Before I Met You (21 page)

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.’

‘Fuck.’

‘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.