31 Dream Street (23 page)

‘Yes. Anything you want. Any time you want.’

‘Oh, Ruby, don’t.’

‘Why not? I’m desperate.’

‘Well, I’m not.’ Paul pulled his wallet from his pocket and peeled off three twenty-pound notes. ‘Here.’ He handed them roughly to Ruby. ‘To stop you offering yourself to the next man you pass. But that…
is it
. No more, Ruby, no more.’

He forced his wallet back into his pocket, ground his cigarette beneath his shoe and slammed the door of Hailey’s dressing room closed behind him.

Ruby stood in the corridor, feeling the silkiness of the notes between her fingertips. Sixty pounds. Enough to live for a week, maybe two. She tucked them into her coat pocket and then turned, her body tingling with numb humiliation. She headed straight to the bar and ordered three straight shots of vodka, which she drank in quick succession. A man in a tight black shirt lit her cigarette for her and tried to talk to her, but she wasn’t listening. The lights went down and Paul emerged from the backstage shadows. He saw her at the bar, saw the man in the tight black shirt talking to her and threw her a look of sad disdain. Ruby left the man, mid sentence, and pushed her way through the club, against the grain of the crowd rushing to the stage to see Hailey sing. Outside on Dean Street she realized how drunk she was. Soho looked like a kaleidoscopic mess of flashing lights and high heels and car tyres and teeth.

A pinched-faced man sitting on the pavement
glanced up at her imploringly. His knees were wrapped in a brown blanket. An Alsatian-mix dog lay across his feet. ‘Spare any change, love?’ She put her hand into the pocket of her leopard-skin coat and felt the two remaining twenty-pound notes and a handful of coins. She pulled out the notes and handed them to him. He looked at her in amazement. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘thank you. God bless you. God bless.’ He called after her as she walked away. ‘Have a good night. Have a good life. God bless you.
God bless you!
’

Ruby carried on walking, blindly. She didn’t want to go home. She needed something to happen, something to take her mind off her conversation with Paul, something to move her life on from this current point of rancid nothingness. She needed to meet someone. Someone new.

She stepped off the curb and crossed the road, heading into some unknown corner of Soho with a heavy heart.

44

Con tucked the poem into the inside pocket of his jacket and was about to leave the house when he heard loud footsteps coming down the stairs. He went to investigate and saw Ruby, in a dressing gown, pinioned against a wall by an overweight man in a suit. Her dressing gown had come apart and her right breast was exposed. The other breast was covered by the man’s hand. The man was kissing her throat and Ruby was staring at the ceiling.

This was the man that had woken him up last night at three-thirty, slamming doors and singing. This was the man who’d fucked Ruby loudly and mulishly until 4.30 a.m. This was the man, if Ruby’s cries of unbridled passion were accurate, called Tim.

Tim pulled away from Ruby and turned to look down at Con. He had one of those faces, fleshy, smug, spoiled. His hair was very thick and his suit was very expensive. He was about thirty-five and he was wearing a wedding ring.

‘Morning,’ he said.

‘Morning,’ said Con.

Ruby pulled her dressing gown together and avoided Con’s gaze.

‘This is Tim,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Con, ‘I know.’

‘Tim – this is my housemate, Con.’

‘Con?’ Tim boomed. ‘What sort of con exactly? A con artist? Or an ex-con?’

Con tried to smile, but failed. He left them there, on the stairs, Ruby in her old make-up, her fat banker in a wedding ring, and headed towards Hanover Square, to Daisy.

45

Leah unglued her eyelids and waited a moment while her retinas accustomed themselves to the daylight. She craned her neck to the right to peer at her alarm clock. It said eight-thirty. She blinked. It couldn’t be eight-thirty – she’d set the alarm for 7.45 a.m. But then – small doors in her mind started opening, memories emerged – she
hadn’t
set it last night, had she, because last night she’d…

Her head swivelled to the left.

Amitabh.

In her bed.

She let her head drop back onto her pillow and sighed.

They’d gone to the pub last night. He’d suggested it at Kenwood on Saturday afternoon. ‘It just seems a shame,’ he’d said, ‘not to be friends. We’ve always been such good mates, you and I – and I miss you.’

Given that she missed him, too, she’d agreed to meet up with him on Wednesday night. Ending up in bed with him hadn’t been part of the plan. In fact, ending up in bed with him had been the thing that wasn’t going to happen under any circumstances. But after a few beers it was so easy just to slip back to the flat, order a curry from their favourite takeaway, open a bottle of
their favourite wine, look at each other and realize that nothing had changed, that she was still Leah and he was still Amitabh and that neither of them had ever stopped loving each other, not really, and that there was no one else involved and nobody to be hurt and that it felt good to hold someone familiar and warm and it felt good to kiss someone you’ve known for so long and that sex is even better when you’ve been apart for a while and that what happened next wasn’t really important because it was all about the here and now and making each other feel better, just for a night. Just for old times’ sake.

‘Am.’ She shoved his shoulder. ‘Am. Wake up. It’s eight-thirty.’

‘It’s OK. I don’t have to be at work until three,’ he mumbled, his eyes still closed.

‘Yes, well I have to be at work in half an hour, so get moving.’

He groaned and turned onto his side, pulling the duvet up round him.

Leah sighed and pulled herself out of bed. ‘Come on, Am, I’m serious. I need you to get ready.’

‘Oh, Lee, let me sleep. Please. I’ve still got my key. I can let myself out.’

Leah paused for a moment, regarding Amitabh’s slumbering mass, considering the consequences of letting Amitabh stay here without her. ‘OK. But don’t make a mess.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I’m going to have a shower. D’you want a cup of tea?’

‘Mmmm, yes, please. I miss your tea, Leelee. Your tea rocks…’ And then he tucked his hands under his cheek and fell asleep with a very contented smile on his face.

Leah gulped and headed for the kitchen.

46

Ruby was having breakfast with a fat man in a suit when Toby came down to collect the mail. They were sitting together at the dining-room table, Ruby in a dressing gown, on the man’s lap, watching him eat toast.

She turned and smiled at Toby when he walked in the room.

‘Morning, Tobes.’

‘Morning, Ruby.’

‘This is Tim.’

‘Morning, Tim.’

‘God, I have to say, this is very weird,’ said Tim. ‘This set-up. This house.’

‘What’s weird about it?’ said Ruby.

‘I don’t know. All these people. It’s strange. Not that I’m saying you’re strange,’ he addressed Toby, ‘just – aren’t you all a bit old to be flat-sharing?’

‘We’re not flat-sharing.’

‘Well, whatever this is. A commune, or whatever. I mean – I just saw an air hostess. In the full get-up. What’s that all about? I mean, what is an air hostess doing living in a hippy commune?’

Toby shrugged and smiled. ‘That’s a very good question.’

Ruby pulled herself off Tim’s lap and ruffled his hair.
Her dressing gown gaped open slightly at the front and Toby got a view of her entire left breast. Toby had had many inadvertent views of Ruby’s breasts over the years, which had served only to fuel his desire for her, but glancing at her breast now he felt curiously unmoved. He could see her perfect rubbery brown nipple, but he had no desire to touch it. He could see Tim’s fat hand caressing the backs of her thighs, but he felt not a jot of jealousy. The air was full of the smell of them, of their stale union, but it didn’t offend him in the slightest. He was cured. He was unafflicted. He was free. And with that thought he pulled on his brand-new overcoat and headed across the road to Leah’s flat.

Toby didn’t notice Leah’s receding figure as he crossed the road towards her flat. He didn’t see her rushing towards Fortis Green, her hair uncombed, a slice of toast in her hand. He was aware that he may have missed her, that she may already be on her way to work, but he had a handwritten note ready to drop through her letterbox, as a contingency measure.

He examined the front of his T-shirt as he waited at Leah’s door and was pleasantly surprised to find no stains or encrustations of any description. He ran his tongue across his teeth to ferret out any errant morsels of cereal, then he counted to ten. If she hadn’t answered the door by the time he’d finished counting, he’d assume she was out and leave the note.

At the number eight a figure appeared in the hallway.

The door opened and Toby prepared his face, arranging his features into an expression of warmth and good intentions. The door opened and Toby’s face collapsed. It was him, the man, the nurse. It was Amitabh.

He was wearing a very small towelling dressing gown that barely met across his girth. His face was puffed up with sleep and his chin was covered in thick stubble. He was halfway through a yawn when he opened the door and Toby could see all his fillings.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I thought you’d be the postman.’

‘No,’ said Toby. ‘Though I do have a letter. For Leah. Is she in?’

‘No, sorry, mate. You’ve just missed her. She left about two minutes ago.’

‘Oh,’ said Toby, ‘bad timing. Never mind. Well, do you think maybe you could pass this on to her.’ He passed the envelope to Amitabh.

‘Sure. No problem. I’ll make sure she gets it.’ He yawned again and began to close the door.

Toby paused. ‘So, are you, have you… moved back in?’

Amitabh scratched his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not yet. But watch this space.’ He smiled and he winked, and then he closed the door.

Toby stood for a while, staring at the stained glass of Leah’s front door.

What an idiot he was. What a complete and utter fool. Why hadn’t he seen that coming? Why hadn’t he considered the possibility that Leah’s unexpected encounter with her ex-love on Saturday afternoon might
have led to some form of reconciliation? Why hadn’t he remembered how messy and unruly life could be, how unmanageable an emotion love was. He called himself a poet, yet he consistently proved himself to be completely out of touch with even the most basic tenets of human nature. He was a novice in this world, a naïf.

When Karen had left him fifteen years ago he’d filled his house with people from all walks of life, people with stories to tell and journeys to share, but instead of learning from them he’d used them to insulate himself from the world. And now that he was finally unpeeling all the layers and revealing himself, it was very disappointing to see that he wasn’t an eccentric struggling artist with a fondness for unusual people, that he was just plain old Toby Dobbs, the tallest boy at school, the disappointment to his father, the man whose own wife hadn’t wanted to live with him for more than a month.

He sighed and he turned and he headed back to his house. He made himself a cup of tea and, instead of taking it to his room, he took it up to Gus’s. He lay down on Gus’s shaggy carpet and he stroked Gus’s dying cat and he wondered, really and truly, what
was
the fucking point of it all.

47

‘Daisy’s not in today,’ said a girl whose vowels were so twisted with poshness that Con could barely understand a word she was saying.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘right. Do you know what’s wrong with her?’

‘No idea,’ she said. ‘I didn’t ask.’

Con felt an icy sense of dread. He took the lift back down to the post room and pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. She didn’t answer her mobile, so he took a deep breath and called her home number. Again, there was no reply. He tried both numbers every ten minutes until finally, at half past two, someone answered her mobile. It was a man’s voice, impatient and gruff.

‘Hello. Is that Daisy’s phone?’

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘It’s Con. I’m a friend of hers. Who’s this?’

‘I’m Daisy’s father.’

‘Oh.’ Con stopped slouching against the wall and brought himself up straight. ‘Hello. Is Daisy all right?’

‘Sorry, what did you say your name was?’

‘Con. Connor. I’m a friend of Daisy’s from work.’

‘I see. Well – we’re all at the hospital right now…’

‘The hospital. Shit. I mean, God. Is it serious? Is she OK?’

Daisy’s father sighed. ‘Well, we’re waiting for some X-rays. It looks like another pneumothorax.’

‘What… what’s that?’

‘It means she’s got air around her lungs.’

‘Shit. Sorry. Will she be OK?’

‘Look. I’m terribly sorry, but I have to go now. Maybe you should come to see her.’

‘Would that be OK?’

‘Of course. She’d love to see a friend. She’s at St Mary’s. Bring her something nice to eat. The food here is terrible.’

Con followed the signs to Daisy’s ward, clutching a bag of sandwiches and a bunch of roses. A man sat on a plastic chair in a dressing gown, his hand attached by clear plastic tubing to a drip on a stand. A porter pushed a grey-faced woman in a wheelchair towards a lift. Con shuddered. It was wrong to think of Daisy in this environment, amongst all this greyness and decay.

Her bed was at the furthest end of the small ward, underneath a window. Mimi sat at one side of her bed; a small woman with silver hair sat at the other side. Mimi was reading a magazine and the other woman was laughing at something she’d just said.

He edged towards the bed nervously. He was about to be confronted by both Daisy’s illness and her family. He felt overwhelmed.

The small woman turned as Con approached and smiled. She had a dimple and crooked teeth. ‘Connor!’
she cried, getting immediately to her feet to greet him. ‘I’m Helen, Daisy’s mother.’

‘Hello,’ he said, accepting a coffee-scented kiss to his cheek.