Bad Boys of London: The Complete GYPSY HEROES Collection (63 page)

‘What are you doing here, Snow?’ he demands. 

‘You said I could visit if … if … I wanted to,’ I stammer.

The buzzer sounds and I push the door open. I cross the foyer toward the lift, but all my earlier enthusiasm has evaporated to nothing. He didn’t sound happy to hear from me at all. I get into the lift and press the button for his floor. When the floor indicator passes the first floor, I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand.

Idiot!

This is not India where people just drop in on each other without calling ahead. I remember now, how it used to enrage my mother when my father’s Indian relatives would simply turn up and call at the gate whenever they felt like seeing my father. It was their custom, but not hers.

And Shane is British, like my mother. I should have called first.

Suddenly, I feel tearful. The little fountain stops bubbling and reindeer moss withdraws into itself again. Oh God! I’ve ruined everything. The lift door opens at his floor and I rush to press the button to close the door. For good measure, I hit the button marked G a few times too. Hurry up and close, I pray, but as the doors start to shut, a huge male hand curls at the edge of one of the closing doors.

‘Whoa,’ Shane says appearing fully at the entrance of the lift. ‘What the fuck? Were you going back down?’

I shrink back. ‘I’m sorry. I should have called first. It was rude of me. I forgot. These English customs; I’m not used to them. You might have guests, or you might be busy.’

He stares at me incredulously for a second. ‘You came to visit me?’ he asks.

I nod miserably.

He holds the door of the lift open, and reaching in pulls me out by my wrist. I bite my lip to keep from crying, but the tears are already stinging at the backs of my eyes. I can’t believe I am now going to cry, to add to my humiliation. I swallow hard and start blinking the tears back. Oh God, he’s going to think I am the biggest cry-baby in the world.

For a moment he seems frozen with astonishment. Then he reaches out suddenly and pulls me towards his hard body.

‘I don’t have guests and I’m not busy,’ he says into my hair.

Like a fool, I start crying in earnest. ‘I don’t know why I’m crying. I have no reason to cry. I’m such a colossal idiot,’ I babble.

‘I love it that you dropped by,’ he says softly.

‘Really?’ I sniff.

‘Abso-fucking-lutely.’

The little fountain in my heart starts bubbling again.

‘I’m sorry if I sounded unwelcoming,’ he says softly. ‘I didn’t know what to think. You took me by surprise. I was not expecting you, and I automatically thought something bad had happened to you.’

I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands. ‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Crying like a fool for no reason.’

‘Forget it,’ he says kindly.

‘OK,’ I agree, smiling gratefully.  

‘Come on,’ he says and takes me to his apartment.

The first thing I notice are the toys scattered on the floor.

His smile is mocking. ‘In case you’re wondering, they’re not mine. They’re my niece’s and nephew’s. I’m babysitting for the next two hours.’

I listen, and the apartment is pretty silent. ‘Where are they?’

‘Sleeping, thank God.’

I chuckle. ‘How old are they?’

‘Liliana is four going on thirty-four, and Tommy is a three-year-old who, uniquely, channels monkeys. He climbed the cupboard the other day to reach for a packet of sweets.’

‘Oh,’ I say with a laugh.

‘They’ll be awake in an hour and you can meet them then.’

He wants me to stay and meet the children. ‘I’d love to,’ I say shyly. ‘So, they are called Liliana and Tommy.’

‘Well, he’s still called Tommy,’ he says dryly, ‘but, she decided last week that she no longer wants to be known as Liliana, but Margarite Hum Loo.’

I laugh. ‘Margarite Hum Loo?’

‘Yes, and you can’t shorten it and call her Margarite either. It has to be the full whack or nothing.’

I smile. ‘Why that name?’

‘No idea. You can ask her yourself when she wakes up.’

‘I will,’ I say still chuckling.

‘I’m just about to make myself a meal. Join me?’

‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’

‘You’ll regret it.’

Laughing, I follow him to his kitchen. It is done up in warm tones of honey and yellow. 

‘What will you have to drink? Milk? Juice? Water?’

‘Juice will be nice.’

‘Orange, apple, or—Liliana’s favorite—mango crush.’

‘I’ll try the mango crush then.’

He takes a glass out of a cupboard and pours a thick orange-red liquid into it.

A cat comes to rub its face on my legs. ‘You have a cat,’ I exclaim, surprised.

‘Yup. That’s Suki,’ he says, scooping rice into an opaque plastic cup. He pours it into a silver colander.

‘Do you need some help?’ I offer.

‘Let’s get the rules clear right from the start. This kitchen is my domain,’ he states.

‘Good, because I can’t cook to save my life,’ I say.

Sipping my drink, I watch him rinse the rice under the tap, drain it, and pour it into a pot. He pours bottled water onto it, salts it, puts a lid on it, and leaves it to cook.

‘You sounded happy when you rang my bell,’ he says, fishing out a live lobster from a pail of water with ice cubes floating in it.

‘I was,’ I say distractedly as I stare at the lobster. Its claws are tied, but all its little legs are waving frantically. ‘I mean, I am. I received some good news this morning.’

He picks up a big knife and puts the lobster on the chopping board. ‘Yeah?’

My eyes widen with horror. ‘You’re not going to kill that lobster and eat it, are you?’

His hands still. He looks up at me. ‘Yes, why?’

I puff air out of my lips. ‘I mean, it’s alive. Wouldn’t you feel bad to eat something you’ve killed with your own hands?’

He rubs his jaw with the edge of the fist that is holding the knife. ‘Don’t you eat lobster?’

‘Yes,’ I admit uncomfortably, ‘but I couldn’t eat it if I saw it alive a few minutes before.’

He laughs. ‘We all have to die, Snow. This guy has had a good life at the bottom of the ocean, and I’m giving him a quick death. I wish my death could be so quick.’

‘I just can’t get my head around it.’

He grins. ‘That’s because you’re a hypocrite, Snow. You’ll eat it after someone else kills it for you, arranges it neatly on a Styrofoam tray, pulls a bit of cling film over it, and sticks it on a supermarket shelf.’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Right. Look away now. I’m about to say his last rites.’

I turn my head and hear a crack then a squelching noise before the knife hits the chopping board. I turn back, and the lobster has been neatly halved lengthwise. Some of its legs are still waving. Then they all slowly stop. Something about its still body makes me remember when I wanted revenge so bad I wanted to kill, and not just a lobster, but human beings. When I could have killed with a song in my heart.

‘Shane?’

He looks up at the different tone in my voice. ‘What?’

‘Could you kill a human being?’

His eyes narrow, and he looks dangerous.

‘If he’s hurt you—I mean really, really hurt you, or someone you loved …’

He doesn’t hesitate. His voice rings strong and sure in that kitchen, with the rice boiling and the dead lobster lying on the wooden board. ‘Yes. I’d kill for those I love.’

I nod slowly, and for a few seconds we gaze at each other. His eyes burn with fierce intensity. No more is said, but I suddenly feel safe, safer than I have ever felt with Lenny. My muscles are singing with renewed vigor, and I feel as if I could do anything, be anything.

Eight

SNOW

‘W
hat made you decide to pay me a surprise visit?’ he asks, as he begins the task of scooping up and discarding the yellow-green tomalley from the two halves of the lobster.

‘I’m really sorry; I realize now I should have called. It’s not the done thing in England to turn up unannounced at someone’s door.’

He lifts a lemon from a fruit bowl on the kitchen table, washes it under the tap, and cuts it into wedges. ‘It’s done, but usually by people selling things you don’t want, and suspicious girlfriends trying to catch their boyfriends in compromising situations,’ he says dryly.

‘You can add a new category to your list. Foreign-born women who have just received great news.’

He looks up from the lobster, his eyebrows raised expectantly. ‘You have great news?’

I nod excitedly.

‘Spit it out then.’ 

‘OK, here it is,’ I say with a happy grin. ‘My greatest dream for as long as I can remember was to become a pre-school teacher. To give back to other children what my nanny gave me. To instill in them a thirst for knowledge. But my mother did not want me to become a teacher. In her opinion, it was a badly paid, thankless job, and, no matter what I did, I could never change those children’s lives one iota. I guess that’s the real reason I ran away to England. I knew if I wanted to chase my dream, I had to leave India … and, since I had a British passport, I came here.

‘But here, in England, all teaching colleges require you to have work experience before they will accept you. Soooo … I applied to do some voluntary work at some local schools, and this morning a letter arrived from one of them to tell me that I’ve been selected.’

‘Am I looking at the happiest teacher-in-training ever?’ he asks, his blue eyes crinkling up.

‘Pre-school teacher-in-training,’ I correct. ‘I only ever wanted to teach small children.’

‘I think you’ll make a brilliant pre-school teacher.’

‘You mean it?’

‘Of course. How could you fail to be when you are so enthusiastic and eager? When you see education as passing down the magic,’ he says, placing a cast-iron griddle pan on the stove and switching it on.

As we carry on talking, he drizzles the two halves with olive oil and seasons them—salt, pepper. I watch his beautiful hands take a pinch of paprika and, hovering over the lobster, he rubs his fingers together. A sumptuous, exotic red mist settles like crimson dust upon the gray flesh of the crustacean. Out of nowhere, a thought snakes into my head. How great it would be to have those big, powerful hands on my body.

With a pair of scissors, he snips off a sprig of parsley from a pot growing on the windowpane, chops it finely, and drops it into an earthenware bowl. He uses the heel of his hand to break up a garlic bulb, and chops four of its cloves. That goes into a blue earthenware bowl with two thick sticks of butter and a sprinkle of chili flakes.

He pours a little olive oil onto the hot pan and places the lobster halves flash side down. The flesh sizzles. Very quickly, he flips them over and pours cognac in two quick strips over the seared flesh. Two long blue flames leap up angrily from the pan.

‘Wow! Impressive,’ I say.

‘You think that’s impressive? Wait till you see what else these hands can do,’ he teases.

My face flames as bright as the lobster shells.

The rice cooker pings at the same time that he takes the lobsters off the fire.

He turns to me. ‘Would you like some?’

My mouth is salivating with all the delicious smells, but I shake my head resolutely. I saw that lobster alive. Hypocrite or not, I couldn’t. I’d be eating the moment of its death.

‘Last chance,’ he offers.

‘Thanks, but no,’ I say firmly.

He opens the rice cooker and spoons the rice onto an enormous, white, square plate. He takes the lobster halves and lays them on the rice. Carefully, he spoons the melted butter mixture over his meal.

He looks up at me. ‘So, you’re just going to watch me eat?’

‘Yes. If you don’t mind.’

‘Hmm … Want a double chocolate chip cookie instead? They’re very good.’

I hesitate. ‘Um.’

‘Her majesty, Lady Margarite Hum Loo baked them.’

I smile. ‘She did?’

‘She’s an awesome baker,’ he says persuasively.

‘In that case, OK.’

He opens a tin and brings it to me. They are in the shapes of animals.

I take a cat. ‘Thank you.’ I bite into it. ‘It’s actually delicious,’ I say, surprised.

‘Bring the whole tin with you,’ he says, and leads the way to his dining table, which has been set for one.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘How about a glass of Pinot Blanc?’

I shake my head, fascinated by the care he has taken to cook his own meal. Only a true gourmet would go to such great pains to prepare a feast for one, but he seems unaware of how unusual his behavior is.

He fishes a bottle of wine from a bucket of ice, and pours himself a glass of wheat-colored liquid. Then he sits down and lifts his knife and fork. I watch him cut out a piece of lobster and, in a sensual act of pure pleasure, slip it into his mouth, and suddenly I’m salivating like Pavlov’s dog. My cookie seems to be a childish indulgence when I watch him savor every mouthful. As if each mouthful was a unique work of art that he has been given the privilege of experiencing.

I watch him eat, and it is a joy to do so. We talk and we laugh. He is easy and funny. There are only two or three bites left on his plate when there is a shrill scream from somewhere in the apartment.

‘Good timing, kids,’ Shane says good-naturedly, and stands up.

‘Shall I wait for you here?’ I ask.

‘No, you don’t want to miss this,’ he says with a laugh.

I follow him to the entrance of a room painted in bright colors with two cots and lots of toys. 

‘It was
not
an accident!’ a beautiful, blue-eyed little girl with her hands on her hips screams furiously at a boy who has his arms crossed.

‘What’s going on here?’ Shane asks calmly.

‘He,’ she fumes, throwing a fierce glance toward her cousin before bringing it back again to Shane, ‘banged me on the head with his train while I was sleeping.’

Shane moves into the room. ‘Let me see that head,’ he says.

She touches the top of her head gingerly and cries pitifully, ‘I’ve been treating him happy and he just wants to kill me.’ She takes a shuddering breath, and, opening out one palm beseechingly toward him, demands. ‘Why? Why?’