Friday on My Mind (15 page)

‘Let’s have a look at it,’ she said to Al.

She bent down and tugged the lock at the base of the french windows. It came up reluctantly. She yanked at the handles and the doors swung open with an audible snap; warm air gusted into the room. She stepped out into the garden, the grass long around her ankles. It was twilight and she could smell the flowers and the moist earth. Al stepped out after her politely.

‘Do you like gardening?’ he asked her.

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But I like being in gardens.’ She gave him a smile. ‘I ought to be going. Perhaps I can leave this way.’

She went swiftly round the back of the house and through the side gate she’d seen when she arrived, drawing back the stiff bolts to release it, raising her hand in a wave to Al, stepping out onto the pavement, walking away.

When Frieda got back to her flat, she sat on the sofa for several minutes. There was no radio to turn on, no music to listen to, no book to take down from the shelf. It was almost restful, except that there were always noises from outside, shouts, the banging of doors, car horns. She really didn’t want to transform this dingy space into anything that resembled a home, and had no impulse to make it into her own territory. But she needed to buy some more things, cleaning stuff, basic supplies. She would do some shopping in the late-night store, fix a meal and make a plan.

She got up and walked into her bedroom, pulled the bag out and took out her walking boots. She pushed her hand into one boot, then into the other. She repeated the action to make sure, although she was already sure. All of the money was gone.

Frieda felt quite calm: it was as if she had been expecting this to happen. She was neither fearful nor distressed, but was conscious of a sense of steely resolve. She went out of the bedroom, out of the front door and along the balcony. She counted the flats until she found the right one, then knocked on the door. Nothing. She knocked hard again. She heard movement and the door opened. The man was so large that he filled the doorframe. He was wearing jeans and a shiny blue football shirt and had long dark hair, really long, down to his shoulders. He was holding a TV control.

‘Is Hana here?’ said Frieda.

The man just stared at her. His gaze was heavy, like something being laid on top of her to hold her in place. Frieda couldn’t tell if he had heard her or even if he understood English, but she could sense the weight of his hostility. She knew that she was putting herself in danger, yet she didn’t feel scared because she was so angry.

‘Hana,’ she repeated. ‘I think she’s got something of mine. I need to talk to her.’

Still no answer.

‘I would like you to answer me,’ she said. ‘Because I know you understand what I’m saying to you.’

It had happened even before she knew it was happening. She was pushed, across the balcony, hard against the railing. His right hand was on her neck, pushing her back. She noticed the oddity that his feet were bare and that his breath smelt meaty as she teetered backwards and wondered almost abstractly whether this was it, whether he was going to push her over the railing. He shifted his grip, grasping the top of her shirt.

‘I never even want to
see
you again,’ he said. ‘You hear me?’

Frieda didn’t think an answer was required.

‘I said, you hear me?’

‘I hear you,’ said Frieda.

The man held onto her shirt for a few more seconds, then released her and gave her cheek a light slap. He walked back inside and shut the door.

Frieda went back to her own flat. She felt in her jacket pocket. She found a twenty-pound note and a five-pound note. She had four pound coins and some change. She considered for a moment, gathering her thoughts, then she
went out and down the stairs and into the street. She needed to walk, as if it were a way of converting her anger into something purposeful. She passed through streets, through a park, along the side of a graveyard, along the side of a railway bridge with car-repair shops under the arches. Suddenly she stopped and looked around. She had been seeing nothing, hearing nothing. She hadn’t even been thinking in any coherent way. She tried to orientate herself. For a moment she thought she was lost but, with difficulty and a few wrong turnings, she was able to find her way back.

She remembered that she hadn’t eaten but she wasn’t hungry any more. She half undressed and got into bed, but as hour after hour passed, the idea of sleeping seemed impossible. A few feet from her was that man: she could still feel his hand on her neck and his breath on her face. At one point she reached for her watch and saw that it was half past two, and she thought of getting up, leaving the flat and walking through the streets again, as she often did at times like this. Instead she lay in the dark and thought about the process of going to sleep, of letting yourself drift into unconsciousness, and wondered how people did it, how she had ever managed it before. And she thought of everyone in London, everyone in the world, who needed – once every day – somewhere to go to sleep.

And then she must have been asleep herself because she woke with a start. She looked at her watch. She needed to hurry. She got up and undressed and washed in the trickling shower and pulled on more clothes and ran out of the front door and took the train up to Sasha’s. It cost her three pounds, which left her with just over twenty-six. She thought about people who made calculations like this every day – each pound mattering, each bus or train
journey adding up, every cup of coffee in a café something to be budgeted for. The world felt a very different place if you didn’t know how you were going to get to the end of the week, much more precarious, much scarier. She had always known this, but now she felt it – and all of a sudden she remembered herself at sixteen, without money and alone in the world, and it was as if she’d come in a circle back to that time when she had had nothing.

But, of course, she didn’t have nothing, because she had friends.

‘I need to borrow a small amount of money.’

‘Of course. Is something wrong?’

‘I just need some cash.’

Sasha looked through her purse. She had fifty pounds and gave Frieda forty.

‘Can I use your phone?’ asked Frieda. ‘I’ll be very quick.’

Sasha handed her the phone and Frieda stepped out into the hallway. She took the card from her pocket, the one she’d been given the previous day. It felt as if Fate had pushed her into this.

When she had finished, she was about to rejoin Sasha when she hesitated. She felt that she had no choice but, at the same time, as if she was violating a promise she had made herself.

She dialled Reuben’s number: no reply. She swore softly to herself.

‘Is everything all right?’ said Sasha.

‘I didn’t know I was saying that aloud.’ Frieda thought for a moment then tapped in another number. There was a click on the line.

‘Is Sasha? I have been –’

‘No, Josef. It’s me.’

‘Frieda. What happen? Where are you?’

‘I need your help.’

‘Of course. Tell me.’

‘I can’t get through to Reuben. I need you to go to him and borrow some money. Say, five hundred pounds, which I will of course repay as soon as I’m able.’

‘Frieda,’ said Josef. ‘Your money. What happen?’

Frieda felt the question like a punch on a bruise. Her immediate impulse was to say nothing, to deflect him. But then she surprised herself and, simply and fully, told Josef everything, about Hana, about the money, about the man. When she was finished, she waited for Josef’s anger, his surprise. But there was nothing.

‘OK,’ he said calmly. ‘I see Reuben. I bring the money.’

‘Is this safe for you?’ said Frieda. ‘Have the police been bothering you?’

‘No. Nothing now. Reuben say loud noise in newspapers. Some journalists poking. No problem.’

‘I can’t say how sorry I am to be asking you this.’

‘Then don’t say.’

She ended the call and turned to Ethan, who had come into the hallway.

‘Are you ready?’ she asked him, and he stared solemnly at her. ‘We’re going to have an exciting day.’

Bridget Bellucci lived in a terraced house in Stockwell, polished wooden floors, panelling, abstract paintings, french windows leading out onto a long garden. She introduced Frieda and Ethan to three-year-old Tam and one-year-old Rudi. Then she spread out Tam’s collection of fluffy toy animals on the carpet in the living room.

‘Why don’t you show them to Ethan?’ she said.

Tam did not seem especially enthusiastic about this. She picked up one of the animals and hugged it defensively, turning her back on the rest of them. Ethan sat down heavily on the floor and took out his own little pile of wooden animals, which he carefully arranged in front of them, his lower lip jutting out. Bridget gestured to the sofa. She was dark under the eyes; her hair was unwashed.

‘I thought you weren’t available,’ she said to Frieda. ‘What changed your mind?’ She didn’t seem especially grateful.

‘I’ve got Ethan. But I could help out for a few days until you find someone. If that’s what you want.’

‘It is what I want. I’m about to call work and say I’m sick.’ She gave a snort. ‘That’s what we do – it’s OK to be ill yourself, but woe betide you if you take time off for your children. But I can’t pretend to be sick for too many more days.’

There was a shriek from Rudi. Bridget looked at Frieda and Frieda bent down and scooped the little boy into her lap. He was hot and heavy and slightly damp.

‘What do you do?’

‘I teach Italian at the language school. Usually I have mornings free and work in the afternoons, then several evenings a week.’ She was still curt. ‘I’m half Italian.’

‘You look half Italian.’

‘Yes, well.’ She scrutinized Frieda. ‘You’re not my idea of a nanny.’

‘What is your idea of a nanny?’

‘Young, for a start.’

Frieda shrugged. ‘What happened to your childcare?’

‘She suddenly decided she was homesick. I suppose I should ask some questions. Do you have any references?’

‘No.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m not a real nanny. I’m just doing this for a friend.’

‘I must have misunderstood. Could I talk to this friend?’

‘Of course,’ said Frieda. ‘She’s at work at the moment. But I can get her to call you.’

Bridget looked at Ethan, who was clopping two of his horses along the wooden floor. ‘I suppose he’s a sort of reference. He looks happy enough.’ She bent down and put her face close to Ethan. ‘Are you happy with Carla?’

‘No,’ said Ethan. ‘Not Carla. She –’

‘He’s fine,’ said Frieda. ‘Here.’ She passed Ethan a few more of his wooden animals. Tam took one from him and put it into her mouth, where it bulged in her cheek. Ethan was so astonished he couldn’t even roar. His eyes and mouth grew round.

‘Give that to me now,’ said Frieda to Tam, holding out her hand.

Tam stared at her, mutinous. Bridget looked on, waiting to see what would happen.

‘Now, Tam,’ repeated Frieda.

‘Are you going to count to ten?’ Her voice was muffled because of the toy in her mouth.

‘Certainly not.’

There was a silence. Then Tam spat the animal into her hand.

‘Thank you,’ Frieda said. ‘Now, Ethan, show Tam your animals.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re in her house and sometimes it’s more fun to play with another person.’

‘Is there anything you’d like to ask
me
?’ Bridget said. Her voice had become marginally friendlier.

‘I’d like to be paid in cash.’

Bridget gave a laugh. ‘It all feels a bit under the counter.’

‘It’s how I work.’

‘How much do you charge?’

Frieda was blank for a moment. What was a plausible amount?

‘Eighty pounds a day?’

‘Great. Fine. I’ll pay you at the end of the week. When can you start?’

‘Now.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Today it is. I don’t have to leave for another hour. Shall we have coffee and I can tell you any practical details you need to know?’

‘I’d like that.’

‘You keep an eye on them. I’ll bring it through.’

Frieda did keep an eye on them. Rudi remained placidly on her lap while she watched the two older children with curiosity. Most of the time, they ignored each other; occasionally there were brief moments when they seemed to notice the other’s presence. At one point, Ethan put out a hand and touched Tam’s hair, which was vivid orange and curly, like a fire on her scalp. She was nothing like her mother.

Bridget came back into the room and handed Frieda her coffee. ‘What will you do with them today?’ she asked.

‘I thought perhaps we’d go to a cemetery.’

‘A cemetery!’

‘It’s sunny and warm and I think there’s one near here that’s good for exploring. We can take a picnic. What time will you be back?’

‘Late. But Al will get home at about five thirty or six. Is that all right?’

‘Fine.’ Frieda took a sip of her coffee, which was rich and strong. ‘Did Sandy come here a lot?’

‘Yes, he did. But why do you want to know?’ Bridget’s voice became cold once more.

‘Because the thing we have in common,’ said Frieda, ‘is Sandy. We both knew him.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘He’s dead, but –’

‘Murdered. Luridly famous. And people who haven’t seen him for ages –’

‘Like me.’

‘– like you, like countless others, are all of a sudden fascinated by him. They should mind their own business.’

‘You’re angry.’

‘Yes, I’m angry – angry that everyone’s suddenly wanting to be his best friend, now that he’s gone.’

‘And angry simply because he’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘You’re angry because he’s dead,’ repeated Frieda; she told herself that she was Carla, the nanny, but she didn’t feel like Carla. She could feel Bridget’s anger, coming off her like hot steam, and noticed how her cheeks were flushed. She watched Tam pull a series of ribbons out of a red cardboard case and hand them to Ethan, who held them between his fingers, his face intent. ‘Because he’s no longer here.’

‘Do you want this job?’

‘Looking after your children, you mean?’

‘Because if you want it, don’t keep on asking about Sandy. I’ve had enough. Leave him in peace. And me.’

The day was hot, almost sultry, but inside the cemetery it was cool and dim. Light filtered through the leaves, falling in trickles on the gravestones, many of which were covered with moss, their inscriptions indecipherable. The place was overgrown, full of brambles – it would be a good place for blackberries in the autumn – and birdsong. London felt far off, although they could hear the rumble of traffic in the distance. Frieda pushed Rudi in the buggy and Tam and Ethan played a chaotic and increasingly quarrelsome game of hide-and-seek, before sitting on a fallen log to eat their picnic.

Frieda thought about Bridget. Whenever Sandy was mentioned, she became tense and enraged, and she wondered why. If they had been simply friends, would Bridget be so passionately defensive about him? Had they been lovers? Bridget was beautiful and strong, and Frieda could see why Sandy might fall for her, but she was married to one of his close colleagues and she was the mother of two tiny children. But Veronica Ellison had said that Sandy had had a relationship he felt bad about. Perhaps Bridget was also consumed by grief and guilt, and the terrible effort of keeping such a thing secret now that Sandy had been killed. Or perhaps there was something more –