom. Tried to seduce me. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

‘Oh my God, she didn’t assault you, did she?’

Betty laughed. ‘Er, no, not quite. But she made it quite clear she would like to. With her studded tongue.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Well, I said thank you but no thank you, and then she left. With an open offer to visit her downstairs if I ever change my mind.’

John looked at her mock-seriously. ‘Do you think you will?’

‘Well, you know ...’ She winked and laughed and smoked her roll-up.

‘That wasn’t a long story.’

‘No. You’re right.’ She exhaled. ‘It was pretty short, really. Felt like for ever at the time, mind you. Maybe I just pretended it was going to be a long story to subliminally persuade you to invite me out for a drink.’ She stopped and flushed red. John raised an eyebrow at her sardonically. She had not meant to say that. ‘I mean, not because I wanted to, to ... you know, like a date or anything. Just because you’re down there and I’m up there and we keep passing, and it was time, you know, time to get to know each other.’

‘I agree,’ he said, and he raised his whisky shot to hers. ‘Cheers. And while I reserve the right not to tell you anything about myself, I do still insist, if we are getting to know each other, that you tell me everything about yourself. All of it. Starting with the crumbling mansion. If you don’t mind.’ He flashed her a cheeky smile, one of his rare ‘full’ smiles, one that involved both his eyes and his lips. She flushed again. His face in repose was calm and slightly forbidding – not a mask as such, but certainly a net curtain. When he smiled like that it was like pulling open the net curtains and discovering that it was the first day of summer. It made her glad that he didn’t smile very much, otherwise she might get used to it and stop seeing it as the beautiful thing it was.

She drew in her breath. There were feelings stirring within her, feelings she was not ready to acknowledge. She made her face look wry and cool and said, ‘The crumbling mansion on a cliff-top, you mean?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he smiled again, ‘yes. On a cliff-top. Windswept, I hope?’

‘Very windswept, battered daily by the elements.’

‘And please, please tell me it was haunted?’

‘No, not haunted. But a very, very old lady lived there. A very old lady with red satin shoes.’

‘Red satin shoes?’ said John, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m hooked. Tell me everything. The whole story of you.’

Betty smiled. ‘It’s quite boring.’

‘I don’t care,’ said John. ‘It’s about you. And you’re not boring.’

‘Aren’t I?’

‘No,’ said John. ‘You’re not.’

Betty smiled again, and told him everything.