Untouchable (29 page)

‘Goodbye, Dad,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be able to come back.’

I wait for him to speak. To say something. But there’s nothing except another shriek from the woman in the other ward.

I walk towards the door.

‘Grace?’

I turn around.

‘There was someone here looking for you. A man.’

My father runs his tongue over his lips. I feel my pulse begin to race, outpacing the blip-blip-blip of the monitor behind the bed.

‘He said he was a friend of yours. He wanted to know if I’d seen you.’

‘A friend of mine? What did he look like?’

I sense my father calling up a mental picture. ‘Brown hair. Around forty.’

‘Did he have a funny dent on his cheek?’

My father frowns. ‘Not that I noticed. Why?’

‘No reason.’ I go to leave.

‘He said he was an old friend and he’d been away for a while and just wanted to catch up. Said he’d lost your contact details.’

Ice in my heart, sharp and cold.
Been away for a while.
Oh fuck. It couldn’t be, could it? My breath turns to short staccato gasps, while my father watches me dispassionately. Probably enjoying the effect his words have finally had.

‘What did you tell him?’ I say, straining to speak. ‘About seeing me?’

My father makes a noise resembling a snort. ‘I said I’d be lucky if you bothered to show up at all.’

I manage to get outside before I throw up. Run round to the side of the main hospital entrance where there’s a thick planting of shrubs and bushes and retch on to the bark-covered soil. Nothing much to show for it though – all I’ve eaten is the cake Anna foisted on me earlier. I start to shake, trembling uncontrollably, leaning against the wall for support.

Breathe, Grace. Breathe.

I sink on to a nearby bench. Inhale cool clean air while I dig around in the bottom of my handbag for a tissue. I find loose change, a lipstick, a couple of tampons. Nothing I can wipe my face with.

Shit. I close my eyes, trying to steady the flow of my breath. It’s not him, I try to tell my panicking brain. Get a grip. It’s not Michael. It can’t possibly be Michael. It must be somebody else.

A hand on my arm. I let out a small squeal of alarm.

‘You all right, love?’

My head whips round and I see the woman standing in front of me, a hanky in her hand. A real one, made of cotton, neatly folded and ironed. I mouth ‘thank you’, then take it and swipe it across my lips. The woman sits beside me and puts a hand on my shoulder. Suddenly I’m crying, really crying. Big gulping sobs, shoulders quaking, snot streaming from my nose. The full works.

People shoot me the odd glance as they pass, but otherwise seem unconcerned. This is a hospital, after all; as with prisons, tragedy is not something in short supply.

The woman sits there, witnessing, not speaking. I smile at her briefly, try to pull myself together, only to be ambushed by more tears.

‘Bad news, was it, love?’

I turn to face her. See pale-blue peering out from under heavy folds of skin. The flesh around her chin has turned to jowls, but there’s still a vibrancy to her complexion, a liveliness, that suggests she’s had a good life.

‘I lost my husband a couple of years back. Knocked me for six. But you do get over it.’ She’s dressed in a hospital uniform, the kind support staff wear. A cleaner, perhaps, or maybe she works in the kitchens. I imagine her struggling on her widow’s pension, working part-time for barely the minimum wage.

Christ. I probably earn more in an hour than she makes in a week.

‘You’ll be all right.’ She squeezes my shoulder. ‘It’s never as bad as you imagine.’

Oh, but it is, I want to tell her, and sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes it’s simply more than you can take.

But I don’t say anything. Just smile, grateful for her kindness. ‘Thanks.’

The woman looks at her watch. ‘I’d best go, love. My bus leaves in five.’ She leans over and pats my hand again, a thin gold band on her wedding finger. I try to hand her back the ruined handkerchief but she waves it away. ‘You need it more than I do.’

‘Thank you,’ I say again.

She stands, slowly, painfully. Bad hips or knees, I think; perhaps both. I watch her walk towards the main road, each step clearly an effort. And wonder if I’ll ever make it as far as she has.

It’s only when she disappears around the corner that I remember my phone and switch it back on.

Almost immediately it vibrates. I look at the screen.

Janine.

44

Monday, 13 April

I have to hand it to her, this place rocks. Right on the river at Greenwich, it’s all exposed brickwork and warehouse chic. God knows who Janine managed to borrow it from. A client, obviously – possibly some property developer, since this apartment appears to be the only one in the building that’s inhabited. A show home, I’m guessing.

I’m impressed she’s pulled this off at such short notice.

‘How long have we got?’ I ask her, taking in the cavernous lounge and its sparse but stylish furniture. Half a dozen canvases fill the walls. All by the same artist, I’d say; bold abstracts in shimmering peacock shades. More like a high-end gallery than anywhere you’d actually live.

‘Three hours. I have to get the keys back by seven.’

We size each other up. Janine’s sticking with the Bond theme, I note, vamped up in a sleek black cat suit and black Gucci heels. She’s wearing heavy dark eyeliner and pale lip gloss, her hair hoisted into a jaunty ponytail.

I have to admit she looks fabulous. Amazing the power of carefully applied slap to alter a face. Not that I can fault her figure. Janine has the kind of lean, toned physique you’d expect to see on a professional athlete, rather than some self-indulgent escort.

‘You look great,’ I say sincerely. ‘Fantastic.’

She grins back at me. ‘I was going to say the same to you. In fact, I really wouldn’t have known it
was
you.’

I check myself out in the mirror above the fireplace. I’m wearing a blonde wig I borrowed off a girl I once did a duo with. It’s quality, not some cheap synthetic deal. This is real hair, cut in a sharp bob, with a perfect ash tone that completely alters my complexion.

It’s a bit creepy, looking at my head, wondering who this used to be attached to. It’s one thing to sell your body – after all, you get it back afterwards. Quite another to sell your hair.

Instead of my usual minimal make-up, I’ve laid it on thick. Even purchased a set of the false eyelashes that are Janine’s stock in trade. Without Elisa to help me, it took me half an hour to attach them, but I have to admit the result is worth it. My eyes are wider, more striking; with eye liner and silvery shadow, quite mesmerizing.

My
pièce de résistance
, however, are the coloured contact lens. I went for the most expensive I could find, a subtle blend of blues and greys that look both authentic and arresting. They transform me in seconds from a dark-eyed Celt to a cool Nordic blue-eyed blonde.

Janine is right. You really wouldn’t know it was me. Every time I glance in the mirror the unfamiliar girl reflected there looks surprised, even a little shocked.

I check the time on my phone. Three-fifteen. Harry should be here in a few minutes. I go into the kitchen, put the champagne I bought into the fridge. Janine follows me, removing another smaller bottle from her bag.

‘Want one?’ She holds it up. ‘It’s vodka. He won’t smell it on your breath.’

I nod. I’m feeling almost sick with nerves. Maybe it will help.

Janine pours an inch into two glasses. She downs hers in one, then roots around again in her handbag. Pulls out a small plastic bag of white powder.

‘You sure you’ll be OK with that?’ I ask, as she makes herself a line on the polished work surface.

She ignores me. Bends over and sniffs it up her neat little nostrils. She straightens and offers the bag to me. I shake my head. A stiff drink is more than enough. I’m going to need my wits about me.

‘I’ll give him some when he gets here,’ Janine wipes the end of her nose. ‘It’ll blur his edges a bit. Make him less likely to notice anything.’

I lifte an eyebrow but leave it at that. It’s way too late to argue this out. Besides, she’s clearly nervous herself, going back into the lounge and pacing up and down its considerable length, avoiding my eye.

I stand by one of the windows overlooking the Thames. Run through everything again in my head, making sure there’s nothing I’ve forgotten. ‘You remember what to do?’ I grab Janine’s arm as she walks past.

She nods. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got it.’

I pull her round to face me. ‘If it gets rough, Janine, you go, all right? Leave me to handle him.’

She nods again, but her fingers come up to the base of her throat, fluttering nervously. Suddenly, behind all the make-up, I see her for the young girl she still is.

Another person I’ve dragged into the mud.

I check the time again. Nearly half past. Where the fuck is he?

Janine clocks my expression. ‘Don’t worry about it. He’ll show. He’s always late.’

But what if he doesn’t, I wonder. What if he’s got wind of what I’m up to? Or simply changed his mind? I walk to the window and peer down at the river. Feel my pulse beginning to race as the minutes tick by.

I turn to see Janine downing another shot of vodka. Christ, at this rate she’ll be legless by the time he turns up.

‘Perhaps you should give him a ring?’ I ask, trying to keep the anxiety from my voice.

She nods. Retrieves her phone from her bag. I watch as she finds his number, presses the call button and holds it to her ear.

Half a minute later she snaps the phone cover shut. ‘No reply.’

Christ, it’s quarter to. He’s not fucking coming. My mind races. What on earth do I do now?

The truth is, I have no idea. There is no plan B.

A loud buzz on the intercom makes us both jump. Janine shoots me a panicky look, then half-runs to answer it. I settle myself on one of the sofas, taking a deep breath and adopting a pose I hope looks relaxed and seductive.

Janine buzzes him up. Neither of us speak as we wait for the lift to bring him to the apartment.

A minute later Harry’s moon face swings into view. He scans the room before striding in and kissing Janine on the cheek. She takes his coat and jacket into the adjoining cloakroom, leaving him free for a moment to focus on me.

I give him a lazy smile and get to my feet. ‘Hello. My name is Lene. You must be Harry.’

I pronounce his name ‘hairy’, speaking a little more slowly than usual, as if unsure how to say it. The Norwegian accent sounds convincing, at least to my ears. God knows, I’ve practised it enough, spending several hours on the internet studying every YouTube video I could find, trying to perfect the lilting tone and the different emphasis on words.

Janine returns, standing behind Harry, her eyes fixed on me. I sense her holding her breath as he looks me over.

‘Very nice,’ Harry croons appreciatively, extending his hand. ‘Pleased to get the opportunity to meet you, Lene. Janine tells me you’re only in town for a few days.’

‘Two,’ I say, as he turns to Janine, giving her an approving nod.

She beams. ‘I knew you’d like her.’

The introductions over, Harry slumps on to a sofa, one hand loosening his tie. Janine disappears into the kitchen to get the drinks. Harry eyes me for a moment or so, then glances round the apartment. ‘This yours?’

I shake my head. ‘It belongs to a boyfriend.’

‘Lucky fella.’ He grins. ‘On both counts.’

I return his smile, stretching out my legs, knowing the low-cut stilettos give the illusion of extra length.

Janine returns with the champagne. I can tell by the slight flush on her face that she’s already downed one in the kitchen. I send her a warning look, but she ignores me.

Despite my best efforts to stay calm I feel myself break into a sweat. One foot wrong and we’re in more shit than we ever dreamed of.

‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ Janine retrieves her handbag and gets out the coke. Harry nods approvingly and they both help themselves to a line. I calculate just how high she must be by now and my confidence wanes even further.

Perhaps I should call the whole thing off. Walk away. Take Tony’s advice and clear the fuck right out of this country.

‘Get your gorgeous little arse over here,’ Harry commands, and Janine perches on the armrest beside him, all but sitting on his lap. His arm snakes up round her waist and he raises his glass in the other hand.

‘To good times,’ he toasts.

‘To good times,’ we echo and I manage to get Janine’s eyes to meet mine. She gazes back at me impassively.

Christ, she’s fucking loaded.

‘Like the outfit,’ Harry looks her up and down and runs a hand over her breast. ‘Very Pussy Galore.’

Janine giggles obligingly, and I relax a notch or two. Harry turns and beckons me over, raising his arm so I can slide in on his empty side.

‘My cup runneth over,’ he says, ogling my breasts. I give him a cool Nordic smile. He dips his head, pulling me in for a kiss. I hesitate for a second or so, then soften into surrender; there’s nothing like having to overcome a bit of resistance to get a man’s attention.

‘My turn,’ purrs Janine, tugging him away. She bends over and covers his mouth with hers, acting a little possessive. Or maybe not acting at all. When she releases him I can see a bulge rising in the crotch of his trousers.

‘Well,’ Harry sighs, downing the rest of his champagne. ‘I’d love to chat, girls, but how about we get this show on the road? I’ve a dinner to get to by six.’

‘Sure.’ Janine gets to her feet, seizing the end of his tie and leading him towards the bedroom. I follow behind, mentally punching the air. The less conversation, the better, as far as I’m concerned – one slip with the accent could give the whole game away.

The bed is enormous, with one of those wider-than-superking mattresses you see in high-end hotels. Tailor-made for an orgy.

I’ve already scoped out the headboard. Lattice work, in dark walnut or cherry. But strong – at least strong enough.