he couldn't get back to exchange it so he had to fake it. No one had even batted an eyelid.
We waited in line. Still with the laptop on my right shoulder, I was holding Kelly's hand with my left. I kept looking down at her and smiling, but not excessively so; that was suspicious behavior, and I knew that people would be watching on monitors and from behind two-way mirrors. The business type in front of us went through with a wave and a smile to the official. It was our turn. We approached the desk.
I handed my passport and visa waiver to the woman. She ran her eyes down the details on the card. She looked down at Kelly from her high desk.
"Hello, welcome to England."
Kelly came back with a very American, "Hi!"
I guessed the woman was in her late thirties. Her hair was permed, but the perm had gone slightly wrong.
"Did you have a nice flight?" she asked.
Kelly had Jenny or Ricky in one hand, hanging by its ear, and the other one's head was sticking out from the top flap of the day sack on her back. She said, "Yes, it was fine, thank you."
The woman kept the conversation going.
"And what's your name?" she asked, still checking the form.
Could I trust her to get it right, or should I butt in?
Kelly smiled and said, "Kelly!"
What a farce. We'd come so far, we'd come through so much, only to be caught by a line straight out ofaB movie.
Right away I smiled down at Kelly.
"No, it's not!" I didn't want to look at the woman; I could feel the smile drain from her face, could feel her eyes burning into the side of my head.
There was a pause that felt like an hour as I tried to think of what to do or say next. I pictured the woman's finger hovering over a concealed button.
Kelly got there before me.
"I know, I'm joking." She giggled, holding out a teddy.
"This is Kelly! My name is Louise. What's yours?"
"My name's Margaret." The smile was back. If only she'd known how close she'd been to a kill.
She opened the passport. Her eyes flicked up and down as she studied first the picture, then my face. She put the pass port down below the level of the desk, and I saw the telltale glow of ultraviolet light. Then she looked back into my eyes and said, "When was this picture taken?"
"About four years ago, I guess." I gave a weak smile and said in a low voice that Kelly wasn't meant to overhear, "I've been having chemotherapy. The hair's just starting to grow back." I rubbed my head. My skin felt damp and cold. Hope fully I still looked like shit. The capsules certainly made me feel it.
"I'm bringing Louise over to see my parents because it's been quite a traumatic time. My wife's staying with our other child because he's ill at the moment. When it rains, it pours!"
"Oh," she said, and it sounded genuinely sympathetic. But she didn't hand back the passport.
There was a big lull, as if she were waiting for me to fill the silence with a confession. Or maybe she was just trying to think of something helpful and human to say. Finally she said, "Have a good stay," and put the documents back on the desktop.
There was that urge just to grab them and run.
"Thank you very much," I said, picking them up and putting them back into my pocket, then carefully doing up the button, because that was what a normal dad would do. Only then did I turn to Kelly.
"C'mon, Louise, let's go!"
I started to walk, but Kelly stood her ground. Oh fuck, now what?
"
"Bye, Margaret." She beamed.
"Have a nice day!"
That was it. We were nearly there. I knew there wasn't going to be a problem with the luggage, because I wasn't going to collect it.
I checked the carousels. There was a flight from Brussels that was also unloading, so I headed for the blue channel.
Even if they were watching and stopped us because Kelly had a Virgin Atlantic bag, I would play the stupid person routine.
But there weren't any Customs officers on duty in the blue channel. We were free. The large sliding doors opened up into the arrivals hall. We walked through into a throng of chauffeurs holding up cards and people waiting for their loved ones. Nobody gave us a second look.
I went straight to the currency exchange. I found I'd done well last night with Ron, Melvin, and the Glazars, ending up with more than three hundred pounds in cash. Like a dickhead, I forgot to ask for a smaller bill for the subway ticket machine, so we had to stand in line for ages to get to the kiosk. It didn't seem to matter; even the hour-long ride to Bank station was enjoyable. I was a free man. I was among ordinary people, none of whom knew who we were or was going to pull a gun on us.
The central London district known as the City is a strange mixture of architecture. As we left the subway station, we passed grand buildings made up of columns and puritanically straight lines--the old Establishment. Turn a corner and we were confronted by monstrosities that were built in the sixties and early seventies by architects who must have taken a "Let's go fuck up the City" pill. One of these buildings was the one I was heading for, the NatWest bank on Lombard Street, a road so narrow that just one car could squeeze down it.
We went through the revolving steel and glass doors into the banking hall, where rows of cashiers sat behind protective screens. But I wasn't there for money.
The reception desk was staffed by a man and a woman, both in their early twenties, both wearing NatWest suits; they even had little corporate logos sewn into the material of their breast pockets, probably so staff wouldn't wear them after hours. As Kelly would have said, "As if!"
I saw both of them give Kelly and me an instant appraisal and could feel them turning up their noses. I gave them a cheery, "Hi, how are you?" and asked to speak with Guy Bexley.
The woman said, "Can I have your name, please?" as she picked up the phone.
"Nick Stevenson."
The girl called an extension. The man went back to being efficient on the other side of the reception desk.
I bent down and whispered to Kelly, "I'll explain later."
"He'll be along in a minute. Would you like to sit down?"
We waited on a couch that was very long, very deep, very plastic. I could sense Kelly's cogs turning.
Sure enough.
"Nick, am I Louise Stevenson now, or Louise Glazar?"
I screwed up my face and scratched my head.
"Umm ... Kelly!"
Guy Bexley came down. Guy was my "relationship man ager," whatever that was. All I knew was that he was the man I asked for when I wanted to get my security blanket out. He was in his late twenties, and you could see by his hairstyle and goatee that he felt uncomfortable in the issued suit and would be far happier wearing PVC pants, holding a bottle of water, and partying all night bare-chested.
We shook hands.
"Hello, Mr. Stevenson, haven't seen you for a long time."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Work. This is Kelly."
He bent down and said, "Hello there, Kelly," in his best "I've been trained how to introduce myself to kids" manner.
"I just need my locked box for five minutes, mate."
I followed him toward the row of partitioned offices on the other side of the hall. I'd been in them many times before.
They were all identical; each contained just a round table, four chairs, and a telephone. It was where people went to count money or beg for a loan. He started to leave.
"Could I also have a statement on my savings account, please?"
Guy nodded and left. Kelly said, "What are we doing here?"
I should have known by now that she hated to be left out of things. Just like her dad.