Playing Around (18 page)

‘Too flipping much.’

‘I might start smoking,’ Angie said, watching a tarty-looking middle-aged woman in the doorway opposite drawing on a long slim cigarette.

‘What?’

‘I think it looks good.’ She was thinking of Martin and his ultra-cool girlfriend.

‘Looks good? Leave off, Ange. I’m too wet and cold to start arguing with you.’

David dropped down into third gear. Here he was, supposedly one of the most powerful blokes in the manor, and what was he doing? Driving round the poxy streets by himself, while his old woman was who knew where, carrying on with fucking Mikey Tilson. He’d really thought he had been on to something, that he’d let their pathetic little affair go on for long enough for the pair of them not only to hang themselves but to provide their own sodding rope for the bloody execution. But, truth be told, he had lost interest in what they were getting up to. Sonia was still glossy enough when he needed a bit of arm-candy to show off to the likes of Burman, and she’d be bored with Mikey Tilson sooner rather than later – if he didn’t lose his temper with him first – but what had started as a game was beginning to bore him.

But then that was David’s trouble. He had a low boredom threshold. Always had. And it was that, along with his miserable, poverty-stricken childhood, that had driven him, had made him the ambitious man that he was. And ambition in Bethnal Green didn’t have many outlets, other than boxing or crime, and David had never fancied getting his nose flattened or a cauliflower earhole. He was too proud of his looks.

He looked up at the façade of yet another trendy club that had recently opened in Wardour Street. Despite all this new gloss moving into the area, Soho was still a seedy, bloody hole of a place. He laughed mirthlessly to himself. A bit like Sonia really.

God he was pissed off.

And look at them in that shop doorway by the Canvas. If regular girls saw amateurs on their pitch they’d have their knives out for them. Literally.

He slowed down even more, to get a closer look.

There was something familiar about the dark-haired one. The one who looked ready to burst into tears. She’d get herself into right trouble if she did. Even the amateurs didn’t dare show any weakness round these parts.

Hang on. Wasn’t it? Yeah. It was that girl from the club. The one he’d rescued from that oily-haired little shit.

David braked, sending a splash of water up from the gutter.

‘Great!’ Jackie held up her arms and stared down at her legs. ‘Mud! Just what I needed. I have had enough, Ange. I have really and truly had enough.’

Angie gnawed at the inside of her mouth, refusing to release the tears that were making her nose prickle and her eyes sting. ‘So have I.’

David wound down the window. ‘All right, girls. Need a lift?’

‘We’re fine thanks,’ said Jackie sharply, refusing to make eye contact.

‘What, in this rain?’

‘Yes.’ Jackie looked away into the middle distance, hoping that she was giving a convincing impression of someone waiting for her six-feet-six boyfriend to come along in the car he had gone to collect so that she wouldn’t get wet.

‘Got any money?’

Angie flashed a look at Jackie. She didn’t understand what he was talking about. Was he begging? Not in that car, surely. ‘Sorry?’

‘For a cab.’

‘Yes, thanks,’ said Jackie, forgetting the conscientious boyfriend.

David took a fiver from his inside pocket and held it out of the car window. ‘Here. Take this. Get yourselves a cab. These streets are no place for two little princesses.’

‘Thanks ever so much.’ Angie took the money and brightened. It was the man from the club. Mr Fuller. David. ‘Can you tell us where we can get one, please?’

‘Hold on.’

David got out of the car and trotted across the street to the doorway, where the tarty woman was still standing smoking. He said something to her, she nodded, and then followed him through the door.

Angie noticed that the woman had laughed easily, as if they were friends.

He returned almost immediately. ‘Christina over there. She’s called you a cab. It’ll be here in less than five minutes.’ He paused. ‘Or you can have a lift with me if you like.’

‘That’s really kind.’ Angie smiled. What a nice man.

Jackie mouthed at Angie to
shut up
, then addressed the man, still without looking at him. She snatched the money off Angie and held it out at arm’s length. ‘Thanks for offering us the fiver. But we don’t need it.’

Angie looked at the man’s kind, smiling face, and at his big shiny car, and wondered how long a student would have to save up to buy a car like that. How long a student would have to stop drinking vodka and orange to be able to afford to give a fiver away to a girl, just because he wanted to make sure she had the fare home.

‘You’re ever so kind,’ she said, stepping out of the doorway into the rain. ‘You won’t remember me but—’

‘Course I remember you. We met in the Canvas.’

‘That’s right. I think it’s fab.’

‘Glad you approve. I own it.’

Jackie tapped Angie on the shoulder. ‘There’s a cab coming.’ Then she waved and the taxi drew into the kerb.

The driver got out and went immediately to the driver’s door of the Jaguar. ‘You wanted a cab, Mr Fuller?’

David handed him the fiver and raised an eyebrow at Angie. ‘Do I?’

Angie turned to Jackie. ‘Does he?’

‘I’m not getting in that car with him.’

‘I am.’

Angie ran round to the passenger’s door and jumped in.

She lowered her head and spoke past David’s chest at her horrified friend. ‘See you later, Jack.’ Then looked up at David. ‘And the cab’s paid for.’

Before Jackie could say another word, David had the car in gear and had pulled away.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Sacha.’

‘Your real name?’

‘Angela Sarah Patricia Knight.’

‘Blimey, that’s a bit of a mouthful.’

‘Sorry. People call me Angie.’

‘Angie. Angela. Tell you what, I’m going to call you Angel.’

David surprised himself. This wasn’t like him, messing around with a girl of – what was she? Nineteen? Twenty? – but what the hell? He hadn’t had a bit of stray for months. Too busy being good to that whore Sonia. He could just imagine the look on her face if she knew she had to compete with this tasty little bit. It would
have
her rushing to her pots and potions and creams faster than finding another grey hair. And it’d make her fling with Tilson seem just a little bit boring. Schtupping your old man’s hired help, well, it was beneath contempt.

This could turn into quite an interesting little adventure.

‘So, where’s home then, Angel?’

‘I’m staying with a friend.’

‘But where?’ He laughed. ‘I can’t keep driving round Trafalgar Square all night. We’ll get dizzy.’

‘Poplar.’ Angie just hoped she wouldn’t wake her nan, or she’d have all sorts of explaining to do about where she’d been till this time of night.

‘My family’s originally from Bethnal Green,’ he said, peeling off along Northumberland Avenue and heading for the Embankment. ‘I’ve not lived there for years though. Since I was about your age. I took a look round the West End, and I thought to myself, that’ll do for me. I’ll have some of that, thank you very much.’

He stopped smoothly at a red light. ‘What street does this friend of yours live in?’

She ran through the possibilities. The last thing she wanted was this man driving up to Lancaster Buildings in his big flash car. Her nan had a sixth sense about these sort of things and she’d be out on the landing wagging her finger and shouting the odds about young girls getting into strange blokes’ cars, and what was a man of his age thinking, before she had even put a foot on the pavement. Angie felt herself blushing at the thought of it.

‘If you wouldn’t mind, could you just drop me off on the corner of Burdett Road? The East India Dock end.’ That should do it, she could double back and get to the flats over the back railings.

David roared with laughter. ‘I might have known it. You’re all the same, pretty girls like you. This friend’s a feller.’

‘No, she is not.’ Angie was offended. ‘Actually, it’s my nan I’m staying with, and I don’t want to disturb her.’ Or have you knowing where she lives, Angie thought for no other reason than that her nan had always warned her to be careful what she told strangers about herself.

If her nan could see her now …

When the lights turned green, David didn’t move the car, instead, he turned to look at her. He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘You’re a strange little thing. You’d rather walk in all this rain than disturb your nan?’

Angie knew she’d made a fool of herself. ‘She’s special to me.’

‘Glad to hear it, sweetheart. Now, this is my card. I’m going to give it to you so you can phone me. I’ll take you out for a nice meal. How about that? A bit of dinner and maybe a show?’ He could hardly believe the words were coming out of his mouth.
Dinner and a show?
Who did he think he was? Fucking Noel Coward?

Angie took the card and tilted it towards the light from a nearby lamppost. It had his name, David Fuller, an address in Greek Street, and a telephone number. The lettering was in black, and was all shiny and raised as if it had been carved out of the thick white paper. ‘Thanks.’

David turned back to the steering-wheel and shrugged the creases from his jacket. ‘Now, how close can I drop you to your nan’s without you getting yourself in schtook?’

JACKIE STOMPED UP
the steps of Fenchurch Street station, aware of the grief she was doling out to the already grumpy Monday-morning commuters as she pushed and shoved her way past them to reach the exit, but not caring.

‘You were so stupid getting in that car, Angie, I can’t believe you did it. And I never knew you were staying round your nan’s. I was worried sick till you came round for me for work. Then all you wanted to know was why Martin had had to leave so early. Nothing about me, how upset I was. You are so selfish.’

‘For goodness sake, Jack, that was a sodding week ago! Change the record, can’t you?’ Angie stopped and held out her arms, scattering commuters off into tutting, complaining eddies all about her. ‘Look at me. I’m here. I’m safe. All right? What more do you want?’ She paused, searching for words. ‘Know your trouble? You never take a chance. Never do anything exciting.’

Jackie grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her along. ‘Exciting? Are you mad? You’re bloody lucky to be alive. Bloody lucky. Haven’t you read about blokes taking young girls away?’

Jackie continued carrying on about safety and luck and selfishness – just as she had done every day for a week – until she left Angie on the corner of Lime Street, where, as usual, they parted to go off to their respective offices. But, this morning, Angie wasn’t actually planning to go in to work. Not to stay, anyway.

She walked into the reception area of the company where she was now a telephone ordering clerk, plonked herself down on the big leather sofa, and buried her head in her hands.

‘Marge, could you do me a favour?’ she asked the sleek, thirtyish brunette, who was all but obscured by a massive vase of pale yellow lilies.

Marge skipped round her desk and sat down beside her. ‘Are you all right, poppet?’ She took Angie’s hand.

‘Could you tell Miss Shanks I don’t feel well? I tried my best. But the train journey. It’s made me feel even worse.’

‘You should have stayed in bed.’

Angie nodded miserably. ‘I know, but I’ve been so pleased with my new job, I didn’t want to let anyone down.’

Marge put a hand on Angie’s forehead. ‘You do feel a bit warm.’

That was news to Angie, who felt just fine, but she nodded in agreement. ‘I’m burning up.’

‘I’ll call a cab. And get you home.’

‘No. Please. I’ll be all right.’

‘I’ll put it on the company account.’

‘No, honestly, Marge. I’ll only get car sick. I’d rather go by train.’

‘Wait there.’ She went back to her desk and dialled through to Janet Shanks.

‘I feel terrible about letting you down, Miss Shanks.’ Angie smiled weakly at her supervisor. ‘I know how busy Monday mornings are.’

Janet Shanks smiled back with a caring, pleasant expression, knowing that, if she wasn’t careful, Angela Knight would be off looking for a new job. Somehow, from being a totally innocuous little junior run-around,
she
had suddenly become Miss Telephone Sales Woman of the Century. It was driving Janet Shanks mad, but Angie’s enthusiasm for her new job, along with her bizarre desire to please and to work really hard, rather than to compete, had seen the sales figures soar.

At least being the supervisor meant that she was taking most of the credit.

‘You nip off home and get yourself better,’ she smarmed brightly. ‘Your figures were fabulous last week, Angela. Just fabulous. You have a good rest and let us all have a chance to catch up with you.’

‘She won’t let me call her a cab,’ twittered Marge, who thrived on other people’s dramas.

‘I’m sure Angela knows what she’s doing,’ Janet said, asserting her authority over the receptionist.

And she was right. Angie knew exactly what she was doing. By the time Miss Shanks was back in the department, fretting about sales figures and unanswered telephones, Angie was running down Gracechurch Street towards Monument underground station as if she were the sole competitor in the City of London’s very own version of the hundred yards dash.

Angie stood by the revolving doors, trying hard to find the courage to enter the intimidating building, and wishing she hadn’t dressed quite so brightly that morning. Her pale lilac, moygashel minisuit might have been just the confident sort of outfit to wear for her new job, but it made her stand out from all the young people who were milling about in the sunshine outside Queen Mary College in the Mile End Road like a white feather in a crow’s wing.

Taking a deep breath, she plunged in.

‘Yes?’ The bored-sounding woman, sitting behind the sliding glass panel, spoke without looking up.

‘How can I find Martin Murray, please?’