Constance (40 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Take that thing off,’ he ordered. His legs splayed on either side of her. His lower lip was wet, glinting in the light.

Roxana smiled down at him now. She reached behind her, undoing her miniskirt with deliberately slow movements as Mr Shane waited. The smoke from his cigar drifted into her face. She slid the skirt down over her hips, further down to her knees. Then she raised her leg, as if she was about to step out of the little garment. The man’s eyes travelled down the length of her thigh and calf, down to the stiletto heel of her shoe.

Roxana let her skirt drop. She jack-knifed her knee to her
chest, then used the momentum to stamp her foot hard into his crotch.

There was a liquid gasp, like a bubble of air escaping from a blocked drain. As Mr Shane doubled up into his own lap, Roxana grabbed her skirt and ran for the door. Scarlet and one of the other girls were smoking in the corridor and they gaped at her as she pushed by. In the cubby-hole that the dancers used as a dressing room she collected up her belongings and stuffed them into her bag. She put on her outdoor coat and hurried up the customers’ stairs to the ground floor. A large group of flush-faced drunken men mobbed the entrance, trying to get into the club past the Maltese doorman who was barring the way and insisting that they must pay for membership first.

Roxana knew that this was her last-ever moment inside The Cosmos Club.

She felt no regrets.

She elbowed her way out through the crowd before Mr Shane could send anyone to catch her and repay her for stamping on him.

‘Some guy was in here asking for you,’ the doorman shouted after her.

Roxana ignored him. She let the heavy door swing shut. The night air tasted cool and fresh.

Noah had been waiting only a few minutes. He saw her erupt from the club, the light briefly catching her blonde crop. He also saw that she was laughing. Roxana slowed her pace and strolled away down the street, her stilettos click-clicking and her bag swinging from her shoulder. He jumped out of the car and ran to catch up with her.

Roxana heard the hurrying footsteps, and then an arm caught hers. She wheeled round, two hands grasping her bag with the intention of using it to batter her attacker rather than to secure it.

‘Hey. Hey, Roxana, it’s me.’

‘Noah, what are you doing here?’

‘Picking you up from work.’

‘I said not to.’

‘Not inside the club. Nothing wrong with waiting outside, is there?’

‘No, I suppose. Anyway, there is no argument. I won’t be going back there again. I don’t have a job any more.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I kicked my boss in the testicles.’

‘What for?’

Roxana shrugged. ‘The usual reason.’

Noah shouted, ‘What? What did he do to you? I’m going to go in there and do worse than just kick him in the balls, I’ll tear them off and stuff them down his
throat.’

Roxana let herself briefly imagine what would happen if Noah tried to do anything of the kind, and what he would look like after Maltese Mike and Mr Shane’s driver had finished with him.

‘Thank you for the idea, but you don’t need to. I have looked after myself already.’

Noah wound his arms round her and kissed her. She was tough, but she was vulnerable too and the combination seemed to him almost unbearably lovely.

‘That was why you were laughing, when you came out of there?’

She kissed him back. ‘If you knew Mr Shane, you would be laughing too.’

‘Would that be before or after I ripped his balls off? Come on, let’s go. I’m taking you back to Auntie Con’s place.’

With their arms round each other and Roxana’s head tipped on Noah’s shoulder, they retraced their steps to the car. A few late-night pedestrians passed by, and Roxana remembered the night when she was leaving The Cosmos
and had seen a boy and girl together, just like she and Noah were now, and how lonely she had felt because all the world seemed to be made of couples hurrying home to bed together. To anyone looking at her it would seem that she had joined the lucky people, and yet now she was here she knew the world was still a precarious place where you could lose your job in a flash of anger.

Even so, she was glad she had kicked Mr Shane where it really hurt.

Roxana noticed that the man was there again, waiting in reception with his laptop case.

He sat with one leg crossed over the other, the shiny toe of his loafer gently tapping the air. Once he turned back the immaculate blue cuff of his shirt with his little finger and glanced at his thin gold watch. He caught Roxana’s eye again through the glass door of the office where she was working, raised one eyebrow by a millimetre, and flashed a smile back at her. This was his second visit to Oyster Films, and Roxana had been aware of him right from the start because he kept looking at her. He would smile and not seem at all embarrassed to be caught staring.

He was very good-looking. He looked rich, too. She wondered who he was.

‘Mr Antonelli?’

The unfriendly girl who was the boss’s PA had come downstairs. The man got up and followed her out of Roxana’s sight.

Roxana went back to work. Angela had asked her to obtain the details of several Russian companies who might supply catering on location in St Petersburg, and to compare their quotes. In the back of her mind, as she tallied the boring figures, was worry about money and finding a new job. Working a few hours a week for Oyster Films was fine,
better even than fine, but it paid next to nothing. Money was what counted, in the end.

Roxana did everything that Angela might possibly want, but at half past six there was nothing left to deal with. Noah was playing football tonight for his office team, and the prospect of an empty evening ahead of her was unfamiliar and slightly unwelcome. She put on her jacket with the buttons and went out into reception. Zoe had already chirped
no worries
for the last time that day, switched the phones to the night answering service and gone home. Then the lift doors slid open and Mr Antonelli emerged.

‘Hello,’ he smiled. ‘Finished for today?’

He held open the street door, and when she began walking he fell into step beside her.

‘How long have you been working at the company?’ he asked in a companionable way, as if they already knew and liked each other.

‘Not so long. But it is a good job, I like it very much.’ She wasn’t going to let on quite how menial or how temporary her role was.

He gave her a glance. ‘Are you a producer?’

‘No, in fact. I am, er, a translator.’

He looked impressed. ‘Is that so? What languages?’

‘I am working in Russian. I am from Uzbekistan, but now I live in London.’

‘Of course.’ Mr Antonelli nodded, as if something had fallen into place. They reached the end of the street and he glanced at his thin gold watch again. ‘I have an hour before my next appointment. Would you like maybe to have a drink?’

Roxana considered. Mr Antonelli was obviously important. Maybe he could be a useful person to know.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be very nice.’

He seemed to know his way around. He briskly steered
her towards a place she had often passed but never thought of going into. Even this early in the evening, a big man wearing a black suit and a headset was guarding the doorway.

‘Good evening, sir; good evening, madam,’ he said, as they swept past.

The bar was flooded with soft golden light. The low furniture was all made of brown leather, wall mirrors reflected the backs of the women’s smooth blonde heads and the shoulders of men in City suits. There were waitresses in black uniforms, and low music playing. Mr Antonelli steered them to a table in a little alcove. Roxana blinked as a glass of champagne materialised in front of her. When she went out with Noah it was to pubs, or to indie music gigs in underground venues in Camden Town.

‘I am Cesare Antonelli.’ He took a card from his wallet and slid it across to her. Underneath his name it said
Film Director
, with an address in Rome. Roxana sat up. This was exactly the sort of person she needed to meet.

‘My name is Roxana.’

‘How do you do?’ Cesare Antonelli clinked his glass to hers. He leaned back against the leather seating.

‘So, Roxana. Do you do some acting, or modelling perhaps, as well as translating? You look as though you might.’

Her attention sharpened even further. This could be an opportunity much bigger than making phone calls to Russian caterers.

‘Not at the moment,’ she smiled. Her fingers moved on the cool stem of her champagne flute. ‘But I am interested, of course.’

‘And you are a good dancer, that is always useful.’

She stared at him. A flush rose from her throat to her cheeks and Cesare lightly gestured. ‘I was at The Cosmos
Club with some Japanese business associates, after a long evening, you know what it can be like, and I saw you dance. You were really very good.’

Roxana was embarrassed. She had been thinking that Mr Cesare Antonelli recognised her talent, but it was only that he had seen her pole dancing. She was fairly sure she hadn’t done a private dance for him, at least, although she had become quite good by the end at blocking out the men’s faces, even at blocking out the fact that they were people at all.

Now she would have to make little of The Cosmos and at the same time convince Mr Antonelli that she could easily do whatever acting or modelling work he had in mind.

She lifted one shoulder. ‘I don’t work at that place any longer,’ she said coolly. Which was turning out to be a blessing. ‘I am concentrating on Oyster Films and my work across the board in the movie and advertising business. Are you going to direct a picture for them, perhaps?’

He said that he was setting up an Anglo-Italian coproduction deal for a big feature film, which he would be producing and directing, and he had been visiting Oyster Films to see if they might be a suitable partner for the enterprise.

‘But they are not really in the big league, you know. They are mostly commercials and small stuff. Nice people, but I don’t think I am going to be able to make it work with them, very unfortunately.’

In answer to his questions she told him about Noah and, without quite mentioning Connie, about living in her beautiful apartment, making it all sound as though she had lived in London for a long time. She liked talking to Cesare. He was never short of something to say, and yet he paid her the compliment of listening to her.

Cesare kept looking at his watch. When they had finished the bottle of champagne he said that he was afraid he would
have to go and meet an associate to discuss some business over dinner. He hesitated, then added that if Roxana didn’t think that would be too boring, she could perhaps join them? His colleague might be a useful contact for her.

Roxana was thinking the same thing.

They took a taxi to a restaurant, another place with rich golden lighting. Some of the women at the tables glanced at her as she passed. Cesare’s associate was waiting at a table for two, but it was quickly re-laid for three. The man was called Philip. He was younger than Cesare and his clothes were scruffier. He had a tiny patch of hair sculpted under his lower lip.

Roxana waited until the introductions had been made, then she excused herself and went to the cloakroom.

The lighting was quite dim, but she came up close to the mirror and studied her reflection. The women in the restaurant looked smart, but then they were mostly quite old. She rubbed some more foundation on her face, thickened her mascara and finally stroked her eyebrows into place with a licked fingertip.

Critically, Roxana met her own gaze.

Noah constantly told her she was beautiful. She wasn’t sure quite how much she would be telling him about this evening; that would depend on whether it led to a job. But the thought of him made her face soften into a sudden smile. Now, she thought, she looked all right.

Over dinner she learned that Philip was a photographer. Fashion, glamour, he said airily. He looked round the room as he talked, clicking his lighter to the cigarette he held in the corner of his mouth and inhaling with one eye half-closed against the smoke. An understanding had arisen that Roxana would be doing some as-yet-unspecified work in the area of business that he and Cesare dealt in. Before anything could go ahead, though, she would need to get some shots
in her book. He thought he could help her with that. Cesare listened to all this, but without much enthusiasm.

They encouraged Roxana to order food from the big, tasselled menu.

When it came it was delicious, the most elaborate food she had ever tasted, with layers of little crispy pancakes and soft, glistening meat and small puddles of unctuous sauces. She ate everything and tried hard not to look too greedy. Cesare and Philip had similar dishes but they only took a few mouthfuls. They smoked and talked, and drank wine followed by whisky with a lot of ice in short, chunky glasses. Roxana drank quite a lot too. She sank into a honeyed daze of optimism.

Of course she could be an actress, or a model.

After a while, the food and the drinks and the series of espressos that followed were all finished. They were out in the twinkly night, and Cesare hailed a taxi. Both men insisted that they couldn’t let her go home unescorted. Roxana confidently gave the driver the address of Limbeck House. When they reached her building, to her faint dismay they got out and Cesare paid the fare and the cab drove off. They were talking about coming up with her for a final nightcap.

Roxana hesitated. They had bought her dinner, and she was going to be working with them. She had talked – yes, too much – about her beautiful apartment. They took the lift to the top floor.

Once they were in the big white room the two men strolled to the window and gazed out at the city.

‘Nice place,’ Cesare said.

‘Live here on your own, do you?’ Philip wanted to know.

‘I…have a flatmate. She is away tonight.’ As soon as she said it, she cursed her stupidity. She should have said she would be back any minute now.

Philip wanted whisky. Cesare examined the music stacked on the top of Connie’s grand piano.