‘What?’ I exclaim, shocked. ‘Tony’s disgusting!’
‘I was drunk,’ she says glumly.
‘Oh my God! And he’s married as well.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she says sourly.
‘When did this happen?’
‘Last Friday.’
‘And you’re just telling me now?’
‘It meant nothing. I was, like, really drunk,’ she explains.
‘Oh, Anna.’
‘I’d already put it behind me, but now he’s acting all weird. I think he’s trying to get rid of me.’
Note to self: NEVER mix business with pleasure. Oh, DAMN.
After my conversation with Anna, I have a salmon and cucumber sandwich and some dark chocolate for lunch. That afternoon I get through an impressive pile of paperwork, answer the phone, and liaise with my workmates, but all the time my insides are clenched, and between my legs my cunt is fat with anticipation.
Before the clock strikes five, I am already crossing the reception concourse. Stepping outside into the hot evening, I walk down to the Underground station and take the Tube back to my apartment building. Ignoring the slow, smelly lift, I run up the three flights of stairs and let myself into my matchbox-sized, one bedroom flat. Yeah, it’s tiny, but it’s all mine—well, at least as long as I pay my rent.
I run to the mirror and look in it.
Unbelievable.
I still look the same. I pulled it off. No one knew.
My living room is west facing and it’s like a sauna in my home, so I quickly open all the windows, switch on the fans and go into my bedroom. Even though it’s very small, I’ve made it look pretty and cozy with blue and white vertical stripe wallpaper, an old-fashioned chrome bed and a painted French dressing table. It’s my sanctuary. So far only one man has been in here, but he turned out to be a giant jerk. I quickly banish all thoughts of him and open more windows. The sounds from the street below float up as I start stripping the bed. I put on fresh sheets and stuff the soiled ones into the washing machine. I don’t turn the machine on, because I don’t want to come home to a crumpled wet mess.
I tidy up, dust all the surfaces and run the vacuum cleaner quickly around the place. By now I’m hot and sweaty. I glance at the clock: five past six. I stick a green apple scented refill into the plug-in air freshener and go into the bathroom. There I do what I’ve not done in months.
I trim down my bush and shave my legs. No nicks. Yay! I step into the shower and wash my hair. With a towel wrapped around my head and body, I come back into the bedroom and pad over to my closet.
It’s been a long time since I cared this much about looking good. There are all kinds of options I can go for: sexy, or casual, or elegant, or professional. In the end I decide to go for subtle. A black lace shirt that my mother bought for my birthday teamed with a red pencil skirt that I got in a seventy percent off sale. I guess there’s not too much demand for red pencil skirts. But the nice thing about the skirt is the slit up the back. Modest, but an invitation all the same.
You’re not on a date, I tell myself even as I’m slipping into little bits of sexy underwear. Standing in my bra and panties, I dry my hair and, brushing it back, draw on a black velvet band. I go for smoky eyes and nude lip gloss. My cheeks are already tinged with pink so I skip the blusher.
From the back of my closet I take out my most extravagant purchase yet. I saved up for weeks to buy them. I open the box and take out my big investment: a pair of zebra patterned court shoes with red heels almost the same color as my skirt. I step into them and … they are worth every penny.
Feeling like a million dollars, I dab on perfume and stand in front of the mirror on the closet door. I turn around and look at the back view.
‘Not too bad,’ I reassure myself.
I stuff my lip gloss, a twenty-pound note just in case it gets nasty and I need to get a taxi home, and a credit card into my evening purse. With one last look at my appearance, I go into the living room. It smells of apples. Satisfied that everything looks the way it should, I glance at the time.
I still have ten minutes to kill.
Until this moment all the activity has kept me going and in control. Now I’m suddenly a bundle of nerves. I feel as if I’m about to walk into an exam hall to take a test that I’m totally unprepared for. I walk into my kitchen and take a bottle of vodka out of my fridge. I pour two fingers worth of alcohol into a glass and down it neat into my empty stomach. It burns my throat, but the alcohol is good. Its warmth radiates quickly through me, warming my body, stirring my blood. I switch on the TV for some noise, and try to concentrate on the sounds and pictures on the screen.
The doorbell makes me jump like a startled cat at two minutes to seven.
The man is punctual!
I smooth my skirt and, taking a deep breath, open the door. And … oh wow! If he looked good before, he is devastatingly dashing now in a snowy white silk shirt that contrasts amazingly with his tanned skin, a beautifully cut gunmetal gray evening suit, and black shoes polished to a mirror shine. Is that jaw for real? Freshly shaved, his jaw seems to me to have been chiseled to perfection by the gods themselves. As Anna would say, ‘Gurllll! I’ma gonna have to call you back.’
‘Hi,’ I say awkwardly.
Silently, he holds out what looks like a box of very expensive, handmade chocolates. Wow, I certainly didn’t expect that from a twenty-eight-year-old gypsy tax dodger. I take the box and finger the dark blue ribbon.
‘How … courtly. Thank you,’ I say softly. My mother used to say any charm offensive that begins with handmade chocolates is bound to take effect eventually. I wonder when eventually will be.
He shrugs, his hot blue eyes pouring over me, taking in my face, my hairband, my lace top, my red skirt, and resting a shade longer on my zebra shoes.
He brings his eyes back to my face. ‘Are you ready to go?’
‘Yes,’ I say, taking a step back to leave the box of chocolates on the little table by the door. I turn around to find his eyes scanning the interior of my tiny flat. When his gaze meets mine it is polite and deliberately neutral.
Stepping out, I close the door and we walk down the corridor to the lift without any conversation. He presses the button and still there are no words exchanged. His silence is unnerving, and I feel compelled to break it before the lift comes.
‘Where are we going?’
He glances sideways at me. ‘The Rubik’s Cube.’
The lift doors open and we step in. The smell of piss hits me hard. ‘The Rubik’s Cube? It’s not one of yours, is it?’
He looks at me sardonically. ‘Take you to one of mine and have you accuse me of enjoying untaxed perks?’
‘Right,’ I say, as the lift slowly and jerkily bears us down.
His car, a model I recognize immediately as it’s my father’s dream car, is a brand new Maserati GranCabrio Sport bearing a price ticket of over a hundred thousand pounds. It’s parked on double yellow lines right outside the building entrance.
‘This road’s notorious for parking tickets,’ I warn, my eyes skimming the muscular lines of the sleek black machine.
‘I know,’ he says carelessly.
He unlocks the car remotely and opens the passenger door for me. I slip in and he shuts it. Alone in the luxurious space, I inhale deeply the smell of leather and immerse myself in the high-tech beauty and fabulous comfort of the interior. I stroke the door handle. Wow! I’ve never been in such a car. The dashboard, door and seats are all in soft burgundy leather with stitching in a matching color.
He slides into the driver’s seat, retracts the roof, pushes a little button next to the column marked ‘Sport’, and what must be the loudest car in the world snarls, roars and with a sonic boom comes to life.
He turns to me. ‘Ready?’
‘Should I be scared?’
‘Nah, you’ll love it.’
I’d planned to play it cool, but a wild, unintended whoop escapes my thick wall of disapproval of him and ill-gotten wealth of all kinds when he hits the gas pedal, and the car takes off so suddenly it throws me back against the seat.