I Came to Find a Girl (3 page)

The cashier toys with one of her hoop earrings as she reads. “Wow, I’ve never met a famous artist before.”

“It must be hard for you to meet anyone the hours you work.”

“Yeah, but it’s all right, you earn more on this shift.”

“Have you ever had your portrait painted?”

Wide-eyed, she shakes her head, her hoop earrings hitting against her jaw-line.

“What’s your name and number? I’ll key it into my phone.”

The girl checks around before quietly relaying her details.

“Carmen – now there’s a name. Do you know the opera?”

“Yeah, well, not really – I’ve heard of it though.”

“She lured men with her beauty – is that you?”

She looks blank. And the camerawork is shaky as Flood gathers up his purchases. “I’ll be in touch.”

Flood’s hotel suite: the bronze silk curtains are drawn and the lights are dim.

Flood spreads the newspapers across the king-size. “The show’s a sensation – five stars.” He pores over the arts pages of the broadsheets, and moves on to the tabloids. His face darkens and his eyes are hard.

There’s a knock, and Flood stares at the door. “Who is it?”

“Jack, it’s me – Marcus, open up.”

Flood moves slowly towards the door.

Marcus Hedley is dressed in crisp jeans and a navy sweatshirt with his usual horn-rimmed glasses. “Jack, thank God,” he says.

“It’s a little early for a social visit.”

“I know you don’t sleep.” Marcus Hedley glances round at the luxury suite. “Can we sit down? There’s something I must tell you.”

“Save your breath, I already know.” Flood nods towards the pile of newspapers lying open on the bed.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to find out like that.” Marcus tries to put an arm round him.

Flood moves back and away. “When did you find out?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“When did you find out?”

“Jack, please sit, we need to talk this through.”

“Did you deliberately not tell me?”

Marcus removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes. “I only ever have your best interests at heart you know that. I was trying to protect you.”

“You couldn’t risk the star of the show not showing up...”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“When did you know?”

“Late yesterday – it was shortly before the private view. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to spoil your moment; you’ve worked so hard, and I wasn’t sure how you felt about Angie. It’s been a while...”

“Why didn’t you tell me after the show?”

“You disappeared. Where did you go?”

Flood frowns. “When did it happen?”

“I don’t know exactly. The coroner’s report will look into it but I’m told she was found yesterday but probably died the day before.”

“On the eve of my show...” Flood looks towards the window. “Is it true what the papers are saying?”

“It’s too early to tell.”

“I saw her that day.”

“Oh?”

“She was fine – she seemed fine.”

“I’m so sorry, Jack.”

Flood moves across the room and retrieves a Bible from the back of the hairdryer drawer.

“Oh, Jack – don’t do that, not now.”

“How else do you suggest I get through this?”

“Come back to London, come and stay with me for a while.”

Flood sits back down carefully placing the Bible on his lap, dark curls half-cover his face.

“Let me take you for breakfast.”

“I can’t eat anything, not now.” Flood opens the Bible to reveal a hollowed-out cavity.

Marcus stands up. “I’m going to leave now.”

Flood carefully removes a small plastic wrap from the hollowed-out book.

Marcus shakes his head. “You’ll be okay?”

Flood doesn’t reply. And Marcus shakes his head and lets himself out.

Again, there’s a knock at the door.

“Is that you, Marcus?” Flood closes the Bible and puts it aside, then redirects the camera ensuring it will encompass the door.

Outside, stands a petite woman in a pink, tailored skirt-suit with blonde waist-length hair and stilettos.
 

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“I am Tatiana.”

“You’ve got the wrong room.” He goes to close the door but the woman reaches out to stop him.

“This is suite 12?” she says.

“There must be some mistake.”

“You book me online, no mistake.”

“I can’t see a tall Russian blonde with flawless skin.”

“You booked me. I know – photographic memory.” She taps the side of her head with a perfect pink nail.

“You’re about five four at a push, yellow hair – I’ll give you that, but you’re orange. Fake tan does nothing for me, sweetheart.”

“You saw my picture online, you know what to expect.”

“Look, putting the Trade Descriptions Act aside, now is not a good time.”

“You want – I come back in little while?”

“It’s inappropriate right now.”

“I come all this way. You pay my taxi?”

“I thought I already had. You’re all the same, here, take that and lose the tan – we may have a future then.” The woman snatches the cash and deposits it in her slim Chanel clutch bag.

Flood shuts the door and then immediately reopens it. “Hold on a moment.”

The woman pauses and turns around, and Flood says, “I want a closer look.”

Maciek’s cab, after dark: the car is stationary in a built-up area. Flood must be filming from the backseat, as he’s not visible and yet his voice is audible. “The work is by Douglas Meek. He made two identical pieces –
Catch Me If You Can I
and
II
. The first was displayed in an exhibition and allowed to melt as Meek had intended. Nicholas Drake bought the second one and he insisted the gallery deliver it frozen to his home so he could enjoy the melting experience in private. Only he didn’t do that, he’s had a special freezer installed to house the piece.”

Maciek frowns. “In Poland we have many power cuts. He could go away for a day, come back and find only water.”

Flood laughs. “That’s like the urban myth about Saatchi’s blood head.”

“What is blood head?”

“It’s a piece by Marc Quinn. It’s actually called
Self
. Basically, it’s a cast of the artist’s head filled with his own blood. There was a rumour that Saatchi had it stored in a freezer at home that got switched off by builders who were refurbishing a kitchen for his wife. But it wasn’t true. He sold it to America for a decent profit. I hate to admit it, but Drake’s on to something.”

“And he will buy your work?”

“He’s making the right noises, let’s put it that way.”

“What is this man who can spend so much on ice?”

Flood snorts. “He’s a vulgarian.”

“You do not have respect for him?”

“These collectors are all the same. They buy to feel alive – to terrorise themselves. They long to feel like their lives are volatile when they are not.”

The camera focuses in on a man across the street as he doubles up and vomits by the wheel of a parked car. Maciek tuts. “What is the matter with your people?”

“There’s no poetry in their lives,” Flood says. “It’s all so disappointing.”

“You have too much.”

“Don’t think your country won’t go the same way now you’ve joined the EU. Everyone wants to be someone whether they have talent or not.”

The camera shifts to a figure standing outside the curved window of Saviour’s Bar and Restaurant: jeans, a T-shirt, long brown hair and a slouchy bag.
It’s me
.
 

A sick feeling rises within me again, and I wipe my hot hands on the sofa, as I force myself to watch my younger self. What was I – twenty or twenty-one? It’s only a matter of a year or so. I look better than I realised at the time, but apprehensive, as I search up and down the street.

Run, leave
–
get away
. I wish I could shout at that girl who is me, but isn’t me.
Go home
–
save yourself
.

Three

I had arrived early at Saviour’s that night and gone straight through the bar area to the backstairs and storeroom where we could leave our stuff. My mate Donna was already there, sneaking a quick fag as she teased the cockatoo hairstyle that added an essential two inches to her five-foot frame.

“What you doing here, Mia? It’s not your night.”

“Covering for Mags – her son’s ill.”

“What, serious?”

“No, I think it’s man flu.”

“Isn’t he about twenty-five?”

“Yeah, I know, weird isn’t it? How busy are we?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

In the kitchen everything appeared as normal, well, better in fact as it was head chef’s night off. Jason, my favourite, was at the main station, his whites pressed, his hair gelled, sauces prepped, cuts of meat portioned and wrapped, ready to be ordered. Even so, something had obviously kicked off.

“How can I work without a stove? I’m not a fucking magician,” Jason said.

Our boss, Vivienne Saviour looked agitated, as she flicked her blonde highlights. “Someone’s coming in on Friday to fix it,” she said.

“We’re fully booked and I’ve only got two poxy gas rings.”

“You’ll just have to manage, Jason. You’re a professional – surely they train you to cope with unforeseen circumstances.” Vivienne turned on her patent court heel and walked out of the kitchen.

“It’s a fucking joke. She could have got someone out today. She’s just too tight to pay the emergency call-out fee.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Jenny asked. She was the commis chef. She’d only been there two months but was considered the best commis chef ever. She was lovely looking too, in an understated way, with long mousy hair that she wore in a plait down her back.

“Jen, you just keep doing what you do. It would help if Mia and Donna get the first tables’ orders in quick so we can get them out the way.”

There were people waiting: a balding man of about fifty and two women. “Party for four – Drake,” the man said. He was about my height, and well dressed in a dark suit, his forehead deeply lined. It was Nicholas Drake, the art collector, but I didn’t know that then.

I showed them to the best table by the limestone fireplace, and gave them menus and a wine list. “Can you do the crab and scallop cakes without the crab?” the blonde woman asked. She was dressed in a flesh-coloured top that from a distance made her appear naked.

“I’ll have to ask chef.”

“I’ll have the duck,” the other woman said.

I returned to the kitchen: “Jase, we’ve got an awkward anorexic on table two.” I passed him the order.

“I can’t do the crab and scallop cakes without the crab. They’re prepped.” He was calm considering.

“Can you see to that other customer? He’s hot.” Donna said, as she was in the middle of serving a table of four. I looked out the porthole window of the kitchen’s swing door at the solitary figure in a pinstriped jacket over jeans and T-shirt.
Jack Flood
. A rush of nervous excitement went through me and I returned to the restaurant.

“Hello, I didn’t know you’d booked?”

“We meet again,” he said and smiled. “There should be a table under Drake.”

He’s not single, was my first thought.
And what is he doing dining with them
?

“Jack, at last,” Nicholas Drake said as soon as he saw him. “Let me introduce you. This is Mandy.” He gestured towards naked-top woman. “And this is Christine. We’ve already ordered, so get a move on.”

“Can I get you anything to drink?” I said.

“My lady friend would like to change her choice of main,” Drake said. “She’d also like the cod without the roasted garlic potatoes and paprika oil.”

“It may be too late, I’ll have to check,” I said. And yes, Jason was already cooking the duck she’d previously ordered, but I mentioned it anyway and unfortunately Vivienne had made her way back into the kitchen.

“Change it,” she said.

“What?”

“Do as they ask.”

“Whatever you say, boss. It’s your profits going straight in the bin.” Jason flicked the part pan-roasted duck into the rubbish. Vivienne glared and walked out, and Jason said nothing for once, which meant he was really pissed off. And, to make matters even worse, Drake also changed his mind.

“Jase, the guy on table two’s now changed from pork to spiced rump of beef.”

“Where’s the chit?”

For some reason, I hadn’t thought to write it down.

“I need a chit.” Jason’s eyes were hard – the way he looked at Vivienne. “Look, I’ve got ten fucking chits here, if you just say it to me, I don’t know what you’re on about. It has to be written down.”

I tried to reply but it was all getting too much. I slipped back outside.

“You all right, Mia?” Donna asked. But there was no time to stop. Another table had arrived, and my table of six needed their wine and table three’s starters were due out. I seated the new arrivals, sorted the wine and went over to take Jack Flood’s order before collecting table three’s starters.

“Ah, my water, thank you, Mia” Jack said.

“You got her name already?” Naked-top said. “Fast work.”

“We’ve met before,” Jack said, “although I had no idea she worked here.”

“Well, I haven’t got much choice if I want to study and eat regular meals.”

“Fetch another glass for the champagne, will you?” Drake said.

They raved about the food in the end, sending compliments to the chef, but they declined dessert. Jack said they’d drink in the bar, and they relocated leaving a hefty tip. Drake and the anorexics didn’t stay long after that but Jack was still there in the bar as the restaurant emptied.
 

He called me over. “I must apologise for being such an awkward table,” he said.

“They were happy in the end.”

“Some people are never happy.”

“I suppose not.”

“Are you finishing soon?”

“I’ll be another half an hour.”

“I’d like to take you for a drink. I’ll wait outside.”

It was so decisive, assumptive even and I liked that, but it had been a long night, I was tired and felt I should go home. But it’s Jack Flood, I thought, I might not get another chance.

In the ladies I screwed up my uniform and changed back into my Diesel jeans and Blondie T-shirt. I wished I’d worn something else, something sexier. I didn’t even have any jewellery. At least my make-up looked okay. The eyeliner had stayed in place, still thick and flicked up at the corners. I pulled on my Bambi-coloured suede boots and zipped up the zip that started inside the foot and travelled round the back of the leg and up the other side. I loved those boots. Mum had bought them as a special back-to-college present. “That’s it for now, don’t ask me for anything else,” she had said, but I could tell she’d enjoyed buying them for me.